CRAWLSPACE - Chapter 5 (LAST Chapter!)

There had to be one. There just had to be. It was a basement full of junk, there had to be at least one phone charger down there.

J.D. had given up banging on the door and trying to force it open. There were no windows, and no other openings that he could see. He had even dared to look back into the horrific crawlspace to see if there was another way out. There was not. He needed to think. He needed to let someone know he was here. Maybe he could alert the woman from up the street. But for that he needed to charge his phone. Which is why he was rummaging through the remaining piles of trash, looking for a charging cable.

It’s amazing how many predicaments are precipitated by the tiniest decisions. J.D. had neglected to charge his phone the night before, falling asleep with it in his hand. He had noticed it was low when he woke up, but had been too preoccupied to plug it in as he drove. It would have been so easy, the simplest motion. He could almost remember himself doing it. He half expected to look down again and see his phone lit up, ready to go. Instead it was a black screen in a case branded with his company logo. He put it back in his pocket.

He could have sworn he had seen the twisted, octopus shape of a charger somewhere in the morass. Of course, he hadn’t been looking for one then, and had tossed it in with the rest. Or maybe he had already taken it to the truck. It was impossible to know, but he had no choice.

In a moment of thrill, he grabbed hold of a thin black wire, but pulled out a micro-USB cable. He chucked it across the room. That brought up another problem. He didn’t just need a charger, he needed the most current version. They were always changing the charger every time they released a new phone. It drove him nuts. And now it might cost him his life. He could only hope that Shawn Crowe had been enough of a pack rat in the last year or so to gather the latest version.

Shawn Crowe. J.D. shuddered and started in on a fresh mound of trash. Shawn Crowe was still in that basement. He thought of the rotting corpse that he could only assume belonged to him. The stench of the body still filled the lower level, although J.D. was more than a little distracted at the moment.

They had killed their own son! Strange as they were, he would never have guessed the Crowes were murderers. Even Mrs. Shannon, as angry as she was, seemed a far cry from that kind of criminal. And Mr. Calvin was too browbeaten to try anything like that. Yet there was the evidence, hiding in the crawlspace. What were they going to do to him? J.D. tried not to think about that and kept rooting through the garbage for a charger.

It was mostly paper: magazines, newspapers, paperbacks without covers. Food wrappers and napkins and unopened mail and balled-up loose leaf. There were so many articles of clothing, rigid after years of compression under the pile. Every now and then he’d find something interesting, like an old drive-thru toy, or an classic video game. If J.D. had the time or inclination, he could have salvaged quite the payday of antiques and collectibles. But now was not the time.

He supposed he wouldn’t be getting paid, either. The best he could hope for now was escape. He kept checking the doors, in case they had been unlocked as secretly as they had been locked. Maybe Mr. Calvin would change his mind and open the door. He wouldn’t tell a soul if they would just let him out of there. Or maybe they’d keep him. Tie him up and put him in that shed until they decided what to do with him.

In the back of his mind, J.D. pondered the shed. If Shawn was dead, who had been out there, banging on the wood, hollering out like that? Mr. Calvin said they were keeping Shawn’s body in it. If that was true, then who was in the crawlspace? Were there two bodies? That didn’t make sense. As if any of the rest of this did. Had they moved it? But if they had, why would Mr. Calvin lie? J.D. smacked himself in the head again for his loss of temper that morning. He had drawn their attention, and now he was going to pay for it. Maybe with his life.

He was beneath the staircase, pulling items into the light one at a time, the only illumination coming from the single bulb on the stairs. He revealed a single Converse low-top, a Frisbee, and a little purple Easter basket. As he moved to toss it behind him, he stopped. Inside the basket, hanging off the side, was a Gordian knot of black and white cables. He held them up and they clacked together. They were chargers, at least some of them. He stood up quickly and dashed to an outlet on the wall.

“Please,” he prayed. “Please be there.”

He inspected each cable’s ending. There had to be fifteen cords here. He tried to move deliberately, holding the ones he’d already checked in a fist. Two were the same brand, but a different ending. Only a few remained. He suppressed the rising panic. He grabbed another, checked its ending, and caught his breath.

As fast as he could, he wrangled the impossible tangle into submission. He finally discarded the rejects and gripped the proper charger. It plugged into his phone with a quiescent click, and he inserted the dual prongs into the wall. He held the phone tenderly in his hand, bending over it like a dying loved one.

Another thought struck him. What if the wall socket didn’t work? The place was derelict enough that the wiring could have gone bad, or some pest gotten at it. An errant bug could cause as much trouble as a lightning bolt. Or maybe the Crowes had cut the power, shut the fuse off. No, the stair light was still on. But then again, that could be on a different circuit. There was no way to know. He could only wait.

He stared at the black screen, begging it to light up. He tried not to think about the dead body in the crawlspace, or the murderers upstairs, or the ominous shed out back. As he did, a single thought passed through his mind. The Crowes were afraid of their son. He was not sure why that realization forced its way forward, but it did. It was an obvious point. Both Mr. Calvin and Mrs. Shannon had trembled when they discussed him, and the old woman was terrified to even speak of him. “Not dead. Gone.” Of course, J.D. had read some of Shawn’s journal, and even he was freaked out by that guy. The strange, cultic closet, the dismissive references to his parents, the hellish drawings, his unsettling references to future plans. Who wouldn’t be afraid of a creep like that? He seemed capable of anything. Even – J.D. thought of the decomposing carnage in the other room. Honestly, it was more like something Shawn would have done. “Not dead. Gone.”

A soft white glow illuminated J.D.’s face as he brooded. He audibly gasped and collapsed back onto his seat. The phone was charging. It was coming back on. Another minute and he’d –

The cheerful, xylophone jingle sounded obscene, entirely inappropriate for his current condition. But the phone was ringing. J.D.’s phone was ringing! And the caller I.D. read the last name he wanted to read: “CALVIN CROWE.” He shouldn’t answer, right?

He pressed the green button. “Hello?”

“Why couldn’t you just do your job? I told you to leave it alone. I told you. Now what am I supposed to do?”

J.D. was stunned. He babbled, “I – I don’t...look man, you’ve got let me out of here. Unlock the door.”

“I can’t do that.”

“What? You–” his anger was rising now. “You can’t keep me down here! Open the door and let me out.”

“If I do that, you’ll just call the police again. Then everything is lost.”

“I’ll call the police right now if you don’t open the door.”

“Do you really think I haven’t considered that?”

“I don’t care what you consider!” He wanted to pace, to bang on the door, but he was tied to the wall by the short cord. “Just let me out. Please!”

“After what you’ve seen, how can I let you out?”

“What? You’re talking about the crawlspace?”

“That’s right.”

“What do you want me to do? Swear I’ll never tell anybody? Fine, I won’t tell. He’s already dead, I don’t care. I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

“I don’t think you will.”

Dear God, this man was absolutely psycho. J.D. took a breath. He’d have to try to convince him. “Look, it’s none of my business, okay? What y’all do in your own house is your affair. I lost my temper earlier, that’s all.”

“And what if you lose your temper again?”

“So what if I do?” J.D. shouted into the microphone. “What do you want me to say, I’m sorry I saw your dead son?”

“Son?”

“I don’t know what you think you’re going to do, but I’m ready for you, you understand me? You might want to start worrying about me. Ever consider that?”

“That’s not Shawn’s body.”

Despite his panicked fury, J.D. stopped talking. He felt the phone slip in his hand. It was so hot.

“What did you say?”

“I would think you know us better by now than to think we would ever harm our own son.”

“Then,” J.D. spoke carefully, “who was that?”

“No one important. They never are.”

“Never? Have there been...others?”

“Shawn was a visionary, Mr. Cartwright. You’ve seen his inner sanctum, and I assume you’ve read his diary. He knew things, saw things that others could not.”

As his wild eyes spun around the room in desperation, J.D. spied something in the corner. Just barely protruding from beneath one of the piles. His attention drifted toward it as Calvin Crowe rambled on.

“I’ve never known anyone more creative, more inherently gifted than Shawn. Other people use those words for their children, but he was the real article. From the youngest age: music, art, writing, we encouraged him to try everything.”

J.D. turned the phone on speaker and stood up, trying to stay as quiet as possible, keep him talking.

“That’s why we didn’t send him away to school to turn into some corporate drone. He needed an environment with freedom, no restrictions. And as he grew, his gift of seeing beyond became apparent.”

J.D. gently sifted through the mound of trash, digging out what he had seen. His heart began to race; from anticipation, but also the insane story being told him through the charging phone.

“He possessed insight that other men could only pretend at, gained audience with entities others treat with scoffing. Shawn found the truth. The real truth. And he began his journey to tame it, to control it. If anyone could do it, it was him.”

J.D. took hold of the object and stood tall. He felt hope rise in his chest.

“Yes, his material life began to deteriorate. His health failed. But what was that weighed against the glory of his ambition? The height of his growing power? Who were we to stand in the way of perhaps the only true prophet mankind has ever known? Whatever he desired, it was our privilege to provide.”

J.D. dropped his hands and turned to look at the phone. Calvin Crowe was still blathering on, oblivious to his silence. Like he needed to say it; a confession, or a final argument before the judge. J.D. couldn’t help but listen.

“The petty laws of men were meant to restrict and inhibit the endeavors of the masterful. Murder, we call it. But what is the life of an old woman against the necessities of the universe? At least now her life will mean something, sacrificed for the sublime.”

Old woman? No!

“What have you done?” J.D. interrupted, his voice a tremor. “Why her?”

“She was prying, just like you. Trying to peek behind the veil, as it were. Inevitable, really. She and Shannon never really got on. And she’d always been jealous of Shawn.”

That body belonged to the old woman? The kindly Asian lady whom, he now knew, had risked so much to try to warn him? J.D. felt his fingertips tingle with the surge of fear and anger, adrenaline intoxicating him with purpose.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” J.D. snarled. “Take back everything I said before. I’m going to get out of here, and then you’re going to pay for what you did.”

“You’re never getting out.”

“Oh really?” J.D. hefted the heavy tool in his hands. “Cause you’ve really pissed me off. And I just found my mattock.”

Calvin Crowe didn’t sound threatened. “You still don’t understand. There are things in motion here that you can’t possibly begin to comprehend.”

“I comprehend plenty,” said J.D. as he stomped up the stairs, mattock in hand. “You’re a terrible father, and I’m going to stop you.”

“You’re going to burn.”

At that exact moment, with J.D. halfway up the creaky wooden stairs, he smelled smoke. It was like a campfire when it first flares up, hot and acrid as it burns off the outer layers of grime. He looked up and saw a thin line of smoke coming from under the door. J.D. cried out and ran up to the top. He coughed and put his hand to the door.

“You crazy old man, you set your own house on fire?”

“It had to be done. I really am sorry. There should have been no need for these superfluous deaths.”

J.D. coughed again as he stumbled back down the stairs. He picked up the phone as the man continued to speak.

“But what becomes necessary is necessary. Shawn would have understood. We all burn in the end.”

J.D. fired one last epithet at his captor and hung up the phone. He immediately called the emergency line again. He did not bother with his whole story, he simply called in the fire, explaining he was trapped in the basement. There was no miscommunication this time, and they assured him a team would arrive within twenty minutes. Twenty minutes. Would that be enough?

The room was filling with smoke. And maybe he was crazy, but he thought he could feel the heat starting to radiate from the ceiling. The air was dry, and he was surrounded by a hoard of very flammable materials. He couldn’t wait. He needed to get out. It could be that all he would find was Calvin Crowe aiming a shotgun at his head, but he had no choice. He pocketed his phone and grabbed his mattock.

The outer door was green once, maybe. It was a heavy, outside door. J.D. swung back with the mattock and brought the pick end crashing against it.

CLUNK.

The point bounced off of the surface and rattled J.D.’s hands. He had taken off his gloves, and he felt the sting. There was no real damage to the door. He probably just imagined he heard the crackling of the flames, but he picked it up and swung it again. And again and again and again.

Finally, the point bit into the door. Progress, but J.D. paused. It wasn’t enough. He needed to go faster. This time he really did hear a loud POP from upstairs as the flames devoured the house. The smoke was all along the ceiling now. He coughed in his throat.

J.D. leaned the mattock against the stairs. No question, it was hotter now. He started moving the piles of junk away from the door. He needed to get a better angle to swing his mattock. But it was slow going, fighting the great mounds of trash. It had taken him days to make what progress he had, but now he had no choice. It was speed or death. There was no technique to his approach, no style. He bare-fisted the garbage, shoveling it with his own two hands. He didn’t need a lot of room, just enough to swing a mattock. He was sweating. It was so hot.

That would have to do it. Tripping and falling, he sloughed through the mess to pick up his tool again. He looked up the stairwell. The door was hidden through a thick fog of smoke, but a glaring light behind it made it seem like the ascent into Hell. J.D. tore himself away and launched into his attack.

He swung with the flat bit now, trying to wedge it between the frame. The doorframe was more fragile than the door itself, and he began chipping away at the sides. His arms grew tired as he slammed into the door, but there was no time for that. He had to get out. He had to get out! They had killed that poor woman – he never even learned her name – and they were going to kill him.

BOOM! BANG! BOOM! SLAM! The mattock punctuated his determination. He could just see daylight through the hole now. He tried another angle, to force the door open like using a crowbar. That worked a little, but the deadbolt still held. He would need to bust it out. He lifted the mattock again.

A whoosh and a crash brought an overpowering heat into the room. J.D. turned to see a section of the roof glowing like hot coals. A piece had fallen in, and now he could see the flames reaching down into the basement like a hungry predator. Embers were dropping onto the befouled floor. A few wisps of smoke began flowing upward.

J.D. turned and crashed into the doorframe once again. He was making progress, he was. But so slow! The tool was not made for this. How could he have known? He felt the heat on his back like being too close to the fireplace. This whole house was a fireplace now. He was being burned alive.

That thought nearly drove him to madness in his renewed assault. He refused to look behind him, he knew it would only panic him more. Back and forth, his arms straining, he tore into that door. Now he could see a hole where the knob used to be, but that brass bolt was unmoved. He smashed all around where it secured. He could feel it starting to give way. But his back was starting to blister amid the crackle of so many years of junk going up in flames. Arms heavy, he threw one final blow at the frame. He felt it give, just so slightly. The pick was through the wall, and above the deadbolt.

He bent the mattock up and pulled with all his might, rocking the door back and forth against the damaged casing. It moved, but not enough. He pulled the mattock out. Another loud crash came from behind and he turned to look, then immediately recoiled from the fervent heat that threatened to singe off his eyebrows. There was no more time. No chance. He was done for.

J.D. threw himself bodily into the door. It shook. He backed up and charged into it again. It buckled. He backed up a third time, and terrible searing pain bloomed across his back and neck. He charged into the door one more time and it collapsed open before him. He fell out onto the uncut grass.

His shoulders were screaming in pain; he rolled onto the lawn to extinguish the flames. He saw crispy black strips of his shirt fall away. He hoped they were from his shirt, anyway. When the pain subsided to a stretchy, blistered agony, he lay on his stomach, gasping for air. He coughed and coughed, breathing in blades of grass and spitting them out. He sat up, his shoulders protesting, but he had to. He picked up the mattock and hefted it like a weapon. He turned around, looking anywhere for Mr. Calvin or Mrs. Shannon. No one was there. He stumbled away from the burning house and looked back.

It was remarkable how tall the flames had grown. The simple suburban house looked like a mighty castle or spired cathedral in the cavorting flames. The heat blasted his face, but he could not look away. There went the rest of his paycheck. But he cared little for that now. He let the mattock fall to his side.

He felt as though he ought to feel something. Furious anger at the attempt on his life. Profound grief for the dear woman who had tried to help him. Irrepressible joy at his unlikely escape. But there was none of that. In fact, he found himself thinking very practically. What he was supposed to tell the police, or a lawyer, or however this ended up going down. Had he committed any crime? Was he somehow complicit in this? He hoped not.

He began to shiver, despite the heat. He had been in the domain of actual evil. He had seen it, read its diary and barely gotten away with his life. What was he supposed to do with that? Were these people simply crazy, or was there more to it? Calvin Crowe was a liar, but it sounded like he truly believed what he said. What was it Shawn had discovered? He supposed he would never know. In the distance came the sound of sirens. The fire department. J.D. began to walk toward the street.

This time, the sound was unmistakable. A terrifying, animalistic, and yet somehow human howl came shrieking out of the shed. J.D. nearly jumped out of his skin and turned to look. The shed was as plain and unremarkable as ever. Yet once again that scream came rattling out of the windows. And this time, J.D. distinctly saw the structure rock to one side.

Shawn’s body was in the shed, not the crawlspace, Mr. Calvin had said. But they had been cutting strips of meat. For food? Shawn was not dead – but gone? Was it possible?

J.D. was mortally terrified, but there was something in him that knew what he was about to do. His right foot betrayed him and then his left. Keeping a firm grip on the mattock, he approached the shed. Another unearthly yowl and another muffled crash. He had to know. Before those sirens arrived, he had to know. The door was shut. But not locked. Raising his weapon, J.D. pushed it open and looked inside.

The first thing he saw was Calvin Crowe, dead on the floor. There was no mistaking his long, stiff gray hair. His body was twisted and broken into unnatural contortions, as if he had been tossed aside. His eyes were open and bewildered, staring at the ceiling. J.D. turned.

Whatever it was, it was hunched over a pile of bones and blood, like what he had seen in the crawlspace. Viscera and gore were splattered all around the otherwise bare interior of the dark shed. The shadows concealed more than they revealed, but J.D. knew what he saw. He had seen it before.

From the pages of the black book beneath the altar, he saw the creature. The gray fur stained with red, the long legs and arms, bent as the creature fed. He could hear it chewing and crunching and swallowing and gagging. The monstrosity must have been eight feet tall if it stood erect, but the long talons and claws resembled that of a lupine predator more than a man. It lifted its head and clacked its jaws as it swallowed a chunk of flesh with long pink hair still attached.

J.D. felt pressure at the very front of his forehead grow unbearable, as if the knowledge of what he was seeing was going to burst out of his skull. He became aware of his own mind as he felt it start to slip away. The devourer was before him, this thing that should not be. And yet was. A nightmare that never came true. What then, was this truth? He heard the mattock slide out of his hand and clatter on the floor.

The creature turned, still grasping the carcass in front of him. Its slavering mouth was open as it panted its deep, putrid breaths. Its eyes found his, and they were a man’s eyes. Too many sharp teeth were revealed as it peeled back its lips in what could only be called a knowing smile.

THE END