‘BENEATH THE FOOTSTEPS’ by Richard David Lawman

I lay, amongst dust and rubble, pressed up against damp wood. Through tiny cracks came slits of filtered light into what they thought was my grave.  I heard their TV drone and their footsteps thump down. Their explosively bitter arguments of where their next solution was coming from – often of the chemical variety.  I heard the needles loaded and then shot.  Also, their groans, the lifelessness, the euphoria fading to nothing.  I waited for my time to come, the time to break out of the grave they had given me.  Their mistake. They hadn’t killed me after all.  The drug-fuelled murder fest had been nothing more than a beating. Luckily for me, they were out of it before they went to the tool shed.

I don’t remember each moment exactly. Obviously, the memory of how I came to be in their home wasn’t too hard to place.  It was my naivety, the fact I overlooked their darting, mistrustful eyes and ignored my gut to get out of there.  I stayed, a kind visitor, there to help.

“Dig him up!” I heard her say, “Dig him up, I’m hungry!”

“He’ll be off by now, it’s been weeks!” It had been two days. Two days.

“I’m hungry.”

“Fine…” he sighed. The heavy footsteps thudded down again and the room was filled with delighted moans and the smacking of her lips.

I listened as I heard him stomp into the hallway and out the front door.  Wedged between two floor joists that ran the length of the room, I could only shimmy up or down.  Pressing my hands out onto the underneath of the floorboards, I pushed myself across the rough floor, inch by inch.  I had only made it about a foot from my original position when I heard him stomp back in.

He pulled the rug violently from the floor.  The coffee table, laden with overflowing ashtrays, glasses and cups crashed down on top of where I was.  Stale, flat beer dripped down the cracks onto my face.  I heaved a little more and made my way towards the far wall.  He grunted and muttered to himself as he kneeled down and began to work the crowbar into the gaps in the floorboards.  I shimmied faster, faster, not worried by the scrapes and grunts I let out.  Finally, I slid off the living room foundations and hauled myself into a bigger space in another, smaller room.  The crowbar cracked down into the floorboards, the sound of wood splintering, nails squeaking as they became dislodged from their holes.

I was under the pantry – a closed-off room next to the kitchen-dinner.  The floorboards here were more rotten than the ones in the living room and began to crumble damply in my hands as I clawed at them.  Squatting, I was able to push my back up against the underneath of the floorboards here and, timing my heaves with the bangs of his hammer on the crowbar, I finally burst out from my dusty grave.  Dirty light poured into the cupboard as he prised up the floorboard.

“He’s not here! He’s not fuck-, shit, I don’t believe this!” He cried.  More footsteps, more stamping about.  I felt out in the dark and found what I was looking for; something heavy, something hard.

My only way out would be back through the living room.  I wiped my hands on my dusty jeans and made sure of my grip on the curtain pole.  This would be my last stand, two against one. But I had the upper hand, unlike them.  I wouldn’t make the same mistake as they did.  I would check for a pulse before nailing the floorboards shut.

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Richard David Lawman is the chief Writer/ Director/ Producer of ‘The Putty In Your Hands’ production company. He can be found and contacted at  http://richarddavidlawman.com/ andhttp://uk.linkedin.com/pub/richard-lawman/24/966/182

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‘EYES IN THE CUPBOARD’ by Richard David Lawman

Something made Detective Boll feel uneasy as he stepped into the hallway of the house. Perhaps it was the stillness, the eerie silence broken intermittently by a distant drip as of yet unplaced.  Boll stepped carefully towards the kitchen, a pile of garbage spilled from the bin onto the floor.  The lino was sticky under his feet. And he still felt uneasy.

He saw the broken chair and the table on its side by the door.  The back door lay slightly ajar and began to rock quietly as the wind caught it.  Boll looked around for his suspect, his victim, his witness and saw nobody.  A dirty trickle of blood on the floor and a red hand-print on the glass window gave it away.  He unclicked his holster and let his fingers rest on his revolver.  He silenced his breathing and began to step backwards, towards the front door, away from the silence.

Silence comes first. Then the laughter. Then the screaming.  He was the last detective left in his team.  They always lured them out like this.  The child’s swing in the front yard, the freshly mowed lawn and the sparkling SUV on the drive.  The eyes were watching him.

He knew there was no point in running, he just stepped back slowly out the door.  What chance was he taking by not reporting this? What if it was a real burglary and kidnapping like the screaming woman said?

“Next time.” He shouted. “You’ll have to get me next time!”

Boll drove away, the last remaining Detective. Away from the freshly mowed lawn, the child’s swing, the blood on the window and the eyes in the cupboard under the stairs.

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Richard David Lawman is the chief Writer/ Director/ Producer of ‘The Putty In Your Hands’ production company. He can be found and contacted at  http://richarddavidlawman.com/ andhttp://uk.linkedin.com/pub/richard-lawman/24/966/182

 


‘NOTHING TO PROVE’ by JJ Breech

From within my cage they think that I can no longer get to them. They smile and laugh, drink coffee, rattle a large set of keys, shake their fingers at me as if scolding a naughty child; they believe they are safe and, of course, they are wrong and, if I wanted to, I could prove it. If my eye lashes were to flutter, the first guard would die of a heart attack. If my left hoof was to rise a little, I could snap the tallest guard in two and use him as bloody sticks upon the cells bars, making a hellishly sweet tune- Ha!

If I so desired I would smile sweetly, tear the walls down around me, build a box to hold the rest of the day’s corpses and cadavers in. Then, hour after hour, I would sacrifice the humans before each other, so they all knew- in those tortuous last moments- what was waiting for each and every one of them. If I wanted I would create obscene jewellery to wear- wristbands of babies flesh and a necklace of an elderly home’s collective cancer.

For a day I would travel from city to city and ask those in authority to bow before me and beg for forgiveness, and for my pleasure I would make them describe, in great detail, what they would do to their fellow humans to escape my wrath. And when all self-worth is gone and dignity has left them all- as one by one, they have sold out those they use to call ‘loved ones’- I will show them not the mercy they cry for, but instead they will watch as everything around them burns, knowing their punishment will be the last. And the most creative.

Then, if I desired, I would begin to grind the Earth together between my claws and hooves, and as it stops turning and all the Universe’s eyes are on me, as Armageddon becomes a bliss filled reality, I will finally do my very worst and — but I should stop, as I am getting myself a little… worked up… and… excited, and also I’m not actually going to do any of this. No, no- none of it all. I could if I wanted too but I don’t have anything to prove. These are mere fantasies, erotica, day dreams to pass the time as I wait.

For I have to bide my time and bide it well. So I will stay upright on my hind legs, with closed eyes and I will remain perfectly still. And wait. Why? Because Mother is coming and Mother knows best. And Mother will do, far, far worse than I ever could.

—————————————————————————————————————————————————————–(JJ Breech is the  Curator/ Editor/ OversEEr  of bizarrEEye Creative Community. He writes @ the UNSEEN & the OBSCENE blog (amongst other places) and has had an interest in Horror and the Fantastique from an early age, when he saw An American Werewolf In London, and realised that’s exactly what he wanted to be when he grew up!)