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"thumb_large_x": "200", "thumb_large_y": "200", "thumb_medium_x": "120", "thumb_medium_y": "120" } ], "pools": [], "description": "Writer's Crossing Monthly Prompt entry for May 2024. The owner of this piece is Chaon.\n\nPrompt: \"The old house had an even older secret.\"\n\nLink: https://inkbunny.net/s/3329970", "description_bbcode_parsed": "Writer's Crossing Monthly Prompt entry for May 2024. The owner of this piece is Chaon.

Prompt: "The old house had an even older secret."

Link: https://inkbunny.net/s/3329970", "writing": "Alright, so it was a stupid idea. There, I've said it. What more do you want from me? You've asked your questions; you know that all this is unnecessary. The goons are one thing, but a straitjacket - seriously? What, d'you think I'm just gonna rock up and chew your face off?\n\nOkay, fine. I'm sorry about Doctor Stebbins, but after everything that's happened you guys should really know not to get in my personal space by now. Don't look at me like that. Dude even got off easy if you ask me. Who needs their voicebox anyway these days, amirite?\n\nSheesh. Tough crowd. Moving on... It all started with the dumbwaiter. \n\nI'm sure big-brained guys like you with all your fancy PHDs already know what dumbwaiters are. But in case you don't, they're like tiny elevators some houses have to move stuff between floors - too small for normal people to use as an elevator, though a child might be able to use it that way...if they wanted to. Why would they want to? Heck if I know, I'm not some little kid. Don't ask me how their brains work. What's important is that this is something that they do. Just ask my little brother - oh wait, you can't because he's... But I guess I'm getting ahead of myself here.\n\nYeah, I've a kid brother. Yes, he's no longer with us. Which; okay, I guess you could say is kinda my fault, if you look at it in a certain way. Why are we going over this again? You've got my file, you can read...you know what? Fine - I'll do this if I have to, but I'm going to be telling it my way. \n\nI hate my brother. I'm sure that's nothing new. You've probably heard loads of kids say something similar whenever we get dragged in here, straitjackets and all. Some people call it sibling rivalry, but to call it a war wouldn't be that far off the mark. There was just something about him that rubbed me the wrong way, if you know what I mean. Always so solemn, so quiet, so...judgemental - can preschoolers even be judgemental? Well, it certainly seemed that way to me. He would follow me everywhere I went; not saying a word, just staring with those creepy-ass eyes of his - just like that one horror movie about that possessed killer doll. You know what it's like to wake up in the middle of the night to your cat on your chest staring at you? Well, picture that except with a six-year-old instead of a cat. Nothing in the usual older sibling's arsenal ever worked either. That's the problem with threats - there must be something to target if they're ever to work. He had no friends, no treasured possessions that a resourceful relative could hold to ransom. Indian burns, loogies and swirlies all had no lasting effect. Ever since he could crawl, my life has been a nonstop nightmare of nerves, never knowing where he'd pop up next. It only got worse after he learned to walk, since after that not even distance was a sure guarantee. Little dweeb even followed me to the shower once, can you believe? Enough is enough. I had to put an end to it somehow. It was that or be driven crazy. So, there was only one way this all could end. \n\nYou think I'm nuts. Why else would I be here, padded room and all? But I dare you; any of you to last even one week in my situation: cooped in day and night in a drafty old house with that little devil for company. Mum left shortly after the little horror was born - yet another thing I can blame him for. Dad worked multiple shifts to make ends meet. I envied them both. They never had to deal with any of this mess. I even tried doing things the `normal' way at first - bought locks; pestered the social worker to help install them on our doors. None of it worked. Somehow or other, he still would find a way to catch me off guard when I least expected it. I never knew when I'd turn only to meet those damning eyes, or where he would pop up next. It was a game to him; this much was obvious. He was doing it on purpose, wanting to see how long it would be before I snapped. And try as I might, my pride would not let me concede to a preschooler. If it was a game he wanted, a game he would get: one I intended to win. \n\nIt wasn't hard to figure out that the tiny twerp was using the dumbwaiter shafts to pull off his creepy stalker routine. The bloody things riddled our house, a leftover from when it belonged to some posh people with way too much time on their paws. Those were his hideout; his private wonderland - one where he would spend hours traversing, like a hamster with those plastic tubes. Dad always claimed it was just a phase and that he would grow out of it soon enough. Sure...and pigs might fly. \n\nTraditional threats and sibling violence had failed me so far, so I knew I would have to kick it up a notch if I wanted any kind of significant effect. Time to bring in the big guns.\n\n``Leif, have you ever heard of He Who Lurks Behind the Walls?''\n\nThe huddled shape perched atop me gave no sign, but I could tell from the way its ears pricked that he was listening. I think back to years of summer camps and jerkass counsellors who delighted in traumatizing gullible preteen kids like me. Here we go - God of bullies, fail me not. ``It is a terrible monster that waits inside the walls of old houses like this one; the older the better. It doesn't come out during the day because it's too smart for that. What it likes to do is lie in wait for unattended cubs and when it catches one...BAM!'' I throw off my covers catching the little pest by surprise, seize him by the skinny shoulders and shake him back and forth like a terrier. ``It just loves the taste of little cubs,''\n\n``I - I don't believe you,'' I knew better than to attribute the stammer to this lame story actually scaring him rather than being shaken to an inch of his life, but it was fun to pretend otherwise. ``Why hasn't anyone seen it?''\n\n``Like I said: it hides and only comes out to feast on little brothers. It's got a body that can twist itself to fit into tiny places. Places like...the crawlspace of this very house. I've heard it breathing and moving through the walls. With us being the only two at home there's no adults to keep it at bay so it's only a matter of time before...''\n\n``You've heard me in the walls. Not He-Who...whatever,'' \n\n``That's what it wants you to think. Now get out of my room and stop spying on me, pipsqueak,'' I conclude my morning ritual, picking one bratty six-year-old up by the scruff of his neck and dumping him at the threshold of my room before slamming the door. I don't bother to latch it. We all know locks won't keep him out. With any luck though, the rest of the plan will. \n\nStage Two of said plan called for the actual dumbwaiter to be removed. With the help of some older teens taking Shop it was easy enough to go around plugging and boarding up all the little bolt holes that allowed dumbwaiter access, starting with my room - something that I would probably end up having to do anyway, regardless of whether the Plan worked. Every single one, save for the larger vent that was his main avenue of access from his room. As any good mouse trap maker or older sibling knows, you need a way of predicting where your quarry will go. I also invest in a large quantity of sneezing and itching powder, which I dump liberally into every hatch before boarding them shut. In such a small, enclosed space it will only be a matter of time before the powder particles spread and - \n\n``Ah..TISH...OO!'' the usual clanking and creaking noises which have so long been a maddening constant in my life intensify; telltale signs of someone either holding an impromptu wrestling match or else thrashing about in a desperate bid to scratch, sneeze and spasm all at once. I track the noises along the walls, casually glancing up in time to notice the wadded ball of fabric smacking uselessly against one of the boarded bolt holes when a muffled swearword catches my ear. Kid's smart enough to ditch the clothes then; stripping down to the fur before the worst of the mixture can seep in. \n\nPerfect. Commence Phase Three:\n\nHe's panicked now, or at least as close to it as someone like him can be. The combination of blurry eyes, wheezing sneezes and the persisting itching sensation will have done that, whether he believes in my monster or not. With every other exit sealed and accounted for, the brat's trapped in a kill-box of my making: left with no other option but to shimmy nude through a network of powder-clogged passages to seek sanctuary in his room - a location which I have; quite reasonably, painstakingly rigged with motion activated cameras and camcorders to forever capture the exact moment of his eventual emergence in all of its adorable, naked glory. \n\nPrecious blackmail material in other words; to withhold or disseminate as I see fit. Boys will be boys. \n\nBut wait, that's not the direction of the... Where's he going? There must be another exit I don't know about. Where could...\n\nOf course. The garage!\n\nI turn on my heel and dash for it, knowing that there is a good chance that I can make it there before he can in the condition that he's in. I'm barely across the threshold when my arm catches against something that gives way with a snap; the sound almost immediately followed by the louder unmistakable click of a latch sliding shut. A cursory examination of the door informs me that my worst suspicions are indeed correct. The latch does appear to be on the other side, and well beyond my reach. \n\nWell, @#$%. \n\nSomething whirrs and I round upon it...only to feel incredibly foolish to discover it is nothing more threatening than a tape recorder beginning to play its pre-recorded message: ``You're not the only one who can prank, sis.''\n\nOnce again, @#$%\n\n``Don't bother trying the door. It's locked. Hope you don't mind the smell. Say hi to Dad for me, will you?'' the tape stutters and comes to a halt, unspooling its guts in a mess of ribbons. Now that he mentions it, there's indeed a smell: something faint and disturbing. And what did he mean about...\n\nThere - slumped over in the driver's seat of his car, looking as though he might be asleep; is our father. But I already know this is a slumber from which he will not wake. Not if my nose and the running engine is telling me what I already suspect: carbon monoxide. Suicide? But when? How? \n\nOne of the car's windows has been rolled down. Either an oversight on my dad's part, or someone's deliberate action after the deed to make sure its noxious contents will seep out to fill the rest of the enclosed garage...which currently is cut off from the rest of the wider world. There is no denying the handiwork. It makes my earlier attempts feel like the work of a clumsy amateur next to a master. It is neat, subtle and everything a death trap ought to be. \n\nAll of a sudden, I feel tired. Weary - far older than my fourteen years. How long have we been at each other's throats? Are we doomed to play out the same old patterns with each other in this fatalistic parody of Tom and Jerry? Trapped in a never-ending cycle of tit for tat all for some silly prank war? \n\nSomeone must be the first to take a step, to break the cycle before we all end up like Dad at least. By the look of things that could be happening all too soon. Ongoing noises in the walls remind me that that there is a solution to be had, at least. Because while the door itself may be booby trapped and locked, there is still the crawlspace: a crawlspace that I had spent so much time prepping with my vicious mixture of itching and sneezing powders - the very same that I must navigate to have any hope of escaping the far more dangerous gases around me now. \n\nI spare a glance for our dear departed father, decide there's nothing that can be done for him and press on, removing every item of clothing that may snag or catch or get in the way. Even then there is no guarantee that I fit in the crawlspace like my little brother can, but I fancy my chances there more than slow poisonous death. \n\nProgress is slow, frustratingly so. These ducts were made for dumbwaiters, not dumb teens. In places I literally have to slither on my belly, inching forward like a snake with the top of the vent grazing my spine. The air makes my eyes sting and pelt itch. Accidentally springing my own trap and having the camera capture my exit is the least of my worries. What if I miss seeing the way out? With the way my eyes are swimming it's definitely a possibility.\n\nThoughts taper off when I collide with something furry and bony that swears like a sailor. ``Outta my way, moron!''\n\n``Garage way's blocked,'' I tell him matter-of-factly, finding it strange how lost and fragile he looks now that we're face to face in a mess of our own making. The way his fur has been rumpled from its rough journey through the shaft makes him look younger than he actually is. ``Only way out is back through your room,''\n\n``What.'' It comes out like a statement rather than a question.\n\n``Your poison gas trap. Tape recorder was a nice touch, by the way,''\n\n``Oh...right,'' a small puff of exhaled air as he sighs, shoulders sagging in resignation. ``Thanks.''\n\n``You can still get back the way you came. The crawlspace is big enough for you to turn around. Go back and call someone - the fire department, the police, I don't care! Get help,''\n\n``No,'' he doesn't look me in the eyes. ``Can't,''\n\n``What do you mean `can't'? Is it because of the camera thing? Look, I'm sorry about that. I promise to delete the pictures, okay? Just go back and get help,''\n\n``Can't,'' he repeats; the sudden regression from evil bratty mastermind to monosyllabic speech scaring me more than anything ever has. ``Blocked,'' he looks up then wide eyed; the resemblance so much like Shrek's Puss-In-Boots that I've to resist an urge to cuddle him and assure everything will be alright. ``For...years,''\n\n``What do you mean?'' I'm starting to get a bad feeling about all of this, like I've stumbled into something I want no part of. But instead of replying, he simply turns around; reorienting himself in the crawlspace and treating me to an unexpected eyeful as he does so. I tear myself away from gawking just in time to see a tail brush swish impatiently in the silent signal of `follow'.\n\nAnd so, I do - our journey made in silence punctuated only occasionally by sneezes and muttered swears. I expect to lose him in the tunnels more suited to a smaller form than mine own, but for some reason he is oddly considerate; stopping every now and again for me to catch up. \n\n``Did you...?'' I break off to sneeze. ``Dad, I mean.''\n\n``No,'' He doesn't turn around, shoulders bobbing as we make our way deeper into the vents. ``Suicide,''\n\n``Oh,'' What does one say to that? ``That's good...I guess,'' \n\n``Because of Mum,''\n\n``What,'' another sneezing fit takes me, which is somewhat of a relief. I'm not sure what I'm asking exactly, or if I even want to know the answer.\n\nWhich is too bad, really - because today is apparently one of those days where we don't get what we want. I become aware of a new smell around us, getting stronger as we inch closer and closer to the source. It is sickly sweet yet somehow familiar through the overpowering tones of rotting meat. After an indeterminate amount of time he stops, and without warning; hunkers down, flattening himself upon the crawlspace's floor to give me a good look at...oh gods - \n\n``There: Mum,''\n\nI see her; a mummified husk ravaged by years of weather and vermin. The corpse is frozen in mid motion with one arm reaching outward, its mass - even in its current state larger than my own - effectively sealing off the rest of the passage. ``She didn't leave Dad after all,''\n\n``No. I was the one who left. She came in after me,''\n\nI try to picture the scene: a pup, crawling through an abandoned dumbwaiter shaft while its mother; wild with panic, makes the decision to follow, getting irrecoverably stuck in the process. ``Did you, back then...'' I don't know what I mean to ask. Did you mean it? Did you do it on purpose? Did you feel bad after it all? Maybe all three, or none of them\n\n``Yes. No. Maybe?'' his ears droop. ``I don't know,''\n\n``Guess this is it then,'' the truth has a solemn sense of finality to it. There is no way to move forward with the obstruction in the way. Going back would result in suffocation just as sure as staying put will. \n\n``I...'' all of a sudden he throws himself at me, burying his muzzle in my fur. ``I don't...don't want to die,'' \n\n``Yeah, well...nobody ever does,'' Instinctively I pull my brother closer in a hug, close enough to feel the rapid rhythm of his heart and breath through his slender frame. ``For what it's worth, I'll be here until we do, and I'm never ever letting go,''\n\nExcept...I did, didn't I? Let go, I mean. I must have, obviously, since I'm here and he?s not it just goes to show...\n\nHang on. Where is ?here? exactly? Did anyone ever say? Because I'm not sure you did. I may not be a flipping genius like my little bro was but even I can--\n\nNo, I am not being hysterical. I don't need to sit down or be sedated for my own good. This is what's going to happen. You lot are going to quit with the questions and start giving some answers for a change, because if you don't, I'm going to be walking straight out that door. This door, right here. You're saying that's a bad idea? Big deal, my life's been a nonstop series of bad ideas, weren't you paying attention? How's one more going to be any different?\n\nSave the sermon for someone who cares. For my own good? Wont like what I'll find? I?ll take my chances. The more someone tells me not to do something the more I wanna do it so...up yours, fam. Be seeing ya - \n\n----\n\n--aaaaaaaaaaaahh!\n\nYour throat is sore from screaming. Not past screaming, either. Current screaming: screaming that is literally happening right now. You have been screaming, currently are screaming and will likely go on to scream for the foreseeable future though you're not entirely sure why.\n\nSensations assault you one after the other. Pain is the first: the most immediate source being your screaming throat. Hearing comes next, the nonstop caterwauling from your lungs shrill enough to drive an icepick of frustration through your brain. Smell is soon to follow, an overwhelming stench of rotting flesh that makes you wonder if you can hurl and scream at the same time. You ponder the sheer ridiculousness of continuing to scream without even knowing what you're screaming about while doing just that...for all of the five seconds that it takes for your surroundings to fade back into focus. And when they do - \n\nYou scream louder. Harder: this time in earnest. Because if that's not an appropriate reaction to the half rotting skull inches away from your face, you're not sure what is.\n\nRecoiling from that ghastly apparition, you scoot backward before turning to run - no, crawl in the opposite direction because the ceiling is... really low here for some reason? Only to find your brilliant escape foiled by a second withered monstrosity currently blocking your retreat, skeletal arm pointing at you in what feels like accusation...\n\nNor are you in any position to run even if you tried, not with the first body?s lifeless arms wrapped around you in a dead man?s embrace. Skeleton appendages press against your bare skin - yes, you are naked, for whatever reason--in a grotesque parody of intimacy, every slight movement you make causing some fragment of bone or who-knows-what to scrape across your flesh. You immediately regret attempting a closer observation and wish desperately for the comparatively preferable bliss of ignorance just seconds ago when you were happily unaware of your current circumstances - especially with regards to the shriveled paw pressed firmly against your bare chest and its counterpart--oh dear gods, no--actually clutching your sensitive underbelly, its largest talon stubbornly lodged right in your bellybutton up to the first joint with the smaller pinkie invading your urethra. Every halfhearted attempt to set yourself free is futile - your shaking paws in no fit state to perform the most basic of actions, never mind muster the resolve to surgically remove those stray splinters of bone currently protruding from your privates and skin\n\nSo, you make do; gingerly trying to suck in your gut to avoid further contact with more parts of the skeleton than is necessary while tolerating the presence of those you can't, thinking that surely this must be the worst of it, for what fresh hell can even top your current situation? \n\nAnd that's when you feel the subtle shift, your mind conjuring images of creepy crawlies slithering all over you; drawn from these cold lifeless husks to the presence of living meat in their midst. Ants, worms, and many legged things crawling over the bones of the dead to get at you, using the tenuous connection of the bones impaling you to bridge the gap and burrow into your naked, exposed flesh. On top of it all, you are fairly certain you hear a voice whispering something amid the frantic beat of your heart and the blood pounding in your ears. \n\n``--I'm never ever letting go...''\n\nAnd you realize your earlier assessment was wrong all along because there always, always, will be a reason to scream\n\n---\n\n``Carl, check those readouts. Something's triggered the failsafe again. Probably a stray R.E.M spike,'' \n\n``That'd have to be one heck of a spike. Are you seeing these numbers? He's going into shock. We need those tranquilizers, stat!''\n\n``Too much. That's enough to knock out a mammoth. Kid's only six, he shouldn't need so much...''\n\n``Are you even seeing this kit? Something's gotta give, and it's either the tubes or his heart. He came close to ripping out the umbilical feeder just now,''\n\nAmidst the chaos of mechanical beeps and urgent voices a fox pup spasms; muzzle crinkling in a rictus of pain as he struggles against the wires and tubes holding him in place, muscles flexing along the length of his sleek, white furred body.\n\n``Who is this kid? We've given him - \n\n``Enough tranqs to knock out a mammoth, I know - haven't you been following the news? Iceland? Self-made orphan? Ring any bells?''\n\n``No way. This is him? Thought he'd be...bigger,''\n\n``Any bigger and we'd have our work cut out for us, from what I'm seeing. Alright people, let's wrap things up. Kid's got a big day tomorrow and needs his sleep. Standby on the gas, at my signal,''\n\nMost of the words are meaningless, passing in a haze of confused sound. You recognize `sleep' however and that's enough to get your heart pumping again. Sleep is where the monsters will find you. Sleep is the domain of He-Who-Lurks-Behind-the-Walls. Ergo you simply won?t sleep, no matter how tired that makes you. No matter what they do to your exposed body; no matter how many needles or tubes or probes they shove into battered flesh. If left to choose, you would rather take all that: the undignified force feedings, the groping inspections, the continuous cycle of pain ranging from the pinpricks of injections to the sear of liquid poisons coursing through the countless tubes inserted in your veins. Heck, you would shamelessly beg for it if you had to. Because you know the alternative to be so much worse\n\n``He's spiking again! Another dose!''\n\nBone splinters dig deeper into your arms and torso, bringing their usual cargo of creepy crawlies to kindle a fire below your skin. You fight. Thrash... A last ditch attempt to tug one of the embedded fragments free. But already your strength is failing and shadows lengthening, the hazy blur of your surroundings sharpening and changing from polished chrome to rotting wood as the voice whispers in your ear once more - a voice you know only too well. \n\n``For what it's worth, I'll be here until we do, and I'm never ever letting go,''\n\nAnd though no one can scarce believe it, you find that you do have enough left in you to scream.\n\n", "writing_bbcode_parsed": "Alright, so it was a stupid idea. There, I've said it. What more do you want from me? You've asked your questions; you know that all this is unnecessary. The goons are one thing, but a straitjacket - seriously? What, d'you think I'm just gonna rock up and chew your face off?

Okay, fine. I'm sorry about Doctor Stebbins, but after everything that's happened you guys should really know not to get in my personal space by now. Don't look at me like that. Dude even got off easy if you ask me.  Who needs their voicebox anyway these days, amirite?

Sheesh. Tough crowd. Moving on... It all started with the dumbwaiter.

I'm sure big-brained guys like you with all your fancy PHDs already know what dumbwaiters are. But in case you don't, they're like tiny elevators some houses have to move stuff between floors - too small for normal people to use as an elevator, though a child might be able to use it that way...if they wanted to. Why would they want to? Heck if I know, I'm not some little kid. Don't ask me how their brains work.  What's important is that this is something that they do. Just ask my little brother - oh wait, you can't because he's... But I guess I'm getting ahead of myself here.

Yeah, I've a kid brother. Yes, he's no longer with us. Which; okay, I guess you could say is kinda my fault, if you look at it in a certain way. Why are we going over this again? You've got my file, you can read...you know what? Fine - I'll do this if I have to, but I'm going to be telling it my way.

I hate my brother. I'm sure that's nothing new. You've probably heard loads of kids say something similar whenever we get dragged in here, straitjackets and all. Some people call it sibling rivalry, but to call it a war wouldn't be that far off the mark. There was just something about him that rubbed me the wrong way, if you know what I mean. Always so solemn, so quiet, so...judgemental - can preschoolers even be judgemental? Well, it certainly seemed that way to me. He would follow me everywhere I went; not saying a word, just staring with those creepy-ass eyes of his - just like that one horror movie about that possessed killer doll. You know what it's like to wake up in the middle of the night to your cat on your chest staring at you? Well, picture that except with a six-year-old instead of a cat. Nothing in the usual older sibling's arsenal ever worked either. That's the problem with threats - there must be something to target if they're ever to work. He had no friends, no treasured possessions that a resourceful relative could hold to ransom. Indian burns, loogies and swirlies all had no lasting effect. Ever since he could crawl, my life has been a nonstop nightmare of nerves, never knowing where he'd pop up next. It only got worse after he learned to walk, since after that not even distance was a sure guarantee. Little dweeb even followed me to the shower once, can you believe? Enough is enough. I had to put an end to it somehow. It was that or be driven crazy. So, there was only one way this all could end.

You think I'm nuts. Why else would I be here, padded room and all? But I dare you; any of you to last even one week in my situation: cooped in day and night in a drafty old house with that little devil for company. Mum left shortly after the little horror was born - yet another thing I can blame him for. Dad worked multiple shifts to make ends meet. I envied them both. They never had to deal with any of this mess. I even tried doing things the `normal' way at first - bought locks; pestered the social worker to help install them on our doors. None of it worked. Somehow or other, he still would find a way to catch me off guard when I least expected it. I never knew when I'd turn only to meet those damning eyes, or where he would pop up next. It was a game to him; this much was obvious. He was doing it on purpose, wanting to see how long it would be before I snapped. And try as I might, my pride would not let me concede to a preschooler. If it was a game he wanted, a game he would get: one I intended to win.

It wasn't hard to figure out that the tiny twerp was using the dumbwaiter shafts to pull off his creepy stalker routine. The bloody things riddled our house, a leftover from when it belonged to some posh people with way too much time on their paws. Those were his hideout; his private wonderland - one where he would spend hours traversing, like a hamster with those plastic tubes. Dad always claimed it was just a phase and that he would grow out of it soon enough. Sure...and pigs might fly.

Traditional threats and sibling violence had failed me so far, so I knew I would have to kick it up a notch if I wanted any kind of significant effect. Time to bring in the big guns.

``Leif, have you ever heard of He Who Lurks Behind the Walls?''

The huddled shape perched atop me gave no sign, but I could tell from the way its ears pricked that he was listening. I think back to years of summer camps and jerkass counsellors who delighted in traumatizing gullible preteen kids like me. Here we go - God of bullies, fail me not. ``It is a terrible monster that waits inside the walls of old houses like this one; the older the better. It doesn't come out during the day because it's too smart for that. What it likes to do is lie in wait for unattended cubs and when it catches one...BAM!'' I throw off my covers catching the little pest by surprise, seize him by the skinny shoulders and shake him back and forth like a terrier. ``It just loves the taste of little cubs,''

``I - I don't believe you,'' I knew better than to attribute the stammer to this lame story actually scaring him rather than being shaken to an inch of his life, but it was fun to pretend otherwise. ``Why hasn't anyone seen it?''

``Like I said: it hides and only comes out to feast on little brothers. It's got a body that can twist itself to fit into tiny places. Places like...the crawlspace of this very house. I've heard it breathing and moving through the walls. With us being the only two at home there's no adults to keep it at bay so it's only a matter of time before...''

``You've heard me in the walls. Not He-Who...whatever,''

``That's what it wants you to think. Now get out of my room and stop spying on me, pipsqueak,'' I conclude my morning ritual, picking one bratty six-year-old up by the scruff of his neck and dumping him at the threshold of my room before slamming the door. I don't bother to latch it. We all know locks won't keep him out. With any luck though, the rest of the plan will.

Stage Two of said plan called for the actual dumbwaiter to be removed. With the help of some older teens taking Shop it was easy enough to go around plugging and boarding up all the little bolt holes that allowed dumbwaiter access, starting with my room - something that I would probably end up having to do anyway, regardless of whether the Plan worked. Every single one, save for the larger vent that was his main avenue of access from his room. As any good mouse trap maker or older sibling knows, you need a way of predicting where your quarry will go. I also invest in a large quantity of sneezing and itching powder, which I dump liberally into every hatch before boarding them shut. In such a small, enclosed space it will only be a matter of time before the powder particles spread and -

``Ah..TISH...OO!'' the usual clanking and creaking noises which have so long been a maddening constant in my life intensify; telltale signs of someone either holding an impromptu wrestling match or else thrashing about in a desperate bid to scratch, sneeze and spasm all at once. I track the noises along the walls, casually glancing up in time to notice the wadded ball of fabric smacking uselessly against one of the boarded bolt holes when a muffled swearword catches my ear. Kid's smart enough to ditch the clothes then; stripping down to the fur before the worst of the mixture can seep in.

Perfect. Commence Phase Three:

He's panicked now, or at least as close to it as someone like him can be. The combination of blurry eyes, wheezing sneezes and the persisting itching sensation will have done that, whether he believes in my monster or not. With every other exit sealed and accounted for, the brat's trapped in a kill-box of my making: left with no other option but to shimmy nude through a network of powder-clogged passages to seek sanctuary in his room - a location which I have; quite reasonably, painstakingly rigged with motion activated cameras and camcorders to forever capture the exact moment of his eventual emergence in all of its adorable, naked glory.  

Precious blackmail material in other words; to withhold or disseminate as I see fit. Boys will be boys.

But wait, that's not the direction of the... Where's he going? There must be another exit I don't know about. Where could...

Of course. The garage!

I turn on my heel and dash for it, knowing that there is a good chance that I can make it there before he can in the condition that he's in. I'm barely across the threshold when my arm catches against something that gives way with a snap; the sound almost immediately followed by the louder unmistakable click of a latch sliding shut. A cursory examination of the door informs me that my worst suspicions are indeed correct. The latch does appear to be on the other side, and well beyond my reach.

Well, @#$%.

Something whirrs and I round upon it...only to feel incredibly foolish to discover it is nothing more threatening than a tape recorder beginning to play its pre-recorded message: ``You're not the only one who can prank, sis.''

Once again, @#$%

``Don't bother trying the door. It's locked. Hope you don't mind the smell. Say hi to Dad for me, will you?'' the tape stutters and comes to a halt, unspooling its guts in a mess of ribbons. Now that he mentions it, there's indeed a smell: something faint and disturbing. And what did he mean about...

There - slumped over in the driver's seat of his car, looking as though he might be asleep; is our father. But I already know this is a slumber from which he will not wake. Not if my nose and the running engine is telling me what I already suspect: carbon monoxide. Suicide? But when? How?

One of the car's windows has been rolled down. Either an oversight on my dad's part, or someone's deliberate action after the deed to make sure its noxious contents will seep out to fill the rest of the enclosed garage...which currently is cut off from the rest of the wider world. There is no denying the handiwork. It makes my earlier attempts feel like the work of a clumsy amateur next to a master. It is neat, subtle and everything a death trap ought to be.

All of a sudden, I feel tired. Weary - far older than my fourteen years. How long have we been at each other's throats? Are we doomed to play out the same old patterns with each other in this fatalistic parody of Tom and Jerry? Trapped in a never-ending cycle of tit for tat all for some silly prank war?

Someone must be the first to take a step, to break the cycle before we all end up like Dad at least. By the look of things that could be happening all too soon. Ongoing noises in the walls remind me that that there is a solution to be had, at least. Because while the door itself may be booby trapped and locked, there is still the crawlspace: a crawlspace that I had spent so much time prepping with my vicious mixture of itching and sneezing powders - the very same that I must navigate to have any hope of escaping the far more dangerous gases around me now.

I spare a glance for our dear departed father, decide there's nothing that can be done for him and press on, removing every item of clothing that may snag or catch or get in the way. Even then there is no guarantee that I fit in the crawlspace like my little brother can, but I fancy my chances there more than slow poisonous death.

Progress is slow, frustratingly so. These ducts were made for dumbwaiters, not dumb teens. In places I literally have to slither on my belly, inching forward like a snake with the top of the vent grazing my spine. The air makes my eyes sting and pelt itch. Accidentally springing my own trap and having the camera capture my exit is the least of my worries. What if I miss seeing the way out? With the way my eyes are swimming it's definitely a possibility.

Thoughts taper off when I collide with something furry and bony that swears like a sailor. ``Outta my way, moron!''

``Garage way's blocked,'' I tell him matter-of-factly, finding it strange how lost and fragile he looks now that we're face to face in a mess of our own making. The way his fur has been rumpled from its rough journey through the shaft makes him look younger than he actually is. ``Only way out is back through your room,''

``What.'' It comes out like a statement rather than a question.

``Your poison gas trap. Tape recorder was a nice touch, by the way,''

``Oh...right,'' a small puff of exhaled air as he sighs, shoulders sagging in resignation. ``Thanks.''

``You can still get back the way you came. The crawlspace is big enough for you to turn around. Go back and call someone - the fire department, the police, I don't care! Get help,''

``No,'' he doesn't look me in the eyes. ``Can't,''

``What do you mean `can't'? Is it because of the camera thing? Look, I'm sorry about that. I promise to delete the pictures, okay? Just go back and get help,''

``Can't,'' he repeats; the sudden regression from evil bratty mastermind to monosyllabic speech scaring me more than anything ever has. ``Blocked,'' he looks up then wide eyed; the resemblance so much like Shrek's Puss-In-Boots that I've to resist an urge to cuddle him and assure everything will be alright. ``For...years,''

``What do you mean?'' I'm starting to get a bad feeling about all of this, like I've stumbled into something I want no part of. But instead of replying, he simply turns around; reorienting himself in the crawlspace and treating me to an unexpected eyeful as he does so. I tear myself away from gawking just in time to see a tail brush swish impatiently in the silent signal of `follow'.

And so, I do - our journey made in silence punctuated only occasionally by sneezes and muttered swears. I expect to lose him in the tunnels more suited to a smaller form than mine own, but for some reason he is oddly considerate; stopping every now and again for me to catch up.

``Did you...?'' I break off to sneeze. ``Dad, I mean.''

``No,'' He doesn't turn around, shoulders bobbing as we make our way deeper into the vents. ``Suicide,''

``Oh,'' What does one say to that? ``That's good...I guess,''

``Because of Mum,''

``What,'' another sneezing fit takes me, which is somewhat of a relief. I'm not sure what I'm asking exactly, or if I even want to know the answer.

Which is too bad, really - because today is apparently one of those days where we don't get what we want. I become aware of a new smell around us, getting stronger as we inch closer and closer to the source. It is sickly sweet yet somehow familiar through the overpowering tones of rotting meat. After an indeterminate amount of time he stops, and without warning; hunkers down, flattening himself upon the crawlspace's floor to give me a good look at...oh gods -

``There: Mum,''

I see her; a mummified husk ravaged by years of weather and vermin. The corpse is frozen in mid motion with one arm reaching outward, its mass - even in its current state larger than my own -  effectively sealing off the rest of the passage. ``She didn't leave Dad after all,''

``No. I was the one who left. She came in after me,''

I try to picture the scene: a pup, crawling through an abandoned dumbwaiter shaft while its mother; wild with panic, makes the decision to follow, getting irrecoverably stuck in the process. ``Did you, back then...'' I don't know what I mean to ask. Did you mean it? Did you do it on purpose? Did you feel bad after it all? Maybe all three, or none of them

``Yes. No. Maybe?'' his ears droop. ``I don't know,''

``Guess this is it then,'' the truth has a solemn sense of finality to it. There is no way to move forward with the obstruction in the way. Going back would result in suffocation just as sure as staying put will.

``I...'' all of a sudden he throws himself at me, burying his muzzle in my fur. ``I don't...don't want to die,''

``Yeah, well...nobody ever does,'' Instinctively I pull my brother closer in a hug, close enough to feel the rapid rhythm of his heart and breath through his slender frame. ``For what it's worth, I'll be here until we do, and I'm never ever letting go,''

Except...I did, didn't I? Let go, I mean. I must have, obviously, since I'm here and he?s not it just goes to show...

Hang on. Where is ?here? exactly? Did anyone ever say? Because I'm not sure you did. I may not be a flipping genius like my little bro was but even I can--

No, I am not being hysterical. I don't need to sit down or be sedated for my own good. This is what's going to happen. You lot are going to quit with the questions and start giving some answers for a change, because if you don't, I'm going to be walking straight out that door. This door, right here. You're saying that's a bad idea? Big deal, my life's been a nonstop series of bad ideas, weren't you paying attention? How's one more going to be any different?

Save the sermon for someone who cares. For my own good? Wont like what I'll find? I?ll take my chances. The more someone tells me not to do something the more I wanna do it so...up yours, fam. Be seeing ya -

----

--aaaaaaaaaaaahh!

Your throat is sore from screaming. Not past screaming, either. Current screaming: screaming that is literally happening right now. You have been screaming, currently are screaming and will likely go on to scream for the foreseeable future though you're not entirely sure why.

Sensations assault you one after the other. Pain is the first: the most immediate source being your screaming throat. Hearing comes next, the nonstop caterwauling from your lungs shrill enough to drive an icepick of frustration through your brain. Smell is soon to follow, an overwhelming stench of rotting flesh that makes you wonder if you can hurl and scream at the same time. You ponder the sheer ridiculousness of continuing to scream without even knowing what you're screaming about while doing just that...for all of the five seconds that it takes for your surroundings to fade back into focus. And when they do -

You scream louder. Harder: this time in earnest. Because if that's not an appropriate reaction to the half rotting skull inches away from your face, you're not sure what is.

Recoiling from that ghastly apparition, you scoot backward before turning to run - no, crawl in the opposite direction because the ceiling is... really low here for some reason? Only to find your brilliant escape foiled by a second withered monstrosity currently blocking your retreat, skeletal arm pointing at you in what feels like accusation...

Nor are you in any position to run even if you tried, not with the first body?s lifeless arms wrapped around you in a dead man?s embrace. Skeleton appendages press against your bare skin - yes, you are naked, for whatever reason--in a grotesque parody of intimacy, every slight movement you make causing some fragment of bone or who-knows-what to scrape across your flesh. You immediately regret attempting a closer observation and wish desperately for the comparatively preferable bliss of ignorance just seconds ago when you were happily unaware of your current circumstances - especially with regards to the shriveled paw pressed firmly against your bare chest and its counterpart--oh dear gods, no--actually clutching your sensitive underbelly, its largest talon stubbornly lodged right in your bellybutton up to the first joint with the smaller pinkie invading your urethra. Every halfhearted attempt to set yourself free is futile - your shaking paws in no fit state to perform the most basic of actions, never mind muster the resolve to surgically remove those stray splinters of bone currently protruding from your privates and skin

So, you make do; gingerly trying to suck in your gut to avoid further contact with more parts of the skeleton than is necessary while tolerating the presence of those you can't, thinking that surely this must be the worst of it, for what fresh hell can even top your current situation?

And that's when you feel the subtle shift, your mind conjuring images of creepy crawlies slithering all over you; drawn from these cold lifeless husks to the presence of living meat in their midst. Ants, worms, and many legged things crawling over the bones of the dead to get at you, using the tenuous connection of the bones impaling you to bridge the gap and burrow into your naked, exposed flesh. On top of it all, you are fairly certain you hear a voice whispering something amid the frantic beat of your heart and the blood pounding in your ears.

``--I'm never ever letting go...''

And you realize your earlier assessment was wrong all along because there always, always, will be a reason to scream

---

``Carl, check those readouts. Something's triggered the failsafe again. Probably a stray R.E.M spike,''

``That'd have to be one heck of a spike. Are you seeing these numbers? He's going into shock. We need those tranquilizers, stat!''

``Too much. That's enough to knock out a mammoth. Kid's only six, he shouldn't need so much...''

``Are you even seeing this kit? Something's gotta give, and it's either the tubes or his heart. He came close to ripping out the umbilical feeder just now,''

Amidst the chaos of mechanical beeps and urgent voices a fox pup spasms; muzzle crinkling in a rictus of pain as he struggles against the wires and tubes holding him in place, muscles flexing along the length of his sleek, white furred body.

``Who is this kid? We've given him -

``Enough tranqs to knock out a mammoth, I know - haven't you been following the news? Iceland? Self-made orphan? Ring any bells?''

``No way. This is him? Thought he'd be...bigger,''

``Any bigger and we'd have our work cut out for us, from what I'm seeing. Alright people, let's wrap things up. Kid's got a big day tomorrow and needs his sleep. Standby on the gas, at my signal,''

Most of the words are meaningless, passing in a haze of confused sound. You recognize `sleep' however and that's enough to get your heart pumping again. Sleep is where the monsters will find you. Sleep is the domain of He-Who-Lurks-Behind-the-Walls. Ergo you simply won?t sleep, no matter how tired that makes you. No matter what they do to your exposed body; no matter how many needles or tubes or probes they shove into battered flesh. If left to choose, you would rather take all that: the undignified force feedings, the groping inspections, the continuous cycle of pain ranging from the pinpricks of injections to the sear of liquid poisons coursing through the countless tubes inserted in your veins.  Heck, you would shamelessly beg for it if you had to. Because you know the alternative to be so much worse

``He's spiking again! Another dose!''

Bone splinters dig deeper into your arms and torso, bringing their usual cargo of creepy crawlies to kindle a fire below your skin. You fight. Thrash... A last ditch attempt to tug one of the embedded fragments free. But already your strength is failing and shadows lengthening, the hazy blur of your surroundings sharpening and changing from polished chrome to rotting wood as the voice whispers in your ear once more - a voice you know only too well.

``For what it's worth, I'll be here until we do, and I'm never ever letting go,''

And though no one can scarce believe it, you find that you do have enough left in you to scream.

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