He was an unpleasant man with dark secrets.
Ron didn’t respond to – or read - most emails, but this one broke through the haze of drugs and alcohol, catching his bleary eye.
“$1,000 to spend the night in a haunted house. Make it through 8 rooms of terror and the money is yours – no questions asked.
You read that right, Ron - Cyphier Entertainment will pay YOU ten crisp Ben Franklins to beta-test our new Halloween Spookhouse! Be at the corner of 10th & Stripnyne at midnight next Tuesday and see if you have what it takes!”
It was signed Luther Cyphier, Cyphier Entertainment.
_____________________
The late-fall chill seeped into his tattered army-surplus coat as he stood at the corner of 10th and Stripnyne, thinking of ways to spend his money. He had visions of drugs and women.
Lots of both.
A sleek black limousine appeared around the corner and flashed hi-beams. A door popped open and he folded his lanky frame into the plush backseat.
“Nice wheels,” he said. There was no response from the smoked glass divider.
“Whatever, pissant,” he said, opening one of the iced beers on display in the backseat.
I could get used to this shit, he thought.
Ten minutes later, the limo pulled up in front of an old Victorian house on the far side of town. The door popped open again and he slid out into the fog.
“Have yourself a nice fuckin’ evening, pissant.”
Up the nondescript stairs and into the dusty-smelling foyer. A door with the number 1 on it was immediately to his right.
And…heeeere we go! he thought.
The first room was your standard Halloween-house fare: mannikins and fake blood, a towering lunatic with a chainsaw and canned horror-movie sounds over the loudspeaker. Nothing surprising. He pushed through the door marked 2 and entered a darkened room.
Immediately, his nostrils were assailed by the thick smell of rot and corruption. Something small and wrapped in bandages lay unmoving in the corner.
Something vaguely familiar.
He gagged and stumbled through the 3rd door.
…and found himself in his old apartment. The one he had shared with Beth.
And little Jimmy.
Beth lay slumped in the ratty recliner, a syringe in her arm. Jimmy was cold and turning green and half out of his crib.
He lunged for Jimmy – moved to help him, even as he knew the baby was far beyond help and watched in horror as the crib dissolved and became another door, marked with a 4.
The next four rooms were a whirling blur of crying infants, terrible winged creatures that clutched at his clothes and ripped his flesh and nauseatingly huge syringes that stabbed at his eyes.
Finally, he came upon the door marked 8.
Finally, he thought. He barely had the strength to push through. The money! All that money!
As he pushed through the door and entered what lay beyond, the number 8 slowly, slowly turned on its side and stopped.
Infinity.
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Credits
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