Chapter 2 – Chap 2

I stood at the living room window, waiting. Finally, the garbage truck pulled up to the curb. A heavy-set man in a bright orange vis-vest stepped off the back, spat dryly onto the pavement and hoisted my garbage into the back-compactor. Climbing onto the truck, he unceremoniously tossed the aluminum bucket back onto the road. My sense of relief vanished-

-Inside the bucket was a foot-long splinter—a lingering remnant of the coat-rack. Bursting out through the front door, I yelled after the garbage truck. It lurched to a grudging stop. Blood rushed into my face as I forced a smile. I strode across the yard, bent over, reached into the can, grabbed the splinter of wood, and tossed it into the truck. The heavy-set man blinked disinterest as they drove off towards the next house. The truck’s compactor pressed down with a satisfying crunch.

Goodbye Coat-rack.

There was a strange comfort in it, as though the coat-rack held some special power—a special power which, upon its destruction, had lifted. Strolling back toward the house, I caught myself smiling, humming. Almost feeling happy. I wrapped my hand around the front doorknob, and- a sharp pain shot up my wrist. My hand swung back like an electric shock. Gritting my teeth, I turned my palm around. A splinter about the size of a blood-test needle was lodged in between my thumb and pointer finger. I breathed in, yanked it out, exhaled, and tossed it back over my shoulder. I stepped inside.

When I pulled the door shut, red smeared across the brass knob. I turned over my hand again- A thin line of blood trailed out from the puncture-hole, snaking down towards the tip of my thumb. Wrapping my other hand around the ‘wound,’ I marched back towards the kitchen.

The bandages were in a tray on top of the fridge. I pulled them down and wrapped my hand up. Turning around, I leaned my back against the fridge, marveling at how quick my good mood soured. All it took was a wooden splinter. At that point, another thought crept into my head. Part of me, the paranoid, irrational part, wanted to go back and find the splinter, take it out past city limits and burn it. I actually had to fight the urge to go back and do this. * It’s a coat-rack*, I reminded myself.

Either way, I took comfort in the new security systems. Motion camera’s outside, alarms on every door and window—big stickers advertising the system to any would-be intruders. I even checked every corner of the house just to ensure nobody was hiding inside. Looking back, I still hadn’t fully processed the fact that somebody took the time and effort to sneak into my house and set a coat rack in the basement corner. Not steal anything, not even move anything, just set a coat rack in the basement corner. The fact lodged into the back of mind like a stubborn popcorn shell stuck between teeth.

Hunched over my laptop at the kitchen table, I took a sip of bitter black coffee. Thanks to the pandemic, all work was homework now. That was fine by me. I always preferred staying at home to just about anything else anyways. Typing away furiously, I was finally falling into that ever-elusive zen state of work. Coding line after line until-

-My cell phone buzzed against the plastic vinyl tabletop. Unknown number. I reached over and froze. Something told me not to answer it, something told me to block the number. I shook it off and answered regardless.

“Brandon Miller,” Said the voice on the other end. I couldn’t tell if it was a question or a statement.

“…Speaking.”

“I’m calling about the note,” he continued. He sounded young, early twenties maybe. “The one on your doorstep.”

“…Okay.”

“Yeah, I was the one who left it there.”

I didn’t respond; I didn’t know how to respond.

“Look. I know it’s weird, trust me, I know better than most. The thing here is to make sure you understand what’s going on. To make you take it seriously. Does that make sense?”

I didn’t answer.

He sighed, anxious, “Look. I know you think I’m crazy. Shit, I might be. I just… I need to talk with you in person. I -“

“-Don’t call this number again,” I said plainly. I ended the call. Set the phone down. Leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms.

In hindsight, I regret my coldness here. But in my defense, I’d seen enough real-life horror by then. I was pushing forty and well acquainted with the crushing mundanity of real-life suffering. I had no desire to indulge in made-up nonsense. I-

-KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

My heart skipped a beat as the pounding at the front door continued. I slid back on my chair and stood up. Fist clenched, I marched across the room and yanked open the door. There stood a young man, tall and dressed in a white shirt and black denim pants, “Look. I’m really …sorry to be this persistent, but…”

I immediately recognized his voice from the phone call. I had to admit, the way he looked was surprising. Until now, I imagined a weaselly looking, basement-dwelling internet troll. But this guy almost looked like a low-key movie star. Young Marlon Brando vibes. Regardless, I didn’t know what to say. He looked down, kicking his feet awkwardly at the ground. He looked up.

“Look. I just need five minutes,” he said, “I’ll explain everything and never come back.” His eyes were filled with sincerity. Years of suffering hidden beneath a desperate smile. I looked around; other neighbors were milling about, a few were glancing over, concerned. I looked back to him, “Fine.” I said, my voice dripping with skepticism.

He looked back over his shoulder, then back to me. “We can’t talk here.” He said, “Let’s go for a walk if that’s alright.”

“Sure.”

I consider myself a pretty good judge of character, and he didn’t seem dangerous, he seemed genuinely worried. If anything, my curiosity was in control now.

Early evening overcast gray cast over the suburbs. We walked down the street, side by side, six feet apart, silent. Our shoes scraped against concrete. The smell of outdoor barbecues lingered in the air. He looked back over his shoulder again. We were about four houses down from mine.

“First off…” He said, looking forward again, “I want to apologize.” He slid his hands into pockets as he walked, “I don’t really know the best way to… uh… approach something like this, and I’m sorry for being so cryptic.”

I grunted non-commitally.

“Second, I… really don’t expect you to believe me.” He continued, “Unless I saw something firsthand… I wouldn’t believe me either.” He looked up at the clouds and squinted as diffused sunlight cast against his face. The sky was spitting rain now. Invisible drops, you could only feel. Sporadic, icy pinpricks against the skin.

“Maybe I’m crazy, I don’t know.” He continued, “My father probably was. I mean, that’s what we all thought when he finally …” He looked back over his shoulder again, his eyes filled with regret.

“Look.” He ran a hand through jet black hair, “Take it seriously for the first couple weeks and see where it goes. If it’s bullshit, then it’s bullshit.”

I still wasn’t quite sure what to say. At this point, I believed that he believed, but that wasn’t enough to change my entire worldview.

“All you can do is search for ways to slow him down. Invite people over as much as possible.” He continued, “I know there’s the pandemic. Hell, invite a stranger over rent-free if you have to.”

“Whose living in your father’s house?” I asked suddenly.

“…I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

He shrugged again. “I haven’t been there since…” trailing off into silence, he grimaced, looking around as if the words might be somewhere close.

“I grew up here.” He said, changing the topic. “My sister and I used to collect pine-cones in the park.” He pointed across the street. Park was a generous word for an empty lot with a couple trees and a bench.

“We’d sell them to the neighbors…” He said, almost smiling, “Pine-cones, five cents a piece.” He shook his head like a chill went down his spine. “Look. You’ve just gotta take the rules seriously.” He suddenly shifted back to the previous topic. I still wasn’t convinced.

“You don’t know who’s living in your father’s house?” I said, “Did you sell it?”

He stopped walking and turned to face me. “Don’t try to understand this.” He said, rubbing his forehead with the back of his thumb, “The more you try to make sense of it, the more you try to rationalize… It only gets worse.”

Sounds like a death-cult mantra, I thought. “Sure,” I said.

“You have my number still?”

I nodded.

“If anything happens, you have any more questions. Call me. Anytime. Seriously any time. Four AM if you have to. I don’t care.”

“Okay.”

“It’s Mitchell, by the way.” He gave a little wave, turned away, and strolled off down the street, leaving me even more confused than before. Worse than that, I was beginning to consider the possibility that this might actually be real. A possibility made all the more disturbing due to the fact I’d already broken nearly every rule. His sincerity was unsettling.

—

By the time I got back home, it was dark out. I stood at the front door, rifling for my keys when-

“-Brandon?” A familiar voice called out from behind. I turned back to see Howie, standing on the curb. I almost didn’t recognize him at first. He wore a blue track-suit with a blue pencil tucked behind his ear and blue headphones wrapped around his neck.

Must be out for an evening jog, I thought.

“Howie,” I said.

“Walker’s kid spoke with you, huh?” he rested his hands on his hips.

I nodded.

“What he say?”

I shrugged, “Same stuff as the note.”

Howie shook his head as if to say, I expected as much. “Poor kid,” He said. “At least he’ll stop bothering you now.”

“Yeah.” Just then, beside the house across the street, the outdoor motion light snapped on. Howie looked back to see what I was seeing. Through the cracks in the fence, a lined silhouette stood up against the boards. It was hard to tell from this distance, but it almost looked like someone stood there watching us, peering through the fence-cracks. But the yard was filled with junk, so it could’ve been anything.

Howie turned back to me, “Anyways.” He said, pulling up his headphones and turning away.

“Who’s living there now?” I said. Howie froze, lowered the headphones, and turned back.

“Not sure.” He said.

“They never sold it?”

“Nope.”

“So, it’s empty?”

“I’ve seen someone, maybe a few someone’s millin’ about inside.”

“Ever seen them outside?”

Howie tilted his head, thinking. He clearly never paid much attention to it. “I don’t think so.” He said, “But I gotta gold-fish memory” He chuckled, shrugged, reached to put his headphones back on and-

“-OH!” his face lit up, “I’ve been stuck on this,” he pulled a crumpled piece of paper out from his jumpsuit pocket and read: “A thin piece of metal which glows brightly when a current passes through.” He looked up at me, his eyes filled with hope, “Eight words across, first letter ‘F,’ third letter ‘L'”

The light across the street snapped off and a light inside snapped on. Window blind shadows cast from inside as someone moved through the living room.

“Brandon?”

“…Filament,” I said. Eyes still locked on the house across the street.

Howie scribbled away, “That’s it! My God, that’s IT!” it sounded like he’d just won a thousand bucks. He looked at me, “You’re brilliant.”

I looked back to Howie, “Glad to help.” I said.

“Anyways.” Said Howie, his enthusiasm suddenly gone, “See you ’round.” He pulled his headphones up and jogged away.

I stood there, watching the house across the street. The light inside was still on, but no more movement. I turned back to my door, turned the key and stepped in. Pulling the door shut behind me, I strode into the living room and looked out the window. The house across the street was dark again. I pulled the curtains shut and turned back for the kitchen. The strange smell of gasoline and burnt hair lingered in the air still. Subtle, but unmistakable. I flicked the light on, sat down at the kitchen table and stared blankly at the wall. Harsh fluorescent glow vibrated against the white stucco. I should get warmer light bulbs, I thought. Then another thought crawled into my head. A thought that was slithering around in my subconscious for the past couple hours:

Mitchell, the dead neighbor’s son, did not put the coat-rack in your basement.

Of course, it’s possible he did. But after talking with him, it seemed… unlikely. This raised another question: who put the coat-rack in the basement?

Howie? Doubtful.

Another neighbor? Possibly.

The person or persons living across the-

-CLICK.

The sound of a door popping open interrupted my thoughts. I looked back over my shoulder, across the living room, in the front entrance hallway, the basement door was open. Just a crack. A thin line of darkness.

Fuck it.

I marched upstairs, grabbed my switchblade from the bedside table and stormed back down. Each footstep heavier than the last. Knife clenched in my left fist, I swung open the basement door and flicked on the light.

“I’m armed.” I said, trying and failing to sound like a threat, “If anyone’s down there, make yourself known now.”

Silence. Nothing but the hum of buzzing light bulb. I took a deep breath and exhaled, “Okay.” I whispered, taking a slow step forward.

I used to mock people in horror movies for always going down into the basement. But in the moment, it weirdly felt like my best option. It was that or leave the house or try to sleep, knowing it’s possible that someone is hiding in the basement. Call the cops? Tell them I found a coat-rack? Most cops don’t even have the time to worry about stolen cars, let alone ‘misplaced’ furniture. None of these choices felt appealing.

I reached the first stairwell and peered around the corner. Somehow, the hallway seemed darker than before. I flicked the light switch. Warm glow cast over-all.

The light wasn’t working last time.

I stepped forward. The familiar smell of burnt hair and gasoline getting stronger. The short walk down the hallway feeling like eternity. I stepped into the rec-room. Both corners were empty. I breathed relief and felt blood rush into my face. Once again, embarrassed at my own paranoia. I pocketed the switchblade and turned back when-

-something caught my eye. In the far-right corner, behind a stack of cardboard boxes, water. A thin layer of surface tension slowly spread across the shiny concrete.

Fuck.

They never said anything about leaks when I bought the place. I crossed the room and squat down. There were scattered clumps of wet dirt too. No source for the leak.

Strange.

The circle of water slowly expanded outward. I stared into it, and my crystal-clear reflection stared back. I need a haircut.

Drip.

My face rippled as a single drop fell from above. Of course. I looked up.

Drip.

I squinted, nothing but pink insulation and two-by-four beams. Could be a faulty pipe, I thought. Might explain the weird smells too.

Drip.

BANG-

-A door slammed shut. Upstairs, around the corner, the basement door slammed shut. I jumped to my feet, whipping out the switchblade. Before I could process what happened, everything went dark. Pitch. Fucking. Dark. The kind of dark that makes everything sound like it’s right next to your ear. The kind of dark that made your thoughts visible. I fumbled for my phone and dropped in onto the concrete. Fuck. I squat down, flailing in the dark. Sliding my hands against the cold, smooth floor, desperately searching for the phone. Searching for the light. The smell of burnt hair growing stronger all the while. No phone. Only concrete and cardboard boxes. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Panic swelled up inside my chest like a balloon, threatening to burst right through my rib-cage. I froze. I breathed in. I breathed out. I breathed in. I breathed out. The panic stopped growing. It didn’t get worse; it didn’t get better. It held in a state of pure survival. Clenching my eyes shut, I rose to standing. I didn’t even know which direction to go anymore. I followed my gut and took a step forward.

Up ahead, seven quick thumps staggered down the staircase and slammed against the corner wall. Silence. A sliding sound scraped against the drywall as if something rose to standing. A sickening chill went down my spine.

My hand clenched tight around the switchblade. “You have about three fucking seconds…” I said, once again failing to sound like a threat. Three seconds went by. Five seconds. Ten. Only silence. The sound of my own panicked breath and silence. Fuck it. Knife pointing forward, I rushed ahead. Screaming my best attempt at a war-cry as I flew through the dark. My ankles slammed against the stairs and I sailed forward, slamming chin first into the corner stairwell. Swiping and flailing the blade like a blind madman all the while.

The light snapped on.

I squinted as my eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness. Flat on my ass, backed into the corner of the stairwell, I looked around. There was nobody here. I looked up at the shut basement door. Nothing. Mind still racing, I turned to look down the hallway. Stood in the center of the rec-room, shattered splinters held together with nails and wire: The coat-rack.