CRAWLSPACE - Chapter 2

J.D. took a deep breath of filthy basement air because it’s bad manners to curse loudly in a client’s home. This did not help, because the ever-present scent was a key contributor to his frustration in the first place. That, and he had lost his mattock.

After the first day of long walks to the truck with an overloaded snow shovel, J.D. had dipped into his precious business account to purchase some additional tools. He had been putting off these purchases, or more optimistically, waiting until he needed them. A wheelbarrow was essential. Then extra gloves – he could never have too many – a package of masks to filter the air, and a mattock. Such a thing might not seem useful in clearing out a hoarder’s nest, but J.D. had made great use of it. The flat edge helped with raking the piles of junk into a manageable heap, and the pick was perfect for knocking down the stubborn, encrusted canyon walls. He left it in the basement when he went to the landfill, and then lunch. He hadn’t needed it immediately upon his return, and he had moved a lot of junk in the meantime. Now it was lost. Nowhere to be found in the den of detritus.

He stomped outside, kicking up trash with every step. The sun beat down on his neck. The usefulness of the tool aside, it was the squandered money that ate at him. These precarious early days of being his own boss did not allow for frivolous purchases. That had been one of the benefits of his old job; when he needed a tool, he just grabbed one, no questions asked. Now he would only get that investment back if he could manage to dig it out of the impossible mass, which he supposed he would at some point, but he’d have to do so without his most helpful tool. And buying another one would be extra money he didn’t have for a duplicate tool he already did.

The wheelbarrow wasn’t nearly full yet, but he needed to work off a little steam. He had not much noticed the uphill climb from the backyard to the front on the first day, but the incline was starting to take its toll after dozens of trips back and forth. He reached the truck and heaved the barrow up, dumping it directly into the truck bed. Pieces went astray onto the street, and this time he did swear. He picked up the lost items and used his shovel to push the pile toward the back of the truck bed. Not yet time for a landfill run. He left one of the doors open to prevent any more from sliding out. Helpful, but this was just busy work. He was stalling to avoid going back down into that nasty pit.

It was moments like this that made him wonder why he put himself through it. He had anticipated the days of owning his own business for years, but the daydreams had never been this demoralizing. What was it all for, anyway? He was working so he could keep working. All that talk about setting his own hours was foolishness within his current margins. Maybe it would have been better to stay in an established organization. Even with all the corporate annoyances, at least he’d had a little time to play video games once in a while. He told himself he wouldn’t need childish things like that once he stepped out and became a man on his own. Right now, he would have traded it all for a few hours of Xbox in his underwear. Instead, there was a dead man’s basement to be cleared out.

J.D. eyed the yard again. It was still unkempt and buzzing with insects in the heat. But the gentle slope leading to the flat ground by the basement door looked inviting. It would be so much faster if he could just park his truck down there. After driving the same model for so long, he knew that machine intimately. He could back it up to a loading dock within inches, without a spotter. He knew he could make the hill, with no loss to the grass. But he would need permission for that. He decided to chance it and set out for the front door.

The Crowes had been more or less absent since that first day, which was just fine with J.D. But now he found himself impatiently awaiting their appearance. He knocked on the door again, peering into the windows. He cracked the entrance open and called out into the house. Technically he had permission to be inside, after all. But no one spoke. He sighed to himself. Maybe they were out.

He started back down the side of the yard, but heard a loud BANG against a wooden surface. This was followed by muffled shouts from behind the house. J.D. trotted to take a look. There was no movement in the grass. It had to have come from the shed. Ignoring the hair on the back of his neck, he paced up to the old, decrepit backyard shed. It smelled. The same basement odor, but somehow worse. Like a slaughterhouse. Maybe Mr. Calvin was a hunter. He knocked.

There was no reply. The silence grew hostile. It was not just the absence of noise, more like the suppression of sound. The buzzing insects and industrial echoes from the freeway faded to the background. J.D. felt like he was being cooked in a hot oven. A sudden rush of stress and fear caused him to blink and step back. He tried to take inventory of himself. Had he forgotten something? Was there some problem he was missing? Didn’t seem to be so, and yet the dread remained, hanging off his heart like a vampire bat. Then it was gone. J.D. passed a hand over his face and exhaled loudly.

“Hello? Mr. Crowe?”

Nothing. He repeated his call, louder this time, walking around the corner to see if anyone was behind. Surprisingly, he heard the slamming of the door he had just left, and turned back to see his employer. He was wearing a different black band shirt today, and moving fast.

“Good morning,” began J.D.

Calvin Crowe took him by the upper arm and steered him away from the shed, quickly. He spoke in a guttural slur.

“Quiet! What do you want?”

J.D. recovered himself and jerked his arm back, squaring up to the client. Mr. Calvin did not look aggressive, but far too reassured for J.D.’s liking. He was not afraid of him. J.D. couldn’t say exactly why that alarmed him. He had startled Mr. Calvin, but that was no excuse to put his hands on him. Since he wanted something from him, J.D. chose to let it go for the moment.

“I know we spoke about this before,” he resumed, “but it really would make things go much faster if I could pull the truck down to the side of the house.”

“I already told you no.”

“I understand that. It’s just, I could probably fill up a load in less than a half hour if I could–”

The shed door slammed again, and J.D. turned to look. Mrs. Shannon was securing a padlock on the door. Rolls of cellulite popped out from under her short shorts. She did not seem happy. Although to be fair, J.D. had not yet seen her otherwise.

“What do you think you’re doing hollering out like that?” she demanded, rounding on J.D. “You keep quiet back here, we’ve got neighbors.”

For an instant, J.D. wondered if she knew about his visit from the strange old woman. But she dropped the matter and turned to her husband.

“What does he want now?”

“Wants to bring his truck down into the yard.”

“I already told him not to do that!”

“I know, I told him.”

“Mrs. Crowe,” intervened J.D. “I recognize your concern, but believe me, I’ve done this a million times. This is not an unusual request, I promise.”

“I didn’t ask,” she snapped. “I’m the one writing your checks, you do it the way I want. That loud engine will disturb the neighbors.”

J.D. wondered why the sound of his engine would cause more problems in the yard than it did in the street. He was thinking of a way to formulate this thought politely when Mr. Calvin broke in.

“We don’t want a lot of noise back here.”

J.D. saw his eyes dart towards Mrs. Shannon, and then toward the shed. He turned back to look at it. That pit in his stomach returned for a moment, but only a moment.

“Just hurry,” said the pink-haired woman as she labored up the hill.

J.D. tried for one more desperate attempt, “Mr. Crowe, if you’re worried about speed, the fastest way to do this would be for me to pull the truck down.”

Mr. Crowe waved his hand. “I said no. Don’t ask again.” He started up the hill, then turned back, “But like she said,” his eyes drifted to the shed again. “Hurry.” He vanished around the corner.

J.D. stood, trying to stay composed. People trying to tell him his own business. Hurry? He was a one-man operation. They knew that when they hired him. And they knew the state of that basement. How did they expect him to haul it all quickly? This is where his coworkers at the old job would have started intentionally sabotaging the operation. Walking very slowly, taking long breaks during every landfill run, speaking rudely to the clients on purpose. Worked like a charm every time.

But J.D. did not have that option. He was not getting paid by the hour. Slowing down to a comfortable pace would only strain his finances. So work hard and fast he would, thanklessly and painfully. But he certainly didn’t have to be happy about it.

He stormed back into the basement and fumed for a while. It was the inefficiency of it all that bothered him. He was being made to do things poorly by the kinds of people who kept their basement in a state like this. He rummaged through the piles of debris, trying to find some new angle on the problem, anything that would speed up the process. The smell was overpowering, all the little particles stirred up by his movements floating right into his olfactory system. People sometimes asked if there was a health hazard with this kind of work. There was.

The piles under the stairs would at least make him some visible progress, but until he found that mattock there was little sense in trying. He had made a good dent in the front room, so he crunched his way over to the bathroom and manhandled the giant oil drums out of the tub. The filthy contents spilled as he rolled them, but that didn’t matter. It wasn’t like he was going to mess the place up any more than it already was. The tub was cracked and blackened. He might end up having to remove that too, wouldn’t be the first time.

Moving into the bedroom he tried to tackle the barely visible dresser. That and the bed were the only evident pieces of furniture, and they might make for some quick wins. Perched atop a pile of garbage he slowly wiggled the mirror. Sometimes they were run through the back with metal rods, but this one was screwed in. He used a trick of the trade and bent the mirror forward over the top of the dresser. Back and forth, back and forth until the wood cracked. He’d almost had a heart attack the first time he was shown that, but this was junk removal after all. Nothing was saved.

The mirror got stuck on a few stubborn wood fibers. When he tried to force it, the glass slipped and shattered into large chunks on the floor. J.D. groaned. He gathered as many of the shards as he could, trying to guess where they might have fallen. That would be a nasty surprise if he grabbed hold of one by accident.

Slowly, slowly the bedroom began to clear out. He made some progress when he busted up the dresser with a short sledgehammer, and his mood improved. The floor was just starting to be visible near the closet. He used the big snow shovel to scrape what he could to make way for it, and opened the door. He reached inside and turned on the light.

The change was so abrupt and significant that J.D. couldn’t react. He didn’t gasp, didn’t cry out. He simply froze in the doorway with a hand on the light switch.

It was immaculate. There was no garbage in here. No clutter, no stacks, not even a mote of dust. Even the carpet seemed to retain its original color. The warm bulbs illuminated the large closet with a golden light. But perhaps that was merely the reflection off of the altar.

For there was indeed an altar inside the closet. J.D. didn’t know what else there was to call it. A wooden surface about three feet off the floor had a red runner, atop which sat a silver bowl, a golden chalice and a jeweled knife. Above it the wall was painted with bold, black brushstrokes. The image had a vaguely animal line, with what he thought looked like a leering, vulpine face. There was an odor to the room, much like the scent of the filth outside, but with an attractive sweetness, almost a perfume.

J.D. had attended a wedding at an Orthodox Church one time. This reminded him of the sanctuary with its icons and incense and wall of gold. But there was nothing remotely Christian about this. He composed himself and took a step back. The most striking thing was the sheer difference between the rest of the basement and this golden shrine. Maybe that was why he couldn’t tear himself away, his eyes roving over the mysterious black markings, examining the items atop the altar, handling the knife, peering into the chalice. There was a whisper about this little room, like he wasn’t alone. He noticed a square panel to one side. Probably access under the house.

But as interesting as it might have been, business was business. J.D. clicked off the light and closed the door behind him. He adjusted his hat as he navigated back. The sunshine and mosquitoes broke the spell and he laughed at himself. He thought he was past the point of getting freaked out by other people’s garbage. One time he had cleared out an old man’s room at a retirement home only to find an entire drawer filled with pornography. He told the story whenever he could, it was a great way to get a laugh. At least this guy didn’t have anything naked in his closet.

All the same, J.D. knew that anything unusual ought to be reported. Folks would tell you everything must go until they find out you threw away that thing. He stomped up the basement stairs, announcing his presence with his footsteps.

“Hello in the house?” he called, opening the door.

“Yeah?”

Mr. Calvin was standing at the sink with the water running.

“Quick question for you. Having a barbecue?”

J.D. saw the man was rinsing off big cuts of raw meat. He loved to grill himself, but he couldn’t identify exactly what Mr. Calvin was working with. There were long strips of beef cut and piled up. Looked enough to feed quite a few people.

His client became defensive.

“I already told you not to ask about that truck again.”

“It’s not that, sir. I just found something that looked valuable downstairs and wanted to make sure you still wanted me to get rid of it.”

“Everything goes, ain’t nothing worth nothing down there.”

“Yes sir. So that does include the bedroom closet?

The water stopped running. Mr. Crowe’s eyes widened like a spooked horse.

“What?”
“The closet, looks like maybe you’ve already cleared it out? It’s got just a few things in there, a knife—”

“Quiet!” Mr. Crowe wiped his hands off on a dirty dishrag and then on his shirt. He shuffled past J.D. to glance into the rest of the house. He caught his breath, then turned around, speaking in a whisper. “Don’t touch that stuff.”

“Okay,” said J.D. raising his hands, “that’s what I figured, just wanted to make sure. I won’t throw it out.”

“That’s not what I said.” Crowe leaned close, and J.D. could see his bloodshot eyes and the breakfast still stuck in his teeth. “Don’t touch that stuff. Don’t touch it!” He turned around and looked back again, probably worried about his wife, J.D. realized. “Is that clear?”

The room smelled like raw meat.

“Absolutely. Yes sir.”

Mr. Crowe relaxed then, his shoulders slumping forward. J.D. felt sympathy for him in that moment. He remembered they had lost their son. These conversations couldn’t be easy for the man.

“It’s very impressive,” he offered. “Must have been an artist?”

“He was,” Calvin Crowe licked his lips, “very creative.”

“What was his name?”

“Shawn.”

“Young?”

“About your age.”

“I’m sure you miss him very much.”

The man returned to the sink and turned it on, his back turned to J.D.

“We’ll see.”

Riding back in the truck from his next landfill run, J.D. pondered that response from Mr. Crowe. He couldn’t tell if the man missed his son terribly, or if he was just worried about what his wife might think. He knew sometimes grief played tricks on you. People will laugh through the funeral only to break down at work six months later. Or the wife of the deceased has to spend her time consoling a second cousin. But something didn’t seem right here. The Crowes were weird, that was obvious enough, and their son seemed to have been the weirdest of the bunch. He kicked the emergency break as he pulled up at the house. What kind of person would live in that squalor only to maintain his closet so well? Was it religious? Aesthetic? Some anime thing?

J.D. tossed his takeout bag in the truck bed – nice thing about this job, he took his own trash can with him everywhere – and made his way down to the basement again. He worked for another few hours, all the time his mind drifting back to the forbidden closet in the bedroom. Something about it had attached to his mind like a leech. It was all he could think about, no matter how many podcasts he tried to start. As the sun began to drop behind the tree line he checked his phone. 14% charge. And 5:48pm. Too late to make another run to the landfill. He’d fill up and then drop it off first thing in the morning. He gathered a few remaining items by the door then sighed and turned back inside.

Just one more look.

He flipped the light switch on and was again dazzled by the golden glow. As he looked closer he could see gilding on the edges of the wooden altar, and mirrors against the back of the walls to amplify the light. He knelt, and noticed some small compartments beneath the red runner. Inside were some candles and what looked like sticks of incense. Another was locked, but in the center was a thick, leatherbound book. J.D. drew it out.

It was one of those black leather journals you could buy anywhere, but this one had been cleverly cut and adjusted to give it an ancient feel. Shawn Crowe had some real skills apparently. A ribbon marked a place in the center. He opened it. That entire page had been aggressively darkened with a pen and left only a wicked face in the center, all eyes and horrid teeth. J.D. quickly looked away, he could almost feel it roaring at him.

The front page bore an inscription as belonging to Shawn Crowe. The next pages were packed tightly with words from edge to edge, every single line. He couldn’t make head nor tails of it due to the lack of punctuation and odd vocabulary. J.D. was no scholar, but even he was sure the author wasn’t using some of those big words right. Yet the words went on for dozens of pages without stopping. It unsettled him, even as he tried to laugh it off.

Flipping ahead he found what seemed to be instructions. Recipes or spells maybe, how-to’s for whatever rituals this strange mind concocted. But the titles were as obscure as the prose from the beginning. He could recognize about one word in five, but all were derivations of rather alarming English – “dissective,” “gestatia,” “sanguinevere,” “ashgrave.”

And there were pictures, drawings. Most of those seemed to be of the same thing. Portraits of a man; self-portraits J.D. assumed. The face was recognizable in each iteration, but one would give him fangs, or eyes slanted like a goblin, another simply shaded to accentuate the bone structure. Creative indeed.

The book was making J.D. sick. He felt guilty somehow, although not for intruding into his clients’ possessions. Guilty by proxy, as if the things in this book somehow tainted him. As though he were observing things that ought not to be seen, the ravings of one sent to his grave, who deserved to be there. But he also felt the compulsion of the book to keep turning the pages. He read and read and read and told himself to stop. The smell of the basement grew foul and heavy. His hands were sweating in the light of that altar, and the darkness behind him was closing in like the talon of some great beast.

A door opened, loud. J.D. dropped the book.

“Hey down there!”

He panicked and threw the book back into its cubby, leaping to turn off the light. “Yes sir?”

“You about done for the day?”

“Uh,” J.D. eased the door shut carefully, hollering over the click of the latch. “Yes sir, just finishing up.”

“Well, we’re headed out,” called Mr. Calvin, “just lock up when you’re done.”

J.D. stood, catching his breath, “I will!”

The upstairs door closed.

While he wanted nothing more than to bolt out of that house, J.D. made himself wait to avoid suspicion. He poked his head out of the bedroom, half expecting to see Calvin and Mrs. Crowe staring him down from the stairs. But he was alone, and the house had darkened so much, they couldn’t have seen him anyway. His stomach flip-flopped as he hoped they hadn’t observed the light shining from the bedroom.

But J.D.’s desire for fresh air soon overpowered his need to go unnoticed. He picked up the last few items and burst out the back door. He tossed the garbage into the truck and lowered the net. He grabbed the keys out of the cab. As he locked the basement door, he exhaled and shook his head.

What was wrong with him today? He wasn’t a child to get freaked out by some emo kid’s diary. And yet, he was disturbed by the montage of images he had seen. That was just it, he supposed. It was strange stuff, and he didn’t like it. Nothing more to it than that. He’d just stay out of that room from now on, that’s what the Crowes wanted anyway.

As he turned to go, he caught sight of the shed in the backyard. The sun was gone behind the trees and the world was fading from gray to black. The streetlights were casting deep shadows from the shed onto the grass. The windows were dark. J.D. took another deep breath and trotted off, scrolling desperately through his phone for a happy tune to play in the car.