CRAWLSPACE - Chapter 3

J.D. was in big trouble. There was no getting out of this one, no sir. Even if he did, it would be impossible to hide the evidence. He sat in the cab of his truck with a leg on the dashboard, hand resting on a fist, eyes down. He scrolled through his phone, looking for a distraction even though he knew it wouldn’t do him any good.

The morning of the second week had started out like all the others on this job: hot and sticky and smelling like old garbage. The only difference was that Mr. Calvin and Mrs. Shannon were out for the day, which suited J.D. just fine. He didn’t want to get to know these people any better than he already did. They creeped him out, and the missus especially had a serious attitude problem. The memory of the dead man’s diary was still fresh in his mind, and that did not help matters either.

He had managed to fill up his truck only once so far today, grumbling all the way. The visual progress of clearing the major piles had stalled as he filled up one wheelbarrow after another with small smithereens of trash. He still hadn’t found his mattock.

And there was a definite stench coming from the shed out back. The murderous sun must have turned whatever was kept in there, because it reeked like rotten meat.  For once, it actually smelled worse when J.D. went outside the basement. It was a relief to leave and dump the truck. He had to be the only man on earth who looked forward to the landfill to avoid bad smells. He stopped for coffee on the way back, anything to prolong the respite. From the drive-thru he caught a glimpse of a dark thunderhead. Any time the temperature stayed this high too many days in a row, a storm rolled in. He hadn’t paid it any mind then. He should have.

He returned, parking on the street as usual. He tramped down the hill to the left of the house, grass almost up to his knees in places. It was burnt to an unhealthy yellow in others, just the kind of setup that made him watch out for snakes. On his way down he caught another sickening whiff of the rotten odor from the shed. He was almost grateful to duck into the gloomy basement. He filled up his wheelbarrow with handfuls of things, mostly paper today. Paper was easy in small doses, but stack enough of it together and he might as well be hauling logs. It crumbled into dust like old papier-mâché when he handled it. The dust aggravated him, since he had stopped bothering with a mask.

Another trip outside, another deep inhale of fetid air. His barrow wobbled on the hill and spilled trash all over the yard. He might have kept his temper if the Crowes were home, but J.D. let out a shout, kicking the wheelbarrow and storming off. Nowhere to go really, but he had to step away. He was sick of this job and this house, angry at himself for accepting the assignment and angrier still for being stuck in this kind of work after all these years.

He had breezed through high school and blown off college. He drifted aimlessly, hauling junk just enough to have a little spending money. But that had soured hard and fast. One day he woke up and his twenties were gone. There were a few dangerous moments when the guilt had almost overwhelmed him. Instead, he had determined not to live in the past, but work hard enough to build something he could be proud of. He was working hard. But pride still seemed a long way off. The blazing summer sun had a way of drawing those old, buried feelings out of him.

He sighed and loaded up the paper from his knees. He was obliged to take off his gloves to gather the individual fragments. Dumping it in the back of the truck made no impact on its fullness.

It was just too slow doing it this way. He was getting the trucks out, each one money in his pocket, but it wasn’t enough. If they would only let him drive the stupid truck onto the yard. Why were they being so stubborn about that? It wasn’t like they’d even notice he’d ever been there. At that thought, he straightened up. They would never even notice. He looked back at the driveway – no cars today. That flat spot down by the basement door looked mighty promising. If he was caught they’d fire him for sure. He laughed to himself and swung up into the driver’s seat.

He took his time backing down the hill, but he was a pro. The incline was not too steep, and he was able to position the truck bed right next to the door. It was perfect. He jumped out and got right to work. He’d have to be fast.

Luckily, it was fast. His load time shrank to nothing. The walk up and down the hill had been the hardest and slowest part of this agonizing process. Now he could throw it all in right from the door. He didn’t waste any time either, even though a part of him would have liked the Crowes to return, to see how their worries had been all for nothing.

He was very close to finishing the bedroom. The carpet was exposed now, frayed and stained and nasty. He grabbed the snow shovel and started pushing everything into the main space. After this he wouldn’t even have to go in that room anymore. Little wins. All the while there was that closet behind him. J.D. tried not to think about it, but he couldn’t help himself. It was strange to have something like that sitting just there, out of sight. He found himself leaning on the shovel, staring at the door. The stink of the basement was strong today, which only fed his musings. This might be his last chance to take another look into that closet. Not that he wanted to. Or did he? He tried to fight the temptation, but he could feel himself giving in. Just pick up the shovel and finish the load. Not yet.

Maybe it was his busy thoughts, maybe the basement deadened sound, and maybe the storm just rolled in that fast. Whatever the reason, J.D. did not notice the darkening sky outside and did not see the rain crashing down onto the metal box of his truck, until it was announced by a stupendous clap of thunder.

“No!” cried J.D. He rushed outside.

Almost immediately he was soaked. It was a Southern summer storm, and he was right in the middle of it. He scrambled to the door and grabbed his keys, then shouted in frustration and jumped out again. He ran to the back and closed it up, locking the security bar in place. In hindsight, this was a mistake. Water was already streaming down the hill.

Finally back in the cab, his hair was dripping down into his eyes. He started the engine and turned on the wipers. They slapped back and forth, doing little to dispel the fat drops and racing rivulets. J.D. hit the accelerator. Too hard. He felt the heavy truck fishtail under him, then move forward. He breathed a sigh of relief. But as he hit the hill to ascend out of the backyard, his wheels kept spinning, but the truck stopped moving. He prayed under his breath, but the harder he hit the gas, the slower he went. He tried one more time, and all he heard was the whirling tires digging four holes into the slick wet grass. Stuck.

There were four possible solutions to this problem. First, he could get out and unload the truck, reducing the weight. But he hadn’t even loaded that much yet, and even if he did, the pieces were so small it wouldn’t be worth the trouble. Second, he could try to give the tires some traction by putting cardboard or something under the wheels. But he knew that never worked. He tried anyway, but it didn’t work. Just made a bigger mess of the muddy tracks he was laying. Third, he could wait for the sun to come out and try again on dry ground. But the thought of the Crowes finding him like this was just too much to consider.

His fourth option was to call a winch truck to haul him out. That would cost money, and might take even longer than the sun. But he had no other choice. He checked the weather app on his phone. No other choice.

J.D. was in big trouble. He called the wrecker and tried to haggle over price, but they had him over a barrel. All he could do was mope in the front seat. What a stupid decision. Reckless lack of care of being fired off the job that was his only income at the moment. Now he would lose the job plus whatever this winch would cost. It was this kind of short-term thinking that had kept him working for the corporation for so long. This was supposed to be his big chance, his side hustle become his main hustle. But he was still J.D., and until that changed, the rest of it wasn’t likely to either. He turned off the battery in the truck, he didn’t want to drain it. The windows fogged up and his phone stopped charging.

The rain fell in oscillating sheets like an aggressive sprinkler. Lightning flashed bright as day, then the thunder rumbled loud and long. He loved storms like this, usually. His back porch was angled just right so that he could watch the rain without getting wet, the tin roof above him hammering away. It was hard to have that same kind of appreciation for the rain now. The darkness was broken by another big, bright, silent flash of lightning. This one was going to be good.

KRACKA-KRACK! The thunder didn’t boom like a distant drum, it shattered right over his head like a felled tree. But that wasn’t what made J.D. jump in his seat. There had been another sound in that thunder that had nothing to do with the weather. A scream! Or a howl? He could hardly place it. He immediately thought of the bobcat in the back woods, but this shriek had sounded almost – human. He craned his neck to see out the window. It had come from down by the shed.

Opening the door reminded him just how hard it was raining. He splashed down onto the grass. He hadn’t brought any rain gear; he was still wearing his monogrammed golf polo and his Dickey’s work pants and steel-toed boots. He surveyed the yard. It looked like an old television broadcast halfway between channels, uncertain and hazy. The rain and shadows concealed almost everything.

“Hello?”

There was no answer. He wished there had been. Now he had no choice but to investigate the one place he didn’t want to go. He stalked down to the shed and called out again. The rain just fell. The sound of water slapping on wood put J.D. in the mind of an old Western. Not very comforting. Nothing good ever happens when it rains in a cowboy movie.

He wasn’t a cowboy, but he was as tense as high noon. What was it about this place? It wasn’t the smell, that had been washed out by the rain. Had he imagined that sound? He made himself ascend the few stairs, confused by his own nervousness, and yet helpless to dispel it. He reached for the knob with dripping fingers – then changed his mind. He clomped down the steps and walked away quickly. His relief was immediate. Had to have been that bobcat. Or his imagination. As he left, though, something compelled him to turn around once or twice, just to make sure he was alone.

He returned to the truck, well and truly soaked now. He checked his phone. No word on the winch yet. J.D. fought with himself for a moment then turned the engine over, cranking up the A/C. He wouldn’t leave it on long, this day had been expensive enough. But he needed to dry out and calm down after the scare he’d had. As much as he tried to chalk it up to being jumpy, he was sure he had heard something from out of that shed. He closed his eyes.

“None of your business, J.D. Just finish the job.”

He opened his eyes.

Someone was standing in front of his truck.

Again he started, but caught his breath quickly. It was the old lady from his first day on the job. She was standing on the hill ahead of him with a clear plastic bonnet covering her head. One hand was holding it tight, the other waving at him.

He cut the engine and opened the door again. The rain had not let up one bit. He squinted his eyes as he looked up at her and lifted a hand.

“It’s alright. Just a little stuck, the wrecker’s on his way.”

No response. She didn’t even blink.

“Why don’t you go back inside, ma’am? It’s not about to let up.”

She beckoned him with an arthritic hand. He sighed and squelched over in the rain. He began to speak, but she cut him off.

“Please listen, no time!”

J.D. put his hands on his hips and tongue in his cheek.

“Ma’am?”

“Family,” she indicated the house, “do very bad things. You got to go away.”

“Ma’am, we’ve been over this. I’m sorry you don’t get on with your neighbors, but I’m going to have to ask you to please let me do my job.”

She shook her head sharply from side to side.

“Not bad neighbor. Bad people. Bad, wicked people.”

“Alright, now that’s enough! We’re both getting wet, I’m not going to listen to this. Mr. and Mrs. Crowe are in grief, they just lost their son.”

“Son!”

At that word, the old woman clutched her bonnet with both hands and began to shake. She moaned in whatever her native language might have been and looked right at J.D.

“The boy he is – not good. Not good.” She leaned in. “He is on the Devil’s side!”

J.D. had been prepared to tip his hat and walk away from this crazy lady, but her eyes caught his attention. They were wide and earnest. She was not stupid or senile. Upset, yes, but she seemed more worried than frantic. Worried for him. And knowing what he knew about what had gone on in that house, he was inclined to listen to her now.

“The Devil’s side?”

“Yes,” she exhaled. “Very wicked boy. He scare everybody. Mother and father too. They help him. You must go now” she put a hand on his arm. “Please!”

“I understand, ma’am. But it’s not like that now, okay? It’s all over now, the boy’s passed away.”

The old woman shuddered once more.

“No, no, no.”

J.D.’s heart fluttered. He spoke slowly, “Shawn Crowe is dead.”

The woman composed herself. She met J.D.’s eyes. She looked so old in the rain, full of ancient wisdom. Or madness.

“No,” she said, her voice but a whisper in the storm, “Not dead.”

He managed to sputter, “Where is he then?”

“Gone.”

“Gone?”

“Gone only. Not dead. Gone!”

She shuffled her feet and turned to go, muttering to herself. The rain swept her words away.

J.D. stood in the downpour. He was approaching the upper limit of what his waterproof work boots could handle, his socks starting to dampen. The crone’s warning echoed in his ears, even though he knew he should dismiss it. Maybe if he hadn’t met the residents of the house. Maybe if he had not been inside, or seen the golden altar. Maybe if he hadn’t heard the sounds coming from the shed out back – or had he? He didn’t know what to think. The Devil’s side? Just what had he gotten himself into?

J.D. did not like feeling helpless. He had spent enough of his life ignoring problems. And this job was starting to feel like that. The creeping suspicion that you’re ignoring something you shouldn’t. He checked his phone. No word from the winch guy. He called him. No answer. That did it. J.D. turned on his heel and walk-slipped down to the basement door.

Over the threshold and through the mountains of junk, into the bedroom cave and past the open door, J.D. returned to the altar in the closet. He snapped on the golden light and dropped to his knees. Then he shifted to his side so that he didn’t appear to be genuflecting. The black image on the wall leered down at him. He grabbed the journal and opened it again.

He flipped through the pages. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but he needed to know. If this family was just weird, he could live with that. But obviously they were into some pretty dark stuff. Or Shawn had been, at least. Why should that matter to him? He couldn’t quite say. But he was driven like a hunted critter. It was too late now.

He turned pages quickly, then slowed down. He tried to read snippets of the cramped writing, but it was simply impenetrable. The author clearly thought himself a great intellect, but J.D. just found it unbearably pretentious. The malice of the book did not unsettle him like last time. That too had an air of affectation. Like something a poser would write. He flipped to a different section.

Drawings, spells, rants, poetry, none of this was helping. He skipped to the last page of the book. Blank. Alright, so there was an end to all this. He paged left until he found more text. It was continued from the previous page, only covering a line or two of the paper.

It ended, “I can only hope they’re up to the task.”

Well that was more straightforward than anything he’d seen so far. He tried to read beforehand to get a sense of the context. As far as he could make out, it seemed to be a rant against his parents. He saw the phrase, “lilliputian progenitrix” once and, “the anti-father which is mine.” Not a happy family. Surprise, surprise. More gibberish, and then, “Until we become giants – monsters and ghouls – all of us.” He turned the page back.

There was a drawing. Finely detailed and shaded. This man was a real artist, whatever else he was. The image, though, was grotesque. It might have been human, but the limbs were long, out of proportion. All elbows and knees. The creature was crouching with something in its claws. The back was ridged and covered in short fur. The face elongated into a hideous snarl, slaver dripping from its fangs, nose like a vampire bat.

That unsettled feeling found J.D. again. He had seen his share of horror movies, but this was different. This was real, and he was holding it in his hands. He couldn’t tear his eyes away. Something about that creature arrested his gaze. It reminded him of the basement itself. As if it was the spiritual denizen of a place like this. It was horrid and vile and familiar and he hated it. The reek of the room was overwhelming. His nausea increased the longer he looked.

“He is on the Devil’s side.”

There was writing beneath the drawing: “The life is in the blood. Those who desire greater life must imbibe it like wine. Mine? No, not mine. But perhaps it shall be so. Will they? They must. Or would they rather end my existence than aid in my ascension?”

J.D. sat up. He could see the door to the crawlspace behind the altar. The old woman said that Shawn was gone but not dead. The last entry in his journal sounded like a suicide note, but the tone did not strike him as desperate. Imbibing blood like wine? Clearly the man had been planning something awful, and probably violent by the sound of it. That was not the writing of a stable person. Of course, his parents weren’t exactly stable either. No, that wasn’t fair. They were rude and abrasive, but not violent. And yet apparently Shawn had been counting on their cooperation with something. Then Mr. Calvin had been insistent that he stay away from this room.

J.D. felt goosebumps spread up his arms to the base of his neck. The instructions he’d been given rang in his ears again. Don’t make noise near the shed. Clean out the house, money is no object, just hurry. Stay away from the altar downstairs. The cuts of meat on the counter. The old woman tried to warn him.

Was Shawn Crowe really dead?

Shrill tones sounded in the closet and J.D. blinked out of his reverie. The book was still open to the ghastly drawing. The familiar sounds of his ringtone chased away his lurid thoughts. He hurriedly checked the caller I.D. – and caught his breath.

“Hello?” He tucked the phone between his shoulder and cheek while he picked up the book.

“J.D.?”

“Yes!” He tucked the book back in its place, trying to make it look like he hadn’t touched it. “Yes sir, this is me.”

“Hey, I’m outside the house. You want me to come hook you up?”

J.D. turned off the light and closed the door.

“Absolutely, let me come right out. You’re a life saver, you know that?”

A few minutes later he was watching him haul his truck out, clamps firmly attached to the road. J.D. looked closely at the grass, trying to keep his heart from sinking. The tracks were obvious. But it could have been worse. And the Crowes still weren’t home. They might never notice the truck had been in the yard. The rain was still falling, lighter than before. Hopefully that would wash out all the evidence. But realistically J.D. knew it would be a miracle if he managed to get away with this.

He couldn’t help but turn around to gaze at the abandoned shed. Abandoned? Outside beneath the summer sky his dark speculations seemed silly. He wasn’t thinking straight after being in that basement so long, that was all. They were weird people. God made all kinds. But another thought nagged from within his heart. If he was right, then he had stumbled upon something very serious. And if he was right, he was in grave danger if anyone found out what he’d been up to. Imbibe the blood like wine. He shuddered in the cold rain as he eyed that shed. It was such a nondescript building, barely big enough to hold a riding mower. But what if the crazy neighbor wasn’t so crazy after all?

Gone. But not dead?