Glimpses: The Best Short Stories of Rick Hautala Page 7

  Not one bit.

  But in spite of his rising tension, he kept moving forward. Every stair step creaking beneath his weight set his teeth on edge until he made it down to the foyer.

  The only light in the house came from the single candle burning upstairs in his bedroom. Hardly enough light to see by. The darkness within the house pressed close, squeezing against him like soft, crushed velvet. When he realized he was holding his breath, he let it out in a long, slow whistle. His hands were shaking as he raised the shotgun and aimed it at the front door.

  Even though he was expecting it and was convinced that he was ready for it, his heart skipped a beat and he jumped when the knocking came again.

  One ... two ... three times, the heavy blows pounded against the door.

  And then they stopped.

  The sudden silence hummed in Martin’s ears as he stood in the foyer, too frightened to say or do anything.

  His anticipation spiked as he waited for the sound to come again. He looked furtively from side to side as though expecting to see something creeping up behind him in the darkness even though he told himself there was nothing there. His gaze returned to the door when the unseen person on the other side began knocking again, even harder.

  Is it a friend? Martin wondered. Has someone stopped by to check if I’m all right?

  That wasn’t likely.

  Martin didn’t have any friends. He kept pretty much to himself at work, having gotten used to being alone after so many years tending to his invalid mother before she finally died.

  Thinking of his mother sent a tickling electric current racing up his back.

  What if that’s her out there?

  He was unable to repress the deep shudder that shook his insides. He couldn’t help but remember how, during those last, horrible years, when she was ill and bedridden, she would bang on the wall to get his attention, pulling him away from his time alone with his trains.

  He tried not to think about it, but the sounds—the knocking outside now and her banging the walls—were practically identical.

  No, he told himself. Mother is dead!

  He tried not to imagine what she would look like, her wizened form hunched on the crumbling cement stairs, wrapped against the cold night in her yellowing burial shroud as she banged on the door to be let in. After eight years, her skin, gray from the embalming fluid that had replaced her blood, would be peeling off in large, flaky chunks as each knock rang through the house like a hammer on a Chinese gong.

  But no … That couldn’t be her outside.

  It was impossible.

  He had seen her coffin lowered into the ground.

  She was dead.

  Even if he hadn’t smothered her with her pillow, like the detective who had come by several times had suggested, she was dead and buried. And even if he had done something like that, he had only done it out off mercy, to end her suffering following the paralyzing stroke.

  He told himself he shouldn’t let his imagination get fired up like this. It wasn’t healthy. There was definitely someone out there, make no mistake, but it wasn’t—it couldn’t be his mother!

  But it was someone, and when whoever it was began hammering on the door again, Martin told himself that, if they didn’t stop and go away real soon, he was going to unload his shotgun on them without warning.

  He didn’t care who it was.

  Even if it was some little kid who’d lost a kitten and was going door to door, looking for it. Or some crazed drunk or drug addict, lost and, thinking he was home, pounding on the wrong door to be let it.

  It didn’t matter.

  And even if it did matter, Martin didn’t care.

  Anyone with any common sense was safe inside his own home as soon as it got dark. The only people out and about at this hour were dangerous people looking for trouble. They deserved to die if they were going to bother decent, law-abiding people like Martin who wanted nothing but to be left alone.

  He’d shoot if he had to. Don’t you doubt it.

  He hadn’t heard the news lately, but he was sure there must have been hundreds if not thousands of deaths—murders, accidental deaths, and suicides—since the celebrations began. One more death in a city this size wouldn’t even be noticed. Not when the police had so many other important things to take care of … if there were any police left, that is.

  Still, Martin didn’t dare to call out much less go to the door.

  Instead, he walked to the far wall and, leaning his back against the closed closet door—one of the few remaining inside the house—slid slowly down into a sitting position on the floor with his shotgun poised and aimed at the front door.

  The knocking continued unabated, coming more rapidly now, a heavy thumping that boomed like cannon shots. Martin was convinced that, before long, the blows would smash the door to splinters. In spite of the cold, thin trickles of sweat ran down his sides from his armpits. His eyes felt like they were bugging out from their sockets as he watched ... and waited ... wishing the knocking would stop, and whoever was out there would go away and leave him alone.

  But that didn’t happen, and Martin was frozen, wondering who the hell might be out there. He kept tossing possible scenarios over in his mind until he thought of something that made his pulse skip a beat. He felt suddenly light-headed with anxiety.

  What if it was his father, come home after all these years?

  Could that even be possible?

  Martin had lived his entire life in this house with his mother, so if, by some extraordinary circumstance, his father was still alive, he would naturally come back here first, if only to see if his family still lived here.

  Martin’s forefinger brushed lightly against the trigger of the shotgun. He grit his teeth so hard he could hear low grinding noises deep inside his head. His vision pulsed in front of him, creating a vortex of darkness spinning within deeper darkness.

  The pounding on the door was unrelenting … so loud now that it seemed to be as much inside his head as outside. Blow after blow rained down against the hard wood, and every blow resonated inside Martin’s skull until he was trembling like a man wracked with fever.

  Go away! he thought but didn’t dare say out loud.

  Please … Go away!

  Leave me alone!

  And still the knocking continued, keeping time with the painful beating of his heart, which thundered in his ears so hard now it made his neck ache.

  Please ... For the love of God ... Just go away!

  But the knocking didn’t let up. It grew louder and louder until—finally—Martin knew he would have to go to the door and confront whoever was outside.

  His body was rigid and throbbing with pain, numb from the cold as he rose slowly to his feet. He maintained such a tight grip on his shotgun that his fingers were paralyzed, unable to move.

  Martin told himself to stay in control, that he had to deal with this now or it would only get worse. He would be in serious danger if he opened the door, and the person—whoever it was out there—saw even a hint of fear or hesitation on his part.

  His feet dragged heavily across the wooden floor, making loud rasping sounds, but not loud enough to drown out the incessant hammering on the front door.

  Martin licked his lips and took a deep breath. His chest felt like it was constricted by thick iron bands. The sour pressure in his stomach grew painfully intense, and he had to concentrate to make his arms move as he raised the shotgun and pointed it at the door.

  Go away, now! Before you regret it, he wanted to call out, but horrible images of his dead mother and the father he had never known filled his mind.

  Can it be both of them out there on the stoop?

  He felt curiously weighed down as he moved closer to the door. It was like being trapped in a dream. No matter how many steps he took forward, the front door appeared to slide away from him, getting further away rather than closer.

  Martin shook his head and slapped himself on the cheek, trying to convince himself
that he was awake.

  This is real … It’s really happening!

  And all the while, the heavy pounding on the door continued without stop.

  Watching like a dissociated observer, Martin raised his hand and reached out for the door lock. The other hand held the shotgun at chest level, his finger on the trigger and already starting to squeeze.

  A prickling wave of pain rolled up his arm to his shoulder as he slowly withdrew the metal clasp of the chain lock and let it drop. It made a rough, grating sound as it swung back and forth like a pendulum against the wood, bouncing every time the knocking from the other side made the door vibrate.

  Holding his breath so long it hurt, Martin grasped the dead bolt and twisted it slowly to the right. Every nerve in his body was sizzling like overloaded electrical wires as he waited for the lock to click open.

  A wave of vertigo swept over him, and he was concerned he would pass out before he could get the door open and confronted whoever was on his doorstep.

  They must have heard him undo the lock, he thought, so they would have plenty of time to run away before he got the door open.

  Martin jumped when the lock clicked, sounding as sharp as the snap of a whip. He reached quickly for the doorknob, gave it a savage twist, and pulled back to throw the door open.

  But the doorknob slipped from his hand as if it were greased.

  Momentarily confused, Martin stood back, panting so heavily his throat made a soft clicking sound. Sweat tickled his ribs as it ran down the inside of his shirt. The sound of the knocking continued … so loud now it made his vision jump in time with every bang.

  The shotgun felt suddenly too heavy to hold, and he placed it on the flood, leaning it against the wall within easy reach. He wiped his sweaty palms on his pants legs before taking hold of the doorknob again and giving it another violent turn.

  The cylinder mechanism clicked, and this time when he pulled back, he kept his grip.

  Still, the door wouldn’t open.

  Martin cursed under his breath, but he could barely hear his own voice above the constant pounding on the door and his own heart. He could feel the deep vibration inside him, each blow like a wasp sting, but he ignored it as he twisted the doorknob back and forth several times, all the while pulling back with all his strength.

  Still, the door wouldn’t open.

  It wouldn’t even budge.

  This isn’t possible, Martin thought, suddenly positive that the person out there on the doorstep, still banging on the door, was holding the door shut with his other hand while he knocked.

  Panting so heavily his chest felt like it was on fire, Martin shifted to one side. Bending low, he peered out the narrow side window. The night was dense and black except for the distant orange glow of fire on the horizon. As far as he could see, there was no one out there.

  The doorstep was empty.

  A sudden gust of wind blew a flurry of snow from the edge of the porch roof. The ice crystals glittered like diamond dust in the flickering orange glow before drifting away into darkness. For an instant, Martin imagined that the shower of snow assumed a vague human shape. He cleared his throat, prepared to call out, but his voice was locked up inside his chest.

  The knocking on the door started up again.

  Martin jumped and let out a startled yelp when an alley cat leaped from the trash cans to the top of the fence that bordered his property. But even if the sound had stopped, he knew that the cat couldn’t have been doing it.

  Shivering wildly, he came back to the door. After making sure the dead bolt and chain lock were unlocked, he took hold of the doorknob with both hands. The muscles in his wrists and forearms knotted like twisted wire as shivering vibrations from the knocking ran up his arms to his shoulders and neck.

  A pathetic whimper escaped Martin as he ratcheted the doorknob quickly back and forth. The door couldn’t have been shut tighter if he’d had it nailed shut. Bracing one foot against the doorjamb, he leaned back and pulled with everything he had.

  Still, the door wouldn’t budge.

  Who’s out there? Why are you doing this? Martin wanted to call out, but his throat was so flayed and raw he could hardly breathe. His heart was pounding in his ears as the knocking grew steadily louder, rolling like booms of thunder through the dark house and keeping time with his racing pulse.

  Every muscle in Martin’s body tensed as he leaned back and pulled as hard as he could. He strained, sucking in shallow gulps of air that felt like he was sipping fire.

  Still, the door didn’t budge.

  Finally, in a high, broken voice, Martin forced out a whisper.

  “Mother?”

  The instant those words left his mouth, the knocking ceased. Leaden silence merged with the darkness and filled the air.

  The silence stretched out in a horrible vacuum until Martin couldn’t take it anymore. He screamed until his voice choked off as blind panic swept through him. He made a fist and raised it high above his head and then brought it down hard against the door.

  “Leave me alone!” he shrieked.

  Tears stung his eyes like acid as he brought his fist down over and over again against the heavy wooden door. He banged so hard it wasn’t long before his fists were bruised and bleeding.

  “Go away!” he cried, gasping between breaths. “Please … Go away!”

  Sobbing and mumbling incoherently, he collapsed forward and pressed his head against the cold, unyielding wood of the door while continuing to pound with both fists. His body convulsed, burning with exhaustion and the horrible terror of being trapped inside his home.

  The knocking had stopped, and the only sound inside the house was the steadily weakening blows he made against the door as he slid slowly down to the floor. He couldn’t even hear himself blubbering as he continued to bang on the unyielding door.

  “Who is it? ... Who’s … out ... there ...?

  A sudden chill took hold of him. Through the side window, he could see wind-blown ice crystals glittering like diamond dust in the glow of the distant fires.

  He braced himself to call out, but the cold night air in the house froze his throat and lungs, making it impossible for him to utter a sound.

  Shivering wildly, he surveyed as best he could the front steps and walkway one last time. Then, shivering, he made sure both the dead bolt and the chain lock were locked. As he turned his back to the door, a muffled sound came from somewhere inside the house.

  Paralyzed with fear, he looked all around the darkened entryway as the soft knocking filled the darkness. It took him a moment or two to realize that the sound was coming from inside the closet in the hallway.

  A pathetic whimper escaped Martin as he stared in terror at the closed door. It looked like a block of solid, black marble in the dense darkness, but there was no mistaking.

  The knocking was coming from inside the closet!

  Martin had forgotten all about the shotgun. Churning nausea filled his gut when he realized that, only a few moments ago, he had been sitting on the floor, leaning against that same door.

  No! his mind screamed, but he was unable to utter a sound.

  His heart was pounding heavily in his ears as the knocking grew steadily louder.

  More insistent.

  Keeping time with his hammering pulse.

  He would have screamed, but his throat was sealed as if powerful, unseen fingers had wrapped around it and were squeezing ... squeezing tighter ...

  Martin lost any sense of time as he stood there trembling with his back pressing against the front door as he stared at the closed closet door.

  The knocking grew steadily louder ... and louder ... until it thundered through the house.

  Martin sucked in a faint, shallow breath and then, in a shattered voice, whispered, “Who ... who’s there?”

  As soon as the words escaped his mouth, the knocking abruptly stopped.

  Leaden silence filled the house, and then there was the faint click of a door latch, and the closet d
oor began to open.

  It was then and only then that Martin began to scream.

  Toxic Shock

  The police line could barely hold back the surging crowd as Sheila Dobson climbed out of the police van and started up the paved walkway to the Pro-Choice Clinic. Hot wind-blown rain misted in shimmering sheets against the orange glare of the sodium arc streetlights. Wooden barricades had been set up along the sidewalk with flashing red warning lights that illuminated the scores of angry faces, seen only dimly through the protective face masks that all of the protesters were wearing. The area looked like a vision of Hell, rather than the quiet side street in downtown Philadelphia it had been ... at least until the Pro-Choice Clinic opened two years ago.

  Sheila sensed the anger in the eyes that tracked her as she walked quickly up the stairs to the front door. With each step, her legs threatened to give out on her. She kept telling herself to focus straight ahead, but she couldn’t keep herself from glancing at the crowd. Handmade signs and posters were raised high in clenched fists. They waved and bounced in time with the chanting shouts and jeers.

  MURDERER!

  KILLER!

  PROTECT THE RIGHT TO LIFE!

  AB-SOLUTION IS THE ONLY SOLUTION!

  Sheila couldn’t tell if some of the words on the signs had been drawn purposely to look like splashes of blood, or if the burning rain was washing away the cheap red poster paint the protesters had used. The minister leading the group wore his vestments outside of his protective rubber coat. The homemade cloth was pitted with small burn holes that smoldered as he waved his arms overhead, leading the group in a hymn. The voices of the singers were drowned out by louder, random shouts directed at Sheila and the cordon of police, but all of their voices were muffled by the steady hiss of falling rain and the weatherproof face masks everyone wore. Sheila caught only fragments of what they were yelling.

  “Repent now, sister!”

  “Respect the life that’s been given to you!”

  “It’s not too late to save yourself!”

  “Hell is for sinners—like you, bitch!”

  Sheila grew dizzy as she focused on the throng of glistening face masks that ringed her. They looked like some horrible undersea invasion.