Start with Part 1 of The End of The Road Here.
…Swatting another buzzer away, he threw the axe down into an old stump, decided his sleeping bag would have to do for one night, and walked back into the cool damp of the house, the door still hanging open, waiting for him to come back inside.
But before he could enter, it started to happen again: the itching, dry, thirsty feeling in the back of his throat, the blood rushing in his ears, his eyes blurred like he was drunk. I’ve only had two beers, he thought, panicked, scratching at his neck trying to get more air in; taking a few steps further and feeling a great weight against him, as if someone was pushing him away from the door.
He needed water. Needed to get inside.
When he could finally reach it, he grabbed either side of the kitchen doorframe and pulled himself into the house, which groaned as soon as he was through. Out of the corner of his eye, down the hall, he was sure he saw a shadow move, but he couldn’t think right, could only land his hands on the kitchen tap and bend to drink directly from the faucet.
But he spit the first few mouthfuls back into the sink, coughing and gagging at the thick, blackish water coating his throat. His stomach grumbled and he could swear he heard someone laughing, a woman, a woman laughing, but in his spinning, and he couldn’t be sure. He just pushed the taps open as far as they would go, drowning out the sound, desperate for it to clear, hanging his head, spitting again, and letting his drool fall into the sink.
Finally, the water turned. He stuck his whole head under the faucet, and began to wash the gunk out of his mouth. Then he began to drink. Drink like he’d never had water before. His empty stomach sloshed with it, but he kept on drinking, drinking, drinking. Then he stood, looked back at the kitchen door, and bent to throw it all back up into the sink.
That’s two beers wasted, he thought, exhausted, standing there and wiping his mouth on his sleeve, the sour taste still in his mouth. Slower this time, he bent down again and took a few short sips of the cold, metallic water. Beer’s must’ve gone bad, he decided, shaking his head of the blur still on him and turning toward the hall, where at the end he only could see the last of the days light resting on the living room floor.
The light looked warm. Inviting even. He stepped forward, glad his steps were easy. Walked down the hall into the still-dusty living room, and once he got there, stood looking around, his legs bathed in cool light. Without the headlamp, he could see the pictures on the walls now. Some of them were of dancing women, flowers, a rabbit. But others were lewd, with bare breasts and dangling things, and all of them were covered in marker, with curse words and arrows and devil’s horns drawn all over. He smiled. Now that feels like home, he thought to himself, admiring the handiwork and wishing he had a pen.
Ah well.
He stepped closer and looked at a naked woman birthing hand-drawn lightning bolts. Something Chester would have drawn. He took in the rest of the gallery, having himself a little chuckle here or there, a balm after what had happened in the kitchen.
But soon, his gazing brought him over to the closed bedroom door…or what he thought was a bedroom door. He noticed the door had a latch on the outside, just like the one on the woodshed. There was no lock on it, so he tried the doorknob, which turned easily.
Without being able to help it, he looked quickly behind him, his senses still vigilant. Nothing there. Just the small couch, the lounge chair, the coffee table. He finally noticed the ancient, rusting wood stove, grimacing at him from a dark corner of the room. I’ll deal with you later, he muttered to the thing, turning again to the door and pushing it open.
Inside, the room was empty. Just a dusty concrete floor and shelves all along the walls, like a pantry. A drain sat in the middle of the floor, stains in various waves of brown marking different patterns all around it. The air smelled stale, as if the door hadn’t been opened in years, but he leaned his head inside to get a better look anyway, his hand still on the door knob.
There was no window here either, he noticed. No chain lamp hanging from the ceiling. He clicked on the headlamp from his pocket, and saw that the shelves inside were completely bare, or at least, the ones he could see from his height.
Then he looked behind the door and saw them: scratch marks. Up high and down low. Shallow scratch marks in the paint and splintered wood no sharp animal claws could have made.
He let go of the handle, backing out of the room and closing the door, his eyes wide, his hands shaking. What is this place? he asked as a strange feeling of familiarity washed over him, like he’d been there before.
He stayed there, completely still, as the last of the days light disappeared. His headlamp brightened in the changing dark. And still, he stood, stuck, his mind racing along with his heartbeat. What is this place? he asked himself again and again, his mind playing tricks on him, replaying its little movies of where-he’d-been-before.
Finally though, his heart calmed itself and he began to breathe. He’d gone on a long walk to get here. He remembered that. He was not where-he-was-before. There was no one here who knew him; who knew what he remembered.
He was safe. He was alone. He just needed a good night’s rest.
Shaking himself out of it, he found his rucksack and pulled a light-weight sleeping bag from the thing. He thought about sleeping on the floor, but soon saw the couch had a foldout mechanism, and brought the small, lumpy cot out from its hiding place. This, at least, was dust-free, having been tucked away for so long. He used one of the couch cushions as a pillow, draping his small towel over the thing to avoid the dust in his mouth. Pulled himself into the sleeping bag with the curtains wide open and laid down to rest, falling asleep watching the moonlight creep up the opposite wall.
This story is currently a work in progress.
Read Part 1, Part 2, or Part 3 of The End of the Road, or try a non-scary work of flash fiction here.
Jessica Barratt 