The cellar used to have windows built into the foundation of the house. The panes were so thin and brittle that Uncle Walt decided to do away with them. He ended up just boarding up the holes. With apologies to his craftsmanship, I swing the blunt end of his steel bar at the nearest window hole and break through the planks. With a few good hits, more sunlight is streaming into cellar. I do the other window on that side. It’s not worth doing the ones on the other side of the house—the sun won’t hit those until this afternoon.
I pick up my two stakes and glance at the flashlight to make sure it’s still on and working.
This is it.
It occurs to me that I don’t have to go through with this.
I got one last night when the truck exploded and I mushed up four of them in the house. Maybe that’s fair? Mr. Engel and one truck for five of them? Of course, I would still be stuck with not having a place to stay and selling my uncle’s place without finishing the job of cleaning it.
All the pros and cons still exist, but the question remains: have I satisfied my need for revenge?
I look down at my wrist where the punctures have pretty much closed. It’s not a terrible injury. I don’t need retribution for it or anything. But it irks me that these things exist at all. That alone is enough reason for me to try to finish this job. People are not supposed to be prey. This is not only about defending my uncle’s property. This is about eradicating a threat to our primacy as a species.
I stand tall with this thought and I start down through the bulkhead doors.
Shadows
(This is the hardest thing I've ever done.)
This is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
I’ve buried my mom, my wife, our baby, and my uncle. I’ve endured a lot of grief. That trauma was thrust upon me. I didn’t have to walk down the stairs into that pain with open eyes, like I’m doing now.
Sunlight cuts through the cellar in places. By bashing out the boarded up windows and placing the mirrors, I’ve created a few shafts of light. I’m not sure it was the best idea. The bright light makes the shadows even deeper. Every dark spot seems to crawl with shifting shapes. I’m almost certain it’s just an artifact of the contrast.
Almost certain.
In comparison to the sunlight, my flashlight beam is barely visible.
I start at the nearest corner and begin working my way around the cellar, poking my stakes into the shadows.
I find one almost immediately.
With my first stab, the eyes open and clawed fingers reach towards me. They halt when they get to the shaft of sunlight. With all the dazzling light around, the eyes fail to entrance me. I can study the orange irises. They’re like two flames. Their gaze tries to entrance me closer, so I’ll be out of the light. I’m finding it easy to keep my wits and resist. There’s a chance that I’m just growing accustomed to the hypnosis now. This one has deep scars on its wrist, like it tried to reach through a broken window.
I smile and send my two stakes at the eyes.
It doesn’t even blink before they make contact. Right until the end, it was trying to catch me with its hypnotic gaze.
When it screams out its final sounds, I hear shifting around me. There are more down here. Maybe a lot more.
I find another under the oil tank. Its green eyes narrow as it regards me. Once the eyes are open, it’s a lot easier to see the whole body. The camouflage illusion fades and I can see the way that it’s clinging to the bottom of the oil tank. I wonder if it doesn’t have the energy to camouflage and hypnotize at the same time. Maybe it doesn’t feel the need to do both.
A third attempts to creep up while I’m watching the one under the oil tank turn to slime.
My feet are in shadow and it almost wraps its talons around my ankle.
It freezes when I turn. It’s like we were playing a game of Red Light, Green Light and I spun just in time to stall its progress. The yellow eyes flicker with hate until I stab them. Is it hate though? I don’t want to attribute emotions to these things. As far as I know, they’re just clever animals.
That’s three down here, four from the house, and one burned up with the truck. Eight total, so far, and I haven’t seen the one with violet eyes. It occurs to me that I didn’t see the eyes of the one that burned up in the dooryard. Could that be the one I’m looking for?
I’m trying to remember—what were the color of the eyes that I saw in the shed when I went in through David’s door?
The question vexes me while I continue to search.
I’m almost convinced that I’m done when I find two more in the far corner. These two weren’t trying to attack, like the yellow-eyed devil. They both have orange eyes. While I’m jabbing one with the stake, the other creeps forward.
The wide eyes almost look like they have spiral galaxies trapped in their pulsing light. I wish I had my phone. It would be fascinating to take a picture of those eyes and really study them. Could they be wormholes that lead to another solar system? Is it an illusion, or are they actually as deep as they look?
Someone else will have to answer that question.
I’m content with driving my spear into the eye.
It flinches back from the flashlight, hissing when the beam strikes its skin. Colors flash through
