“Tell me another story, Gramps.”
The old man and I had been sitting under the sweltering august sun for hours, not doing much of anything.
Our cans of paint sat nearly full, brushes left dipped inside the containers of bright red. I worried that the oppressive heat threatened to boil the cauldrons of varnish where they stood.
The two of us never seemed to get much done at all when we “worked” together, but that was okay. I valued my time with the old man above all else.
And I valued his stories. Gramps was a sort of master storyteller, revered around Vernon for his ability to spin a yarn. Recently, he’d told me a wild tale of murder and gore that beggared belief.
It had honestly put me off asking for the old man to flex his storytelling muscles for a few weeks, but the allure of another always drew me back in.
The thing was, crazy as they could get, Gramps’ stories were always true.
The old man hocked a massive clump of tobacco into his spittoon and yawned, reclining back in his rocker. He stared at the nearly naked side of his old barn, bright red covering the small corner we’d gotten around to actually painting.
He said nothing, but I knew he’d heard.
“Well fuckface,” he finally said, using my endearingly insulting family nickname, “If you think you’ve got the stomach for it, I recently heared a story down at McCullough’s that might whet your appetite.”
He withdrew the bag of dip from where it sat next to his chair and packed another lip.
Through the tobacco drippings, he continued.
“You might not remember the old Sheriff, Jack Henry. Folk always called him Ol’ Henry. Retired some years back now.”
I nodded, wiping beads of sweat from my forehead. I’d heard talk of the ex-sheriff here and there. Mainly something about a violent home invasion that had occurred on his property within the last few years.
“Well Ol’ Henry had a few too many Jack and cokes that night at the watering hole. And we got to talkin’. Talkin’ about the old days, the way things were. Got to talkin’ about his wife, Jane.”
Gramps spit out another wad, in no rush to to speed up the story just for my sake.
“Ol’ Henry got some loose lips in his state of inebrianation. Decided to tell me what really happened that night the robber broke in.”
I steeled myself, knowing the bad part was coming. But with stories like this, the bad part was usually the best part.
“Here’s what he told me that night, best I recollect after cleanin’ up his drunken slurring.”
Gramps began
The sharp sound of a window shattering jolted me wide awake. I snapped up to a sitting position in the inky dark.
I said nothing, did nothing. Tried to listen.
The crunching of boots on freshly broken glass. A lamp on a side table clattering to the floor. A low murmur.
All coming from the living room below us.
Someone was inside the house.
“Henry!” I put my hand up to silence her, unsure if the gesture was even visible in the oppressive black.
“Henry!” Jane hissed again, but louder.
I turned to face her now, seeing the whites of her eyes wide with fear even in the dark.
“Shh!” I insisted, putting a finger to my lips. “I’m listening.”
“Someone is in the house!” She whisper-screamed.
“I know that. Barging down there’s without thinking’s not gonna do any good.”
Below us, the faint ruckus continued. The intruder seemed to be aimlessly rooting around the first floor of the house. By the sounds of silverware hitting linoleum, I figured he’d made his way into the kitchen.
I yanked off the duvet and readied myself to stand. My knees ached. I’d been roused out of a deep, medication-assisted sleep and was even groggier than usual. But I was coming to.
I was going to show this cocksucker that he’d picked the wrong fucking house.
“What are you doing?” Jane frantically sat up as I rose from the bed, not without effort.
I steadied myself on the nightstand, my legs wobbling. God my fucking knees.
“I’m getting the gun, and I’m going down there to shoot the son of a bitch. Call the police.” I slowly made my way to the bedroom closet without waiting for Jane’s response, grabbing the Remington 12-gauge that I kept stashed there in the event of a home invasion like the one we were currently experiencing.
As I loaded the gun, Jane became more exasperated. “Henry please!” She insisted, still in that strange in-between of whispering and yelling.
“Don’t do it. Lock the door and we’ll call the police and wait for them to handle it!”
“No. And wait like sitting ducks for him to come up here? No Jane. Mother fucker comes into my house, breaks my window…” I trailed off.
I sometimes don’t articulate myself the best when I’m angry, and boy was I fuming. Probably some piece of shit drug addict looking for a quick smash and grab to buy a couple ounces. Or maybe some punk kids just looking to vandalize houses for a laugh.
I wasn’t about to give him the easy out of a heroin needle or a few years in juvie doing the job.
Used to be in this fucking country, we protected what was ours. And god dammit, some of us still believe in that.
“Call the police. No matter what you hear, stay here. And lock this.” I reiterated to Jane as I quietly opened the door and exited the bedroom, ignoring her cries.
Jane and I had been together over 40 years. Good woman. Better wife. She’d get hysterical and overreact like most women are prone to, sure. But at the end of the day we made a good couple. We’d made this home together, raised a few great kids.
I wasn’t about to let some piece of shit criminal defile what we’d worked so hard for. It was the principle, dammit.
Truth was, I’d felt useless in the years since I retired. I wasn’t some pathetic old man, willing to lie there and let my whole life be stolen by some piece of shit thug. The asshole downstairs was about to learn who the victim in this situation really was.
I crept down the stairs, the sounds of the house being turned inside out growing louder as I made my way into the foyer. Even in pitch black, I knew the layout well. I observed the broken bay window in the living room, shattered glass glinting in the moonlight. The humid summer air wafted in with the pale glow of midnight.
Slowly, I made for the kitchen. A bright light suddenly filled the room, coinciding with the sound of the coffee maker shattering on the floor as the intruder swung open the refrigerator door.
I stopped in my tracks, thrown off by this bizarre action. You could see clear into our kitchen from the living room, but the fridge opened toward the entryway. The attacker was still obscured from my sight.
How to best approach this situation. How to maximize my chances of the shot hitting true.
I watched the intruder loudly empty our fridge, tossing vegetables that thudded on the ground and flinging beer bottles backwards into the dining room.
So this was some piece of shit thug just trying to trash the place.
The man seemed to talk to himself in a low voice as he destroyed the kitchen, though my hearing was impaired enough by this age that I couldn’t quite make out the words.
I needed more light. Luckily, the switch for the living room wasn’t far from where I’d stopped to observe the intruder. Quietly, I hobbled my way over to the wall and flicked on the light , casting the living room in a yellow glow.
Immediately , the kitchen went dead silent.
“Hey, asshole!” I screamed as I raised my shotgun.
“I have a weapon, close the door and put your hands up. The cops are on their way. Guess you tried to trash the wrong house.”
No response. Nothing. All sounds in the house seemed to cease.
“You hear me you piece of shit?” I pumped the shotgun, hoping to give the asshole an aural clue that I was not fucking around. I was prepared to shoot.
Slowly, a pair of wide eyes emerged from behind the open fridge door.
The man wore a jet black balaclava, his emerald green eyes the only visible features of his face. He was literally wearing the mask of a fucking cartoon robber.
The figure stood up , still taking his time, and gingerly shut the refrigerator door. His gaze never broke mine, and now I could make the bastard out more fully.
He was an average sized guy, not more than 5’9, maybe 5’10. He was fully outfitted in jet black, from the covering on his face to the gloves on his hands to the soles of his boots.
“Put your hands up motherfucker. I will shoot you.”
The man did nothing. We stared at each other. Time seemed to slow to a crawl.
“You fucking hear me?” Before I could continue, the man spoke.
“You hear me you piece of shit?”
His voice was slightly garbled, and strange. And he spoke with an odd lilt, almost like a question. Like the words weren’t coming naturally.
More important , he had repeated my earlier threat. Was this piece of trash mocking me?
I kept the gun raised, aimed square at the intruder’s chest. “Listen smart ass. I’m not playing any games. Like I said, cops are on their way.”
“Put your hands up motherfucker. I will shoot you.”
Again, the same threat I’d made against him seconds before, repeated in that strange and hollow staccato.
It went quiet after that. We stared at each other, neither of us budging. My knees ached like hell. My shoulders were starting to droop as the adrenaline wore off and the weight of the shotgun became more apparent.
The intruder could’ve been a statue the way he stood there. I sensed no fear from his stance. No apprehension, no worry.
I got nothing from this fucking guy. I’d dealt with people like him on the force. Lunatics, their brains so fried or fucked up that they had no fear whatsoever.
My knees throbbed and I stared into those emerald eyes. I started to think that in the haze of being jarred awake , I’d made a serious mistake.
This fuck was completely crazy.
Suddenly, a loud cracking sound broke me from my trance as the intruder jerked forward shoulder first, his black-clad head snapping backwards as he did so. His hand was outstretched toward me, fingers now looking long and spindly.
Before he could take another step, I pulled the trigger.
The shot exploded out of my weapon, blasting the intruder square in the chest. The man was propelled backwards into the darkness of the kitchen, gore and bits of flesh hovering in the air where he had stood moments ago. He hit the kitchen sink with a thunk. I stumbled backwards from the force, my knees and arms now searing with pain.
“God dammit…” I said to myself.
“HENRY!” Jane screamed from upstairs.
“I’m fine!” I yelled back to her. “I’m fine. Stay in the bedroom. You called 911 right Jane?”
“Oh god, oh god..” I heard her crying sobs.
“Jane!”
“Yes,” she choked out between cries. “Yes I called them.”
“Okay well, all we can do now is wait. Just stay put, honey. I love you.”
She said nothing else , but I heard her muffled sobs even through the ceiling.
I ran my hand over my face in frustration, and sighed. It had been a while.
The anger and rush had worn off quickly , and now of course I questioned if I’d made the right choice. I’d been so gung-ho about defending my castle, but did it really need to be this way?
Hell, I guess it did. Who knew what the strung out piece of shit would’ve done if I hadn’t reacted.
When the boys from the precinct got here , it would be easy to explain how things had gone so bad. They’d understand.
Another loud cracking sound grabbed my attention.
I furrowed my brow as I stared into the darkened kitchen.
I could make out the dim outline of the intruder, on all fours , crawling into the living room where I stood.
How in the fucking hell.
I stumbled backward, trying to cock the shotgun again.
“Stay where you are motherfucker!” I yelled. “You’re lucky to still be alive, maybe the cops will help your sorry ass when they get here. Get your life back on track.”
A low, gurgling voice answered me as the sound of limbs skittering on linoleum grew closer.
“Stay in the bedroom Jane. You called 911 right? Staystaystaystay JaneaneaneaneJaneJaneJane. Call call call call call.”
The intruder’s voice had taken on a manic quality, and he repeated the things I’d just said to my wife at a rapid pace. Like a tape caught, wound up tight in the machine.
“Stay where you are motherfucker! Motherfuckermotherfucker!” A sharp, angry growl. My sharp angry growl. The first time the intruder had expressed any emotion whatsoever.
My mouth widened in horror as it dragged its way into the light of the living room.
Frozen in place by the wrongness of it all, it began to dawn on me that something I did not fucking understand was staring me in the face.
This was not a person.
Pulling itself along on all fours with hideously twisted, multi-jointed limbs, the thing that was clearly not a human left a trail of blood from the jagged hole my shotgun had torn in its abdomen.
The limbs cracked and popped as they jerked forward, snapping as they seemed to grow and change.
With a sick, wet click, the masked face of the creature shot up, it’s neck breaking into a pure straight line so those eyes could look me in the face even as it still lay on the floor.
The cat burglar outfit the thing wore was now stretched and tearing at odd angles, no longer properly fitting the grotesquely outstretched limbs.
What the hell had broken into our house.
With inhuman speed, the creature’s torso snapped upward, the hole in its chest still leaking viscera.
It’s legs popped and hinged backward, elongating with extra joints. It pressed on the ground and stood itself up, now much taller than the 5’9-average-height it had appeared as a man. It wobbled and swayed from side to side, unsteady on its newly double-jointed legs.
Again, the creature and I entered a sort of stasis. We both stood, staring at each other, neither willing to make the first move.
The cartoon burglar outfit looked so wrong stretched over this now inhuman frame. The twisted limbs had outgrown the pants and black thermal , exposing his veiny tan flesh. Blood dripped from the gory hole above his ribs. I could now clearly see that my shot would’ve killed a normal human.
Those wide green eyes looked more otherworldly than before, fixated on me from the stark black that surrounded them.
What the hell was I supposed to do. I’d seen plenty of crazy shit in my day. But this wasn’t crazy. This was impossible. Wrong and horrible and impossible.
That hideous voice escaped from its mouth once again.
“Jane.”
I thought of dying at this thing’s hands, thought of what a shit way this would be to go out with the life I’d had. I was getting angry now, feeling the righteous indignation that had gotten me out of bed in the first place.
I had always been a hothead, always too full of piss and vinegar. Even after all the years, retirement had never suited me.
I thought of protecting my castle. I thought of Jane.
I raised the shotgun. Before I could pull the trigger, the creature suddenly elongated and twisted its neck one hundred and eighty degrees, with a sickening squelch.
The balaclava clad visage now faced me upside down and hanging from a veiny and tendril-like neck.
I’ll admit, I nearly shit my pants. Whatever was beneath the balaclava rippled and shifted as the creature stared at me, our faces now nearly touching.
Fuck this.
I raised the gun again and pulled the trigger.
Too old. Too slow.
As the shot was let loose, the thing swiped at me with its enormous limb, sending me flying backwards and smashing into the living room wall, my head snapping back on impact.
I saw stars, the room spun. I’d gotten my shot off though. I’d clipped the thing right in the head.
It let out an inhuman shriek as it hit me, stumbling backwards and tripping over its twisted legs.
“Owowowowowowow fuckfuckfuck HURTSHURTS”
It yelled and screamed , it’s voice more garbled and strange than before. It almost sounded like multiple voices in unison, talking over each other and saying the same thing.
I guess I could take some satisfaction in hurting the thing, at least a little.
The gun had gone flying in the melee, and the sharp pain in my gut told me I’d likely broken a rib, or worse. I looked down and even through my blurred vision saw bruises and even some broken bloody skin already forming where the creature’s tree trunk like limb had made contact.
Your skin is like tissue paper when you reach this age.
Everything ached. Everything hurt. Especially my knees, especially my head, especially my ribs. And god my head was on fire. I felt my vision beginning to blacken.
The sound of the creature standing up and crashing it’s way over to me kept me alert. I was defenseless at this point. Some king of this castle I’d turned out to be.
As the creature approached me and knelt down, I realized my aim had been better than I thought. Half of the thing’s entire head was blown off. A gory, pulpy mess dripped through the ripped side of the balaclava where the shot had made contact. Only one piercing green orb remained.
If that shot hadn’t done the job, nothing was doing the job. Apparently this thing could function just fine missing half its brain.
As I heard the distant wail of an approaching siren arriving just in time to be too late, I waited for the thing to do whatever things like this do. Waited for the end.
Instead, saying nothing, the creature reached up and removed the covering from its face.
I was greeted by a fairly unassuming visage, minus the part of the face I had blown off with my shotgun. A young man with some stubble and a buzzed haircut. A little haggard looking, but certainly not the face you’d expect to see on some malform-limbed alien creature.
A sick, gigantic smile began to spread across the face, inhumanly wide, growing to even tear the man’s cheeks.
That gaze never breaking from mine, it began to change.
The face twisted and shifted, the skin stretching and morphing as if it were alive. It’s nose collapsed, it’s lips stretched upward. The teeth fell from its mouth. Even the damaged gore of ifs gunshot wound melted and merged with the unmarred half of the face to make an almost liquified soup of facial features that thrashed and bubbled.
As the grotesque display went on, a new face began to take shape.
My face.
Slowly but surely, the weary-but youthful man was replaced by deep wrinkles, and thinning auburn hair. The hairs of my moustache bristled over it’s newly reformed lips. Even the birthmark beneath my left eye appeared.
The only thing that stayed the same was those alien emerald eyes.
I realized now what the thing had been staring for. Why it had been repeating my words. Why all it had done was silently stand and observe, until I’d gone trigger happy. Until I’d decided I had to defend my castle.
I figured somewhere out there, maybe miles away, maybe in this neighborhood, there was the body of a youthful, weary young man with buzzed hair who had been planning on committing a robbery this evening.
And someone else before him. And someone else before that. And all the way back to wherever this thing that didn’t belong in our world had come from.
What did it want? What was it trying to do? Did that even matter now. I knew the answer.
All traces of injury to the creature’s head gone, I was now face to face with myself. A ghoulish grin still spread across its face, it seemed to be waiting for my reaction. Waiting to see what I thought of my face on this twisted, gnarled, funhouse mirror body.
It was almost comedic, almost funny. Trumped even the craziest shit I’d ever seen on the job. I scoffed.
Turned out I had been pretty useless after all. I could hardly keep my eyes open now. I was ready, waiting for the moment to come.
But then I remembered. We both did.
When we heard our wife yell down from the bedroom.
“Henry? Henry dear god are you okay? What is going on down there?”
Her sobbing voice was hysterical and pained.
The thing’s smile grew even wider as I shook my head, pleading, trying to fight the coming embrace of unconsciousness.
“Don’t. Don’t. Please.” I reached out and grabbed the scruff of the thing’s shirt with my last ounce of strength.
It spoke, but not to me. A spot on, if staccato imitation of my voice.
“Just stay put, honey. I love you.”
Gramps leaned back in the chair, story finished.
My face had gone sheet white, once again in absolute shock at what I’d heard. I couldn’t keep my mouth shut
“Well wait then… what happened after that? What really happened to Jane?”
I recalled a bit more vividly now the story I’d been told about Ol’ Henry and his wife - Jane had been killed by a home invader who had also harmed Jack Henry, and ultimately escaped that night never to be found. There hadn’t been any talk of a shapeshifting monster with green eyes, that’s for damn sure.
Gramps sighed, staring off into the now-setting sun.
“Well fuckface, he did what a man has to do in those kinds of situations. When he came to and saw his wife in the kitchen, boiling a pot of dirty water and chewing on raw spaghetti, turning to face him with a massive, face-splitting grin and a loving glint in her emerald green eyes…”
Gramps trailed off as the weight of the story’s epilogue sunk in.
“Ya know fuckface, last time I told you that it’s best to mind your own. But sometimes, maybe it’s safer to be aware that some things in this world just ain’t right.”
Gramps leaned forward to silently emphasize the point. He lifted his glasses and locked his eyes with mine.
Thankfully, they were the same piercing blue as always.
---
Credits
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