Banging on the attic floor. I close my eyes, relish the feel of his fear, the sweet taste of budding terror.
Slowly, I thicken the dark that surrounds him. On his flesh it will feel suddenly cold, sodden with an unknown moisture. It will coat him like diluted syrup.
“Hey! Enough, man! You got me! Open the fucking door!”
“But there’s no way to reach it!” I yell. Then I can’t help myself. I begin laughing.
“You think … ow!”
Slow nibbles at first. The dark is hungry—always so hungry—but it is mine to control. The shadows always wish to feast, never taste. They devour instead of dine. Soon, I’ll release the dark completely, but not yet.
I want to savor him.
He begins screaming now, and I shudder with pleasure as he fills my mouth. That thick, penetrating darkness residing in my uppermost chamber snips away his skin in sharp, tiny bits and bites. It pokes at his eyes, yanks at his hair, tugs at his lips, clogs his nostrils, seeps beneath his clothes and infests every inch of him.
“Please no! You guys! Help me! Please God …. Oh no. No! Help!”
Pounding and pounding but growing steadily weaker. The voice more shrill, more desperate. Then, more quiet.
God, he’s delicious.
I wait as the blood is slurped from his bones, the organs consumed in gnashing, savage bites. There’s no holding back the shadows anymore. With a rush of pleasure, I release them.
They attack like dogs, snapping and chewing, devouring, until the body is gone. Now, only the spirit remains.
And that, my dear, is mine.
Forever.
I WALK BRAD’S LITTLE BODY down the stairs and, moments later, I’m standing at the kitchen door which leads to the cellar. The abused little girl is down there with her flashlight, investigating my walls, the barren shelves, the packed earth. I feel her move toward the stairs leading to the storm doors, the ones which would lead her out into the night, lead her to freedom. To escape.
And we can’t have that.
I open the door, look down the stairs with Brad’s eyes into the black, cool depths of me. Hearing movement, she scurries away from the storm doors (excellent!) and hides behind the old shelves, painted in dust and vermin droppings, veiled in lacy webs, each heavy with blood-fat spiders.
“Here I cooommmee ….” I whisper into the depths, not daring to speak too loudly, no longer trusting the sound of the boy’s voice. It rattles and creaks unnaturally, worsening as control of the body slips away. The hands tremble constantly and now I feel one of the teeth come loose, popping free with a squirt of blood. I swallow the slick tooth easily, eagerly.
Not much time now, my sweet. You and I will be together soon. Wait for me, it’s almost time. Just a small chore and a few minutes more, as they say.
I go down the creaky stairs, step onto the earthen floor, close my eyes and relish the sensation of her beating heart, pulsing fresh life into my lower depths. I push away the urge to simply take her. I don’t normally play with my food, not really. But tonight, I must admit, it’s hard to resist a little tomfoolery. Something to sweeten that meat.
“I know you’re down here,” I say, not caring anymore that the fool boy’s voice sounds like broken glass in a tin can. “I can smell you.”
A sharp intake of breath from her hiding place. She’s turned off her light, of course. Smart girl. Without the light, however, she doesn’t realize the movement of the spiders. Already they’re nesting in her hair, crawling across her sleeves, up her collar toward her neck, her ears, her face.
Staying silent, she pulls away from the shelves, leans against the moist stone of my walls. I’m embarrassed to say that Brad’s tiny pecker stiffens at this, and I laugh out loud. It sounds wrong, I know, like splitting wood instead of a young boy’s giggles, but the time for deception is dripping away, away. The game is almost over.
I crouch like a villain and spin toward her, wanting her to see the glint of my eyes. I switch on my flashlight with a trembling hand, dance the beam across her. Exposed, she winces.
“Okay, Christ, you got me,” she says, feigning control. “Let’s just get out of here.”
I click off the light.
Above and behind me, the cellar door closes with an air-splitting crack. The room is smothered in darkness.
“Brad? Hey, turn your light on.” Oh my, I think she sounds worried.
She should be.
“You have a light,” I whisper, then drop to all fours.
“Damn it, Brad … God, you asshole ….” she says, but her voice is cracked. Tears wet her face. Her breath is fast, hard.
One of the spiders bites the back of her neck.
“Ow!” she yells, then begins sobbing like the scared little girl she is. “Something fucking bit me … damn it, I can’t turn my phone on!” She’s hysterical now.
But then, like a miracle, her light does come on!
It shines down toward her feet, where I’m hunched, looking up from the rich soil, split lips stretched into a rictus grin.
“Boo!”
She screams and I reach for her but she’s fast, this one! Stronger than she appears. I watch, bemused, at her screaming, her panicked flailing through the dark, fleeing like a cat from a cage toward the storm doors.
Too late, little girl. It’s much too late.
