Brian Keene - Urban Gothic

Paul estimated that he’d gone about twenty yards in a straight, horizontal line, when he suddenly emerged into a crossroads of sorts. Ahead of him, the tunnel split into three pipes, each one of equal size. He shined the flashlight around, weighing his options. One pipe veered sharply to the right. Another curved slightly to the left. The one in the middle continued on straight ahead. The left and right pipes had water trickling out of them, but the middle pipe was bone-dry, save for a tiny pool of stagnant, scummy water at its opening. Tiny insects squirmed in the pool. He assumed the middle pipe was his best chance of getting under the house. The lack of water flowing from it suggested that the pipe was unused. If it was connected to the abandoned home, then that made sense. He decided to try it and forged ahead.

Immediately the air grew fouler. There was the ammoniacal tang of urine and the sharper reek of feces, but there was something else, as well. Something he couldn’t identify. It reminded him of the meat department at the grocery store, but he wasn’t sure why. Paul cringed at the stench. His eyes watered. Instead of watching his step, he shined the light ahead, trying to find the stench’s source. His attention remained focused on the walls. He’d only gone a few more feet when the floor suddenly disappeared beneath him.

With a startled cry, Paul plummeted downward. He managed to hang on to his flashlight, even as he splashed into a pool of cold, greasy liquid. The stench grew overwhelming. Sputtering, Paul kicked his feet, trying desperately to find a bottom. Instead, his feet found empty space. He dog-paddled and glanced around, terrified. He realized that the revolting liquid—whatever it might be—was more like paste than water, as if it was semicongealed. There was solid matter floating in it, but he couldn’t tell what it was. The space was pitch-black, save for his flashlight beam, which was pointed above. He readjusted it and shined the light around.

Paul shrieked.

He was swimming in a toxic, brown and gray and black stew of human waste and toilet paper and . . . something else. It stunned him when he realized what the other matter was. Human bones—skulls, femurs, mandibles with teeth still attached, clavicle, ribs, and shattered, unidentifiable fragments—all coated with the viscous, stinking liquid. A quick glance confirmed that there were enough human bones in the pool to assemble dozens, if not hundreds, of skeletons. There were animal bones, as well—rats, birds, and other city creatures; he even spotted a few dog and cat skulls. He recognized what they belonged to from several family trips to various natural history museums. The stench rising from the pool filled his nose, threatening to overwhelm him. He flailed, reaching up with his arms. Gray and brown sludge dripped down them, splattering his face. The foul liquid had the consistency of syrup.

Despite his terror and overwhelming disgust, Paul remembered a newspaper article he’d read several years ago, about a government agent—ATF or FBI, he couldn’t remember which. The man had been staking out a group of domestic terrorists in the backwoods of West Virginia.

His cover got blown. When they caught him, the group killed the agent by drowning him in an outhouse. Paul couldn’t think of a worse way to die than drowning in shit.

“Help,” he screamed. “Somebody help me!”

His voice echoed back to him from somewhere to his left. Paul shined the light in that direction and gasped. There was a stone ledge rising several feet above the pool. Beyond it was a vast chamber that seemed to be a natural cavern. Limestone glinted in the flashlight beam.

Gagging, Paul swam for the ledge. His fingers slipped on the stone as he tried to pull himself up. Inch by inch, he worked his way free, making squelching noises as the slime sucked at his shoulders, waist, and legs. When he’d finally freed himself, Paul collapsed on the ledge, sobbing.

The stone felt cool against his face. He squeezed his eyes shut. Filth bubbled out of his nose and ran out of the corners of his mouth. He retched, but was unable to vomit. He desperately wanted to, if only to clear his system of the foulness he’d ingested. Paul opened his eyes again and groaned. The cave seemed to be spinning. Paul thought that he might pass out.

Then something grabbed him, and he did pass out, but not before he got a glimpse of it.

He was still screaming when his consciousness faded.

ELEVEN

Kerri, Heather, Javier, and Brett crawled through the stifling horizontal shaft. Javier was in the lead. He had Brett’s belt coiled around his clenched fist and kept the buckle beneath his fingers so it wouldn’t jingle. Javier was followed closely by Heather. Kerri squirmed along behind her. Brett brought up the rear, struggling to keep up with them. They kept stopping so he could catch up, but then he’d quietly urge them to keep going. Kerri supposed that Brett knew just how serious his situation was. He was trying to sound brave, but the fear in his voice was still there. He left a bloody trail in his wake.

The crawlspace tunnel was snug, and the walls brushed against their shoulders and hips as they crawled forward. The air smelled stale and was thick with the smell of feces. Not the nasty odor of rat droppings—that was bad enough, but this was far worse. It was a cloying, nauseating stench. Kerri tried to figure out what the crawlspace had been used for, but she couldn’t come up with any rational explanation. It was made of wood rather than metal, so it couldn’t be ductwork for heating or air-conditioning. The shaft appeared newer than the surrounding building materials. She wondered if it had been constructed more recently than the house, and if so, by whom. And again, for what? Had the midgets built it, just to drop down on unsuspecting victims after they’d trapped them in the hallway below? Kerri shivered. If so, how many other people had been in this situation? How many people had died in this place?

She lost track of how far they crawled. At one point, she caught a faint hint of vomit in the air and assumed they must be over the spot where she’d thrown up. They moved slowly and in silence, speaking only when they stopped for Brett, and then, communicating in hushed, short whispers and frantic hand signals.

When a door slammed below them, Kerri nearly shrieked. All four of them froze. They kept their cell phones open, so that they could see and had adjusted the backlight options so that they wouldn’t turn off suddenly. Without that meager illumination, the tunnel would have been completely dark. Kerri wondered, however, if they should close the phones. What if the light shined down through the ceiling, or what if one of them suddenly got a signal and it rang while they were hiding? Then those thoughts vanished, replaced with more immediate fears. She heard the sounds of heavy, thudding footsteps coming from below. Kerri held her breath, afraid that if she didn’t, she’d cry out. The fine hairs on her arms and the back of her neck rose up as she contemplated what might be making the noises. She had a pretty good idea. The footsteps sounded just like those of the man—thing—who had killed Tyler and Stephanie. Brett had told them its name was Noigel. She didn’t know what kind of a name that was, but she was certain it was him down there. And when Heather turned around and glanced at her, wide-eyed and trembling in the cell phone’s garish glow, Kerri knew that her friend suspected it, as well. Kerri shuddered, remembering his garbage-bag clothing and that swollen, infected penis that had dripped pus all over the place.

The footsteps stopped almost directly beneath them. Then Noigel, if indeed it was him, moaned, deep and mournful. He sounded sad. The moan rose in pitch and volume, turning into an anguished cry. The crawlspace thrummed as Noigel voiced his rage. Brett reached out and squeezed Kerri’s ankle with his good hand. Heather squeezed her eyes shut and chewed on her hair. Javier remained motionless. Kerri caught a whiff of something—that same sour milk mixed with feces and sweat stench that she’d smelled when Noigel attacked them in the foyer. That left no doubt in her mind that Tyler’s killer was directly beneath them, pissed off and intent upon finishing the job. That meant they hadn’t gone very far at all.