The End of the Road | Pt 7

Start with Part 1 of The End of The Road here, or catch up on Part 6 here.

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“Ah, fuck.”

Charlie’d reached for his smokes only to realize he’d forgotten to get another pack. He hadn’t walked that far, but the thought of going back into that store and facing her again was too much for him. He’d make due. Could split open the few he had left and mix ‘em with some dried grass or something to fill up the papers. He’d smoked worse.

The walk back was hot, but he had something to do with his hands this time so the road and the beers went fast. Soon enough he was back at the house, staring at him like he was staring at it. Only then did he remember the girl from that morning. The little liar. Next time she comes back…, he thought, before the thought curdled in his soupy brain. His stomach began to yell at him. He needed coffee. Then he needed to get to work, maybe.

But that whole day slipped away from him like a dream. His arms felt rubbery, his limbs heavy, his eyes sore. He ate some, finally, but that didn’t do much. Wandered around the yard in a daze, looking at the peeling red paint on the shutters, the grassy dying plants in the boxes, and wondered what to do first. Yet every time his mind turned to fire – to keeping himself warm and lighting up the house – he would walk toward the axe in the stump where he’d left it and forget why he’d gone over there in the first place. Then he would start his wandering all over again, only to find himself back at the stump, his hand on the axe, his mind blank.

With each passing hour, as he circled the house again and again, the sun taunted him. From high up, beating down on his neck. Then from just above the trees. And then already it was dusk, and the marsh-stink found him sitting on the back stoop, the last of the beers in one hand, his forehead cradled in the other. The house was dark behind him, and he felt helpless to it, knowing he would have to go back inside eventually—which he’d done his best not to do all day. But as the night’s eerie chill crept up on him, he could feel it like cold hands against his bare arms, which sent shivers through him enough to get him up and into the kitchen.

He closed the kitchen door behind him and stared out through the tiny break in the dark window, the cool breeze seeping in against his cheek. He didn’t blink. Couldn’t blink, such a feeling was upon him then. He shivered again, though it could have been from the cold, clammy house, which had been untouched by the day’s heat. There’s nothing out there, he said to himself again and again. Nothing out there.

He needed sleep. Wanted a smoke but needed to save those. If he could just sleep, then tomorrow would be a different day.

But as he walked away from the door he couldn’t help but check over his shoulder a couple of times. Nothing there. Nothing there. His eyes stayed wide through the darkness as he rushed down the hall into the living room, which was bathed in the shadowy blue light of the coming night. There, he looked desperately at the pantry door, at the latch there with no lock and thought about his bad dream; about the scratch marks on the back of the door. He felt for a moment as if his own nails had made them; could imagine so clearly the pain of clawing and clawing until it was just bone left.

His fear crawled up from his heart and out of his mouth, a great grunt of revulsion snapping him out of his momentary paralysis. Chill out. Chill out. He took a breath. Swept over to the bed and grabbed his headlamp. Then took hold of the small lounge chair and drug it loudly across the wood-grain floors to prop it up under the pantry’s doorknob.

Immediately the hairs on the back of his neck settled, and he breathed again. It was going to be okay. He was just a little drunk. Hadn’t been alone in a long time. Was just getting used to the place–

BANG.

Piss leaked out of him as he jumped back from the door and ran ran ran back down the hall, doing his best to keep his bowels in; was sure a man could die of fear and he was about to; and this time he didn’t look back, just ran until he was out of there, the twilight upon him, the cold distant stars as far away from him as he felt from anyone else, ran to the axe and pulled it from the stump, waving it wildly above his head, waiting waiting waiting for whatever was in that room to come out.

But nothing came out. Not for a long time. Still, he waited. Waited until his arms could no longer hold the axe above his head. Only then did he let it drop in front of him, where its blade fell and struck muddy ground. He was exhausted, his eyes rolling trying to keep him awake. His stomach turned. He could smell the marsh again and could feel the remnants of it still in his stomach from the day before. He coughed, retched, spit. From somewhere in the distance, he heard the scream of a coyote, and this comforted him. A familiar sound. He wasn’t entirely alone.

Then he heard another one, closer this time. And another, closer still. Their screams howled in unison, and soon, as he listened, frozen there to the spot, another, shriller scream joined theirs.

The scream of a young girl. Coming from the marsh.

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This story is currently a work in progress.

Read Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, or Part 6 of The End of the Road, or try reading a comedic flash story to shake the scaries here.