Brian Keene - Urban Gothic

In the corner, next to the door, were a coat rack and a small roll top desk. Perry opened the desk drawer and withdrew a revolver nearly as old as he was. He didn’t have to check to make sure that it was loaded. He never took the bullets out of the weapon. Stuffing it in his waistband, he moved toward the door. The pistol felt snug against the small of his back.

He opened the door and saw Leo with his fist raised, ready to knock again. Behind him stood Jamal, Chris, Markus, some kid they called Dookie (Perry didn’t know his real name) and some other youths Perry didn’t recognize.

“Mr. Watkins,” Leo said. “You sleeping?”

“Does it look like I was sleeping, boy? Why you beating on my door this time a night?” His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You on drugs?”

“No, we ain’t on no fucking drugs! You know me better than that, Mr. Watkins.”

“Maybe,” Perry admitted. “Can’t be too sure these days, though. I thought maybe y’all was coming in here to rob me or something.”

Leo looked genuinely offended. “Now why would you go thinking something like that?”

“What happened with them white kids? Y’all spook them?”

“We didn’t do shit,” Jamal exclaimed, but fell silent again when Leo glared at him.

“Maybe a little bit,” Leo admitted, turning back to Perry. “But we didn’t mean nothing by it. We were just goofing around and shit. We were gonna help them with their car.”

Perry scowled. “Help them? You ain’t no mechanic.”

“No, I ain’t. But Angel is. We were thinking—”

“The fella who runs the chop shop?”

“Yeah. We figured those kids had money, right? I mean, they were wearing nice clothes and it was pretty obvious that they ain’t from around here. We’d hook them up with Angel, get him to fix the car, and then we’d get a payment—you know, like a finder’s fee and shit.”

Perry threw his head back and laughed. “A finder’s fee? Boy, you ain’t Triple fucking A.”

Leo ignored the taunt. “Can we use your phone, Mr. Watkins?”

“For what?”

“To call the police. Tell ’em about those kids.”

“Ain’t y’all got cell phones?”

The youths shrugged and shook their heads.

“No,” Chris said. “We can’t afford them.”

“Well, I ain’t got no phone either,” Perry lied. “The damn phone company shut it off two weeks ago. Said I—”

He fell silent as Lawanda crept up behind him and gently pulled him away from the door.

“You boys come on inside. But mind your shoes. Take them off at the door. I don’t want you tracking dirt up in here. I just cleaned this morning.”

Smiling, Leo stepped into the house and did as he was told. The big toe on his left foot stuck out of a hole in his sock. One by one, the other kids followed him inside and removed their shoes.

Perry groaned. “Oh, for God’s sake, Lawanda . . .”

She shushed him with a stern look. “Leo and his friends want to get involved and do the right thing. That’s a sure sight more than anyone else wants to do around here these days. If they want to use our phone, then you darn well better let them. A fine example you’re setting, Perry Watkins.”

Leo beamed. “Thank you, Mrs. Watkins.”

“Never you mind, Leo,” she scolded, turning her attention to him. “Not that I think that calling the police will do a lick of good, but I ain’t about to stop you from doing the right thing. But none of y’all should be out this late. You know what these streets are like after dark. The phone’s in the kitchen. Leo, you go make your call. The rest of you sit down. I’ll fix you something to eat.”

While they got settled, Perry shuffled toward the refrigerator and pulled out a can of beer. Before popping the top, he pressed the cool can against his forehead and sighed. It was going to be a long night. There was nothing Lawanda liked more than playing den mother to a bunch of teenagers. They’d never been able to have kids of their own, and she absolutely doted on all the kids who lived on the block. Every week when they went to church, Lawanda asked God to watch out for them all.

Perry shook his head again and wondered if God was watching out for the kids who’d run into the house at the end of the street.

He hoped so.

But he had doubts. Serious doubts. He’d lied to Lawanda before. He believed everything that was said about the abandoned house.

Like most other people, God didn’t have any business inside of that place.

But if you listened to all the neighborhood rumors about the place, the devil sure did.

SIX

Heather felt like her heart was going to explode. She sat in absolute darkness, unable to think or move—barely able to breathe. She shivered—partly from shock and partly from the cold wetness soaking her underwear and jeans. She’d peed herself at some point, and hadn’t even realized it until now. Her foot still hurt, but at least it had stopped bleeding. She’d been afraid to look at the wound, but she had to. It wasn’t deep, but it was long and filled with dirt and debris. She knew she’d have to clean it soon or risk infection.

Heather shook her head, exasperated with herself. Infection was the least of her worries right now.

She listened intently, expecting to hear the heavy, plodding footsteps of their pursuer, but the bizarre house was quiet. Somehow the stillness was more disconcerting than if she’d heard screaming. When she was younger, Heather used to play hide and seek with her two older brothers. She’d find a good hiding spot—the shrubs in front of the house, the toolshed down by the garden, the basement—and hunker down, but then her brothers would stop hunting for her and go play video games instead. It used to frustrate her, and she’d end up shouting, trying to lure them to her hiding place. For a brief moment, Heather considered yelling now—just standing up and hollering, You’re getting colder! like a game of hot and cold.

But the only thing growing cold was Tyler’s corpse.

Heather bit the inside of her lower lip to stop from braying nervous laughter. Why was this happening? She felt a sudden surge of anger for Tyler. Dead or not, this was his fault. He had to come out and get his fucking drugs. He couldn’t wait for another time. No, he had to screw everything up again because he was an asshole. What had Kerri ever seen in him?

She pulled her knees up to her chest and hugged them, shivering. She felt a twinge of guilt over that thought. Tyler was dead, after all, and no one was supposed to talk ill of the dead, at least not according to her mother.

She considered pulling out her cell phone and calling for help, or at least using the display pad’s light for illumination, but she was worried that if she did, the killer might hear the tones as she dialed or see the light from under the door.

Her thoughts turned to Javier. She hoped he was okay. Instead of following her, he’d stayed behind to help Kerri. Despite her fears, Heather felt pangs of jealousy. Why would he do that? Javier was her boyfriend, not Kerri’s. Kerri’s boyfriend was dead. She didn’t need to get Heather’s boyfriend killed as well.

Heather rocked backward and something soft brushed against her head. Stifling a scream, she batted at it. Her hand came away sticky. A spiderweb.

She wondered what else was in here with her in the darkness.

Out in the hallway, she heard a floorboard creak. Heather froze, holding her breath.

The sound was not repeated.

Heather’s fingernails dug into her palms, drawing blood. She barely felt it. She imagined the killer waiting outside the door, standing in the hallway, foot poised over the creaky floorboard, waiting for her to come out. She waited, expecting at any moment to hear his terrible cry, or for the big hammer to smash down the door.