Horror by EZMisery

When I was six years old, my parents began locking me in the cupboard below the sink. It was not punishment for anything I had done. There was no behavior that needed correcting. They just one day decided to see what would happen if you locked a young boy in a small space.

I pounded my tiny fists against the doors. I cried, I peed. I put my eye against the keyhole and watched as they went about their business, sans me. Finally, I started to scream. “Why? Why are you doing this?”

My mother slowly walked toward the cupboard, knelt down so her eye was at the keyhole, and said simply, “Why not?”

They did this for many years. There was never any warning. I would be eating breakfast, anticipating the walk to school, when suddenly one of them would grab me by the arm and haul me into the cupboard. I fought at first, but it was pointless. They were bigger than me. My resistance did nothing.

Sometimes it was thirty minutes. Other times, I could be inside for half a day. I don’t know if they forgot about me or had some sick pleasure in making me wait. The longest I was ever inside was an entire weekend. They went out of town. When they came back I was nearly dead. It didn’t seem to bother them at all.

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Operator: Adam’s County Sheriff’s Line, what is your emergency?

Caller: Are you real?

Operator: Excuse me?

Caller: I need to know if you’re real or not.

Operator: Are you having a mental emergency?

Caller: No, I am perfectly sane.

Operator: Where are you, sir?

Caller: I am in…I think I am in Friendship.

Operator: Are you having an emergency?

Caller: (Laughs) Fine. Yes, yes I am.

Operator: (Softens tone) You can talk to me. What can I do to help?

Caller: I am afraid no one can help. No one is who they say they are.

Operator: Well…who are you?

Caller: (Pause) My name is Callen. Callen Shea.

Operator: Hi Callen. My name is Betty.

Caller: You don’t sound like a Betty.

Operator: I promise it’s my name. Betty O’rourke.

Caller: Irish?

Operator: Guilty.

Caller: Same here.

Operator: So tell me Callen, what is going on?

I knew the truth at 5th grade. A police officer came into our classroom and warned us about stranger danger. He even passed out flyers of missing kids our age. One of the missing boys looked strikingly similar to me. His name was Brandon Knox. He was from two towns over and had been abducted six years ago. The name sounded so familiar. I looked at this boy, smiling with his parents, and in my chest I felt it. Knew it.

He was me.

I could have done something. I could have talked to the police officer or my teacher. Really anyone. But I loved my “parents”. They were my best friends. I had no memories of this other family. I didn’t want to start over. Plus I figured my parents had a good reason for taking me. Maybe those other parents were abusing me or just bad people. I rationalized the whole thing and never brought it up to anyone.

For a while.

I held the truth for seven years. At age 17, my life was pretty typical. My parents were no longer my best friends, but they were still a constant, loving presence in my life. They provided anything I needed or wanted. My friends even thought my parents were cool because they let us drink in the house (not get drunk, just a beer or two). I was as happy as a teenager could be.

But then they brought her home.

Ivory Hollows was a brand new building that I moved into after I graduated from college. It was a huge monotone box that housed over a hundred apartments. I liked it. I can’t explain why, but the sight of the giant cube made me feel safe. Secure. I enjoyed that every floor looked exactly the same. All the walls were grey, all the floors were black. Maybe it was my mathematics background, but it seemed like I fit in.

As a bonus, I barely ever saw or heard my neighbors. It was like I was alone in a giant building. I loved the quiet. College life was always noisy and people were always asking me for things. But in Ivory Hollows, I was like an integer. A number among many silent numbers. It was comforting.

There was one glaring exception to the pattern. Every time I took the elevator, whether up or down, there was a man inside. He was a white man with dark hair that sat beneath a bowler cap. He was always wearing a silver suit, fitted to his slender frame. I honestly would not have thought much of him except he was backward. In every trip he faced the back of the elevator as opposed to the front. I’d step in and stand awkwardly in the corner, faced sort of sideways so I didn’t have my back to him.

Needless to say it was unsettling. I am a person of rituals and norms. I don’t break rules, I don’t make a fuss. And I certainly don’t stand backward in elevators.

I leaned against the wall, bass throbbing in my head. The lights bounced across the floor in no discernible pattern. With a deep sigh I closed my eyes. Only another hour. Then you can slip out without looking like a jerk. Deep breaths.

“Not having fun?”

I opened my eyes and realized I was being watched. “Is it that obvious?”

“Nah, I just read your mind.” The man grinned at me. He was dashingly handsome. Long dark dreads fell down his back, complimenting his deep brown skin. His eyes were alight with a sharp blue. In the presence of such beauty I felt like a potato. My cheeks burned a bright red.

“I’m just here for my friend. She’s getting married this weekend.” Idiot, he doesn’t care.

“And she took you to a gay club?” His smile was easy, relaxed. I wanted to feel that way. I wanted to stay in that smile.

“She thought it’d be more fun than a…a ‘regular’ club. I don’t know. I’m not really a club person.” As if he couldn’t tell that by your clothes and shitty haircut.

“Hey, I like your hair.” He moved a little closer. My heart began to pound. “Are you straight, then?”

I laughed. “Not even a little.”

“Good, because I’d love to take you out sometime. Don’t worry. I won’t take you to a club.”

I met his gaze. He is playing with you. No one like him would want a loser like you.

He reached out his hand and tucked a piece of hair behind my ear. I swear I could hear a buzzing of electricity from his skin. “I happen to think you are the most adorable person here.”

I swallowed heavily. “If you really mean it…I mean, yes. Of course.”

He chuckled softly and pulled out a business card from his pocket. “My cell is on here. If you want that date, call me anytime. I’m Devone, by the way.”

“Harold,” I said breathlessly.

“Nice to meet you, Harold.” He leaned in even closer, his lips so close to my neck. “I can’t wait.”

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Being homeless does not really mean you don’t have a home. Maybe you haven’t found it yet, or the one you were given wasn’t right for you. Or maybe your home doesn’t love you anymore.

Whatever it is, being on streets in winter isn’t easy.

Not with the creature around.

I can see it now. It’s hiding in the snowbank but I can make out its body. It is a swirling, slippery grey. Its human mouth looks hungry. I know hungry.

Some of us can go to the shelter. But I am not safe at the men’s, and not welcome at the women’s. There are supposedly warming locations but that may be a myth people tell themselves to feel better about our situation.

I stand at the base of State, looking down the long street of shops and cafes. They are all closed. The free paper said it was too cold to be outside.

I am a lone traveler on the edges of ‘too cold’.

Perhaps I looked too long at the darkened buildings because the creature is upon me, my toes in its mouth. It sucks like a pig at my feet. I am able to kick it away but my toes feel black. It does not smile but the corners of its eyes lift mockingly.