Kyle will never forgive his parents for telling him vegetables are good for you. They lied.
* * *
Eleven years old, Kyle considered
himself too mature to believe in ghosts or any of that silly supernatural
nonsense. Just the stuff of spooky movies, nothing more. But regardless of his
age, he couldn’t deny the sounds he heard coming from the cellar. Actually,
more like felt the noise as weird as
that seemed. High-pitched humming echoed in his mind, circling round and round
in his skull’s cavern.
Drawing him down the steps.
He couldn’t decipher what the
voices were saying, not really. Just sort of a sad song, a desire, a longing
for companionship.
Something Kyle missed as well.
With his parents still at work,
Kyle had no reason not to investigate. They weren’t here to tell him to stay
out of the cellar. Not that that would stop him. In fact, every adventurous kid
worth his salt usually took such orders as a challenge.
His family hadn’t lived in the
old house for too long. One day, out of the blue, Kyle’s dad had come up with a
stupid idea about country living. Cleaner air, better values, living off the
land, blah, blah, blah. Whatever. Kyle’d been against the move, recognized it
for nonsense. But his voice never carried any weight in family decisions, the curse
of being eleven. So when they packed up, Kyle had no choice but to man up and
say goodbye to his friends. The friends he thought he’d have forever. But when
you’re a kid, things change. And you’re powerless to do anything about it.
The steep and narrow stairs
slanted, dirt-covered piano keys groaning out percussive notes with each
footstep. Kyle’d been in the cellar before, not his first rodeo. But earlier when
he’d gone down with his mother, he shamefully snatched onto her apron the
entire time. For good reason. Shadows danced and swooped, threatening to snatch
him up and whisk him away to a dark world. Rusty and sharp-looking tools lined
up along a stone wall, a Grim Reaper’s one-stop shop. Bottles flanked another wall, sitting on
shelves and lined up perfectly like at attention soldiers. In the bottles,
bulky yellow globs swam in even murkier water. Kyle’s mom warned him not to
come down here alone. At the time, he’d silently agreed, thankful for his
mother’s wisdom. Even though it seemed embarrassing now.
But he had to know about the
sounds. The noise drew him down like metal shavings attracted to an unseen, but
definitely heard, magnet. Simply, he had no choice. Just like so much of his
life.
The light bulb at the bottom of
the stairs provided very little coverage, a small oval of light. Once he pulled
the string, the bulb swayed. So did everything else. Shadows darted to even
blacker places. Eyes and grins seemed to form in the jars’ gelatinous masses.
The light continued swinging, a pendulum chop-chop-chopping light across the
dirt-covered floor. Like a metronome, it counted out the beats of Kyle’s
hammering heart.
And the strange humming intensified.
One voice, two voices, a disembodied chorus singing in Kyle’s ears.
At the foot of the stairs, Kyle
grasped the flashlight his mother had placed there on their last visit.
Flicking it on, he swiveled the beam, familiarizing himself with the creepy
cellar, a far cry from their refinished basement in the Kansas City house. Green
strips of algae—or something else
entirely—painted the stone walls. Spider
webs hung like forgotten cotton candy. Leaves crunched beneath Kyle’s feet as
he shuffled across the dirt floor. With no windows or doors in the cellar, how
in the world had the leaves gained entrance? A chill roller-coastered down his
spine. But he couldn’t turn back now, no way. That’s not how a man would act.
A mummy of a bookshelf leaned
against a back corner, the bottom warped and aging into dust. And Kyle knew—absolutely so—the sound came from behind it. After tucking the flashlight
beneath his arm, he planted his feet solidly and yanked the bookshelf. He
watched as it toppled backward. When it landed in the dirt, a cloud of dust
rose. So did a rotten scent, so strong Kyle’s eyes watered. Bent over, he
coughed until the fumes passed. Then he aimed the light toward the uncovered
corner.
Glistening stalks of varying
sizes grew out of the dirt, not unlike the asparagus Kyle loathed. Except these
were slug-colored, pink, white and grotesque. Black rings circled small nubs,
almost limbs. Kyle rubbed his eyes, swung the flashlight away, then looked
again. No illusion, the stalks moved, actually
moved! They twisted and bent as if uprooting unseen legs from the ground.
As Kyle dropped to his knees for a closer examination, warning sirens bellowed
in his head. Some of the strange growths attempted to dodge the flashlight’s
beam, but the dirt cemented them firmly. Little holes opened at the top of each
stalk, mouths silently gasping for air. Whispering.
Small hairs (teeth?) waved out with each puff of breath.
Kyle yelped when the flashlight
landed on the tallest stalk. A smaller stalk branched out of it, an eyeball dangling
at the end. Milky and wide-eyed and horrible. The branch extended, rigid as if
held up by a hidden string, a gross one-eyed mannequin. It darted toward Kyle,
snapping at him.
Kyle fell back in the dirt. He scrabbled
back, leaving a trail of dust behind as if his sneakers had caught fire.
Suddenly the sounds in his head clarified.
Voices from somewhere else. Comforting and warm, almost hypnotic.
Yet, even though the voices made
Kyle feel as if he were lounging in front of a cozy fireplace, the messages
were anything but soothing.
Something
needs to be done.
The
older people are not your friends.
They’re
holding you back.
They
must die.
“No!” Kyle locked his eyes shut.
He slapped his temples, hoping to stop the voices, the awful messages, praying
to awake from this nightmare. Daring a peek, though, confirmed his worst fear. He
wasn’t dreaming. The stalks continued to stir, shifting in unison like a mass
wave at a sporting event.
Kyle…
Listen…
Cut
them, make them bleed.
A
blade across their throats.
The
old people have to die.
How easy it would have been to give
in. Kyle relaxed, propping up on his elbows. Warmth filled him, sunshine on an
August day. He floated in an invisible raft, bouncing and bobbing on tranquil
waters, nature taking him where it may. When he breathed, the cellar’s rank
odor had vanished. Now the smell of flowers and cinnamon and freshly cut grass
in the summer and everything fine and wonderful he’d associated with growing up
filled his nose, his thoughts.
That’s
good, Kyle.
Don’t
fight us.
Let
us take over.
Destroy
the older ones.
But as Kyle basked in golden
memories—everything good about his
childhood zipping by in a hurried slide-show—one
image burned stronger than the others. His
parents.
Clearly, these creatures—aliens, monsters, mutants?—wanted him
to kill his parents. His parents who sometimes sucked and made him move and
leave his friends behind and punish him and…
The parents he loves.
With a small battle-cry, Kyle
climbed to his feet. “Not gonna’ listen!” Holding one hand over an ear (even
though the sounds came from within), he shot the flashlight around the cellar.
Shadows played hide-and-seek, zipping up the walls like bats skittering away in
a cave. Then he found something. A fairly ancient looking gas can, rusted and
crumbling at the top.
What
are you doing, Kyle?
Stop.
Listen
to us.
We
wouldn’t lie.
“Shut up. Just…shut up.” The can weighed heavy in Kyle’s
hand. Giving it a good shake, liquid sloshed up, spilling out a hole at the
top. Orange and brown rust flakes coated his hand. The pungent aroma of
gasoline swept all other smells away. Using a heave-ho motion, he spilled the
gas onto the stalks. “Eat it.”
No.
Don’t
do this.
You’re
killing us.
Killing
us….killing….
The hellish stalks wilted, then
sprang up like air dancers at a car dealer, their lives contingent upon the
wind’s whim. Kyle tossed another round, giving the eyeball stalk an extra dose.
The voices died down to a hiss, air deflating from balloons. The stalks
shriveled and collapsed on themselves, their dried husks curling up into
nothing but small kernels. And the voices stopped.
Kyle dropped the can, wiped the
sweat from his forehead. And listened. Nothing. Just the plinks and tinks of
rafters wheezing under the weight of the house. One last touch, Kyle buried the
hideous garden beneath the bookshelf, a gravestone of sorts.
He clapped dirt from his hands, a
job well done. Then raced up the stairs like the devil himself had pitched a
fork in his bottom.
At the top of the stairway, he
slammed the door shut. Leaning against it—keeping
monsters at bay—he thought about the
new role forced upon him, a very responsible, adult role. Caretaker, gardener,
year round de-weeding.
* * *
For more of Stuart R. West's adult and young adult suspense tales filled with light heart and dark humor, check out his Amazon page.
And please do check out Stuart's blog featuring weekly rants, failed stand-up comedy routines and incisive author interviews: Twisted Tales From Tornado Alley
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