Horror/Thriller

“Want to play Go Fish?” she asked in a way that Devon could have sworn was the only small bit of innocence left in the world.

“What about your puzzle?” he asked her as he gestured toward all the scattered pieces on the coffee table.

She shrugged her tiny shoulders. “I can finish it tomorrow.”

Devon smirked. “Sure.” She wasn’t going to finish it, and he knew his mom. She wouldn’t stand for a mess to be left out all night.

He barely had time to deal the cards before a sharp knock crashed through the room like thunder. He jumped at first as it shook the walls and reverberated in his chest. His eyes snapped to Kelsey, wide and dark, and hers were the same. What the hell? Did they forget their keys? Why weren’t they coming in through the garage?

“I wonder if Dad and Grandma are back!” he whispered, forcing his words. They felt like a lie, though. Because in truth, he didn’t wonder if they were back at all. “You asked for the Rocky Road, right?”

She giggled and jumped up from the couch before skittering across the room. “I did!”

“I might have to steal a bite first—” The second knock came, harder this time. A deliberate, booming that was far from a friendly rap. It wasn’t the kind of knock his brother or mom would make. This was something different. Something demanding.

Someone wanted in.

Now.

A visceral twist of acid knotted in his gut. Every muscle in his body tightened as his instincts screamed at him to just grab her and run.

“Wait here…” he whispered. He was tired of running.

His eyes never left the door but he could feel Kelsey’s energy shift. She scrambled to a corner, her footsteps tiny and quick—but louder than he hoped. Her breath was loud, too. Panicked.

He stiffened, wishing he could reassure her, knowing he couldn’t.

The trek to the front door seemed impossibly long all of a sudden. With each step, the air grew heavier, colder–damn near suffocating. And then the lights went out.

Completely.

Without warning.

Total darkness.

Kelsey shrieked.

Devon’s stomach lurched like he might vomit, and his pulse spiked so hard he could feel it in his neck. Kelsey was terrified of the dark—had always been. His mom always left the light on for her every night, and that coupled with the fact that someone clearly wanted in he couldn’t blame her for being afraid.

He was afraid.

“It’s okay…” he whispered, his voice tight but shaky. But it was a lie. He knew it was. “Don’t move from that spot…”

With an agonizing slowness, he crossed the room, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up as he reached the mantle. He sighed heavily as his fingers closed around his brother’s hockey trophy. It was a solid, heavy thing. Something that could bash someone’s skull in if needed. He gripped it like a weapon, but his hands were shaking.

Each step toward the door felt heavier than the last. When he reached for the handle, he hesitated. The metal was cold under his fingertips. His stomach turned.

The moment he wrenched it open—

Nothing.

The night air greeted him, cold and still, and the front stoop was completely swallowed in darkness. There was nothing but silence. Suffocating silence. No movement. No sound. Only the sound of crickets.

Devon’s breath came in ragged gasps, but the relief he thought would follow never came. Something felt off. His gut twisted again.

Who the hell had knocked? And who the hell had cut the lights?

He pulled out his phone with his free hand, although it still shook.

Then—

Kelsey screamed.

The sound tore through him like a jagged blade gutting him. His blood ran cold, and he whipped around, moving before his brain could even process what was happening.

“Kelsey!” he shouted desperately as his feet pounded against the floorboards.

Silence.

The room was empty. She was gone.

There was a light that glowed from under the door at the end of the hall. His mother’s room.

Devon bolted, dread eating at him from the inside out. He jiggled the knob frantically. Locked.

The damn door wouldn’t budge.

His gut wretched as he threw his shoulder into it. “Kelsey?!” he called, hoping for her to answer, throwing his shoulder into the door again, his body rocketing hard against the wood. The door creaked and groaned with each heave from his shoulder–until it finally splintered and gave away with a final crack.

The room was lit from the street lamp outside, and the curtains flapped wildly from the breeze.

Devon’s breath caught in his throat.

Something snapped outside. It was unmistakable, sharp—like someone had just cracked a stick.

He lunged toward the window, his body rigid, eyes moving in panicked scans across the yard. His phone shook in his grip and his fingers trembled as he held it up. The light from it barely did a damn thing to light up the ground below.

“Who’s there?” he barked, as he held the hand with the trophy up, like he was somehow waiting for someone to pop up in the window.

Nothing.

His heart stuttered as he dialed Alex and put his phone to his ear.

The line clicked. Then he heard rustling.

“Do you have eyes on that son of a bitch?” Devon’s voice strained as soon as Alex answered, his mouth completely dry. There was a pause, a long, drawn-out silence. “Alex?!”

“Yeah, still at home. Been there all night with his wife. Why?”

Devon’s stomach dropped like a heavy stone. His blood went cold.

If the piece of shit was home… then who—

A breath.

Right behind him. On the back of his neck.

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The darkness is alive.

Something slithers against my skin, and the hole I’m in seems to be closing in from all sides. It’s shallow. Just barely big enough for me to fit in–and it’s cold.

So cold.

And wet.

And thick with something I don’t want to name. The walls are too close. I can’t breathe without my ribs filling in the space. My knees are drawn up into my chest, and my shoulder blades are scraping against something rough, but the worst is beneath me—the writhing, the crawling. Tiny legs, or antennas, or—I don’t know.

There’s just too many of them.

I squeeze my eyes shut. It doesn’t help. I can still feel them. Skittering up my arms. Across my neck. Are they biting me?

Something wet drags over my ankle. Slow. Agonizingly slow.

I shove my fist against my mouth before the whimper can escape. If I make a sound, I die. I don’t know what’s out there. I don’t want to know. But I can feel it.

It’s waiting. It’s listening.

The space around me seems to shrink even more. The slick walls begin to pulse like a throat, swallowing me. My breath comes out too fast, fogging the already damp air. I force it through my nose, biting my lip so hard that I taste blood.

And then I hear a click.

A scrape.

I press myself further the filth, the muck seeping through my clothes, coating my skin. Soaking into my bones.

Something skitters across my hand.

I don’t move.

I don’t breathe.

I just pray.

I pray that whatever is out there doesn’t hear me, because it’s far worse than what’s in here.

___________________________________________________

Craig's eyes fluttered open. His head throbbed, a pain he’d never really known before. It was sharp and constant. His cheek pressed against a cold surface, and it was thick with the musty scent of damp concrete—like his mom’s unfinished basement. But something told him that wasn’t where he was.

A hot, sticky trickle rolled down the back of his neck. Blood. His stomach twisted. He wasn’t exactly sure what—or who—hit him, but from the way his ribs stabbed at him when he took a deep breath, he knew they hadn’t held back.

With a groan, he forced himself onto his knees. The movement sent another jolt of pain through his neck and behind his eyes. He sucked in another sharp breath, again, wincing and then cursing the pain in his ribs. His teeth gritted as he looked into a suffocating darkness.

There were no walls. No windows. Nothing. Just blackness. But then, a thin strip of light came on. It was small and it stretched across the floor about twenty feet ahead. A door. A large one. And a light on the other side.

Where the hell was he?

Craig staggered to his feet, one arm clutching his ribs as his breath fell out in ragged gasps. His back curled like a question mark and his knees wobbled as his head swam. The last time he had felt like this he had been thrown from his motorcycle and life-flighted to Vanderbilt. At least that time he had known what hit him.

What’s the last thing you remember?

“Son of a bitch…” he gasped.

He had no idea. He remembered nothing. Nothing except being in class and he knew he probably wasn’t hit in class. Right?

He took a shaky step forward. Then another. His body so fucking heavy all of a sudden. He couldn’t see a damn thing except that small ray of light across the floor.

"Hello?!" His voice shattered through the still room.

Stupid.

He knew it was stupid. But what difference did it make? Sitting here, waiting, wasn’t an option. If he was screwed, he may as well find out why.

Pain shot through his head again, sharper this time, and his knees buckled, sending him crashing to the floor. And that’s when he heard it.

A deafening screech ripped through the room. Metal grinding against metal. The sound tore at his ears, high-pitched, merciless. His hands rocketed to the side of his head, gripping hard and fast—as if he was trying to shield himself from the noise as the wall across from him started opening.

Craig barely had time to register what was happening before that small little line of light turned into a flood of whiteness that crashed into his eyes, scorching them. Groaning, he squinted. Blinking rapidly, he forced himself to focus.

And that’s when he saw his surroundings.

A warehouse.

He was in a fucking warehouse. It was the kind of shit hole he used to break into with his friends down by the river—empty, and completely unremarkable. There was nothing but concrete floors, brick walls, and metal doors.

He had no idea where he was. Nothing stood out.

There were a couple of shipping crates that stood against the far wall, one red, one blue, both marked with numbers that meant absolutely nothing to him. A single overhead light flicked on, and a buzzing sound followed. A dripping pipe somewhere in the corner marked the seconds like a slow, mocking clock. He took a step forward, wondering how the bay door opened, and why.

He swallowed hard, his mouth dry, throat sore. The scent of something hit his nose. It was oil. Metal. And something else…

Something… rotten.

And then there was a small shift in the light. Something small. A shadow bleeding forward, getting larger and larger as it came closer. It was moving slow. Too slow for his liking. Craig’s breath caught. His muscles tightened. He wanted to bolt—but he could barely fucking stand.

"Who are you?!" he demanded in a wild croak.

No answer.

Just the sound of footsteps. Unhurried. Whoever this was—they weren’t in a rush.

And that scared him more than anything else.