Brian Keene - Urban Gothic

“Hit it.”

“That’s not going to—”

“Go on,” Leo insisted. “If we can get the crowbar wedged in under the metal—even a little bit—maybe we can raise it up or move it out of the way.”

“Yeah,” Perry agreed slowly. “Maybe so. But that means you’re going to have to hold the crowbar in place, and if I miss when I’m swinging, I could break your hand or worse.”

Leo grinned. “Then don’t miss, Mr. Watkins.”

“Nobody likes a smartass, boy,” Perry said, returning his grin. Then he glanced at Dookie. “Keep that flashlight trained on the crowbar. Don’t shine it in my eyes or nothing.”

Dookie nodded. “I won’t.”

Perry grabbed the sledgehammer, steadied his aim, and swung. The broad hammerhead struck the end of the crowbar with a loud metallic clang. Both tools shuddered. Leo flinched, but his hands remained steady, holding it in place. Perry swung again and again—a dozen times. He didn’t think they were making any progress, but then Leo told him to stop.

“Look there,” the boy said. “It’s underneath the metal. Give it a few more whacks.”

Licking his lips, Perry struck the crowbar a half dozen more times. Each blow rang out down the street, but if anyone heard the commotion, they didn’t show up to investigate. When he was finished, he glanced toward his home, hoping to see the flashing red lights of a police car or other emergency vehicle. Instead, all he saw was darkness.

Leo stood, flexed his hands and fingers, and then pushed down on the crowbar. He grunted with exertion and the veins in his neck and forehead stood out, but the steel barricade didn’t move.

“Here,” Perry said, gently ushering him aside. “Let me give it a try.”

He applied his weight to the crowbar. At first, it didn’t budge, but then slowly, with a loud groan, the metal began to slide upward.

“That’s it,” Leo said. “Keep going, Mr. Watkins!”

Perry pressed harder, grunting with the effort. The barrier slid higher. Judging by the feel, he guessed that it was affixed to some type of hidden pulley system. He wondered who had manufactured it and why.

“Get underneath it,” he gasped. “Heavy.”

The boys darted forward and slid their fingers into the crack.

“Hold it there,” Perry said. “Don’t let it fall. If it starts to slip, jump clear. Don’t need any of you getting your fingers chopped off.”

When he was sure they had a firm grip on the door, Perry released the crowbar and moved to help them. The metal slid back down an inch, but the boys managed to hold it aloft. Perry grabbed the edge, wedging himself between Markus and Jamal. The surface was cold and rough.

“Okay,” he said. “Count of three, let’s lift it as high as we can. One . . . two . . . three!”

Moving as one, they strained and groaned, lifting the heavy slab of metal higher. They stood slowly. Perry’s knees popped with the effort. The door squeaked as it rose over their heads. They gave it one last shove and heard something click into place. The steel barrier disappeared, held aloft by some hidden mechanism. The house stood open to them, a yawning, black mouth. Perry peered into the darkness and saw some kind of foyer.

“Okay.” He sighed and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “Y’all ready?”

The boys nodded, but none of them spoke. They stared straight ahead, as if hypnotized.

Perry retrieved the handgun from Leo and gave him the crowbar. Markus hefted the sledgehammer. Chris, Jamal, and Dookie wielded the flashlights. Taking a deep breath, Perry stepped inside. He moved cautiously, licking his lips as he walked. His breaths were slow and deep, his pulse fast. The pistol trembled in his hand. The kids followed him one by one.

The dark foyer smelled of mildew and rot. A hallway and multiple closed doors led off from it into other parts of the house. The walls were covered with peeling yellow wallpaper and splotches of black mold. Rat holes riddled the baseboards. The floorboards were warped, and chunks of plaster dangled from the ceiling. Also hanging overhead was a string of construction lights, rigged together with an extension cord. They weren’t on. Perry wondered idly if they were still functional.

The house was utterly silent. No voices. Nothing attracted by their noisy entrance. Not even the ever-present sound of rats or insects scurrying in the walls—something each of them would have expected. Even the distant sounds of traffic and other noises from up the block seemed nonexistent despite the open doorway out to the street, as if the house was muffling all outside sounds.

The soles of their feet stuck to the floor. When Dookie shined his light onto the floorboards, they saw why. They were standing in the middle of a large brown stain. It looked like somebody had dragged something across the floor. Perry knelt, trying to figure out what the stain was. He touched it with his index finger.

“Shit.”

“It’s shit?” Dookie asked, his voice tinged with disgust and disbelief. “Fuck. I’m standing in it!”

“No,” Perry said. “It’s not shit. It’s blood. Still tacky, too. Fresh. Not quite dried yet.”

“Motherfucker . . .” Jamal stepped out of the bloodstain and wiped his feet on the wall. His shoe sank into the plaster.

“Hello,” Leo called. “Anybody here?”

His voice seemed oddly muffled, as if the walls were sucking it up.

“Hello,” he tried again. “We’re here to help you.”

“Hey, white kids,” Markus bellowed, grinning. “Where you at? Come on out!”

Chris elbowed him in the ribs. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Nothing.”

Still grinning, Markus approached one of the closed doors. The floorboards creaked as he crossed the foyer. He held the sledgehammer in one hand and opened the door with the other.

“Wait,” Perry warned. But before he could move, the door swung open, creaking on rusty hinges.

Markus peered inside the room and shrugged. “Ain’t nothing in there.”

“Let me see.” Perry moved past him, motioning at Dookie to follow him with the flashlight. They stepped inside the darkened room, and Dookie shined the flashlight into the corners, sweeping it around in a wide arc. The interior was desolate, just like the foyer. There was no furniture or appliances, just a few scraps of dirty cloth, crumpled pages from an old newspaper, and a crushed soda can. Otherwise, the room was barren. It smelled musty. Dust swirled in the flashlight beam. Perry wrinkled his nose.

“So what now?” Leo asked.

“We look around,” Perry said. “Try to find them. Judging from that blood out there, at least one of them is hurt.”

“We should split up,” Jamal suggested. “That would make things a lot easier.”

“Oh hell, no!” Chris shook his head. “Splitting up is the stupidest thing we can do. I say we go back outside and call the po-po again. Tell them about the blood and shit.”

“We’re not splitting up,” Perry agreed, stepping back into the foyer. “You go on back and call them again if you want. I’m gonna follow this blood trail. Hand me that flashlight, Dookie.”

Dookie clutched the light protectively. “If it’s all the same to you, Mr. Watkins, I’ll hold on to it. I’ll come with you, though.”

“Okay. Good. Anybody else coming?”

Leo stepped forward, as did Jamal. Markus shrugged and then nodded. Jamal and Chris looked at each other.

“You go ahead if you want,” Jamal told his friend. “I’m staying.”

Chris’s shoulders sagged. “Guess I’m staying, too. I ain’t no punk.”

They started down the hallway. Dookie was in the lead, with Perry just a few steps behind him. Markus and Chris followed them, while Jamal and Leo brought up the rear. Dookie kept his flashlight trained on the floor, and they followed the blood smear through numerous twists and turns. The house’s layout made no sense. To Perry, it seemed like someone had added walls and rooms and passageways at random. Doors opened into walls. Hallways terminated in dead ends. The whole thing was bewildering and disconcerting. Occasionally they called out, hoping for an answer to guide them in the right direction, but the house remained silent.