Tuesday, January 10, 2012

Made it

The morning arrived and Chet couldn’t believe it. He’d been up all night long practically pissing himself with every creak or thud of the aging house. It was still strangely dark in the Andersen place, as if the sun couldn’t penetrate the filth and grime covering the windows. Chet was sure it was morning when he heard the birds chirping outside. That’s only something that happens in the mornings. Meaning he’d made it.

Chet dropped the axe he was holding for self defense and used his foot too push open the closet door. The closet had provided him with a safe haven while the house tried to swallow his soul. The others hadn’t been so lucky, Becky, Sally, Roger, all of them were gone.  The house ate them and crapped their bloody bones out in the basement. Chet saw their skin stripped from their bodies as he cowardly ran back up the stairs, leaving them to their hell. Chet didn’t know where Jessica was, she was trying to burn the house down at some point. She had been in the creepy old witch’s bedroom. She was probably dead too. Chet tried to get to his feet, but the gash on his left leg was too painful to move.

It was all Becky’s fault anyway, if she hadn’t started playing with that clock and doing all her Goth shit none of this would have happened. She had to push it. Chet just wanted to break into the Andersen place to make out with Jessica and drink beer without getting caught.  Chet imagined his whole high school quarterback career was over, college was over, just because Becky had to try and play witchcraft and not let Roger get in her panties. If she’d just made out with him and had some of the whiskey they’d all be alive.

Chet heard something shuffling upstairs. He held his breath and tried not to panic. The thing that cut his leg, the golden eye dog thing with the six legs that snapped at him, or the ghosts that swirled around his head after that cop that mysteriously showed up and exploded, it could be anything out there. Chet reached again for the axe and held it close to his chest.

“Chet, Roger”, called a thin, pale voice.

It was Jessica, she had made it. Chet exhaled and called out to her.

“Help, I’m in the closet and I can’t move my leg!”
“Chet is that you?”
“It is Jess, it is. How did you make it?”

Jessica pulled open the closet door all the way and saw Chet laying in his own piss and filth and blood. She was covered with blackened, charred skin, still smoking slightly. Chet tried to recoil in horror.

“I didn’t make it Chet. None of us will”.

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