The House

By

Lin P

   It was almost midnight as Detective D.M. Starsky drove through the dark, mostly deserted city streets. As he slowed to a stop at a red light the Torino purred beneath him and his mouth worked into a little smile at the sound. Like a knight's half-wild stallion in his reins, the car could inspire fear and awe. Criminals who saw the fiery vehicle turn onto their streets would step back into the shadows of their doorways. Those who had nothing to hide or avoid would pause and watch it pass by, admiring its sleekness and power.

   The light turned green and he continued on his way home. Though fatigue was beginning to show after working extra shifts all week his features were still undeniably handsome. Thick, dark curls framed a masculine face. Even sitting in his car his body exuded an athletic and vigorous readiness for anything at a second's notice.

   His partner Hutch had been off sick most of the week with a bad flu. When Starsky had picked him up Monday morning he'd looked decidedly rough - pale and feverish and, after a few hours of sitting listless and unproductive at his desk, he'd been convinced to book off. So Starsky had been working solo all week, preferring it to being partnered with any of a number of wet-behind-the-ears rookies that were always up for grabs for more work experience. To ride with the accomplished detective would be considered an opportunity among the newly uniformed officers, he knew, and at other times he'd be glad to share his skills but this week he'd been preoccupied, focused on cases that demanded all his attention.

   Hutch's car was also 'off sick'. The previous Friday they'd been on the streets when the old LTD's engine had coughed once, twice, and then died in the middle of the road. The garage that was fixing it had informed Hutch that the transmission was shot - a sizable repair job that would amount to a sizable bill. Starsky chuckled softly, recalling his futile argument with Hutch to give up on the car and look for a newer model but Hutch had stood firm in wanting the LTD back though there was the ghost of a look in his eye that foretold he was dreading the repair bill. So, a few days later, when Hutch had gone home sick Starsky had made up his mind to put in all the overtime shifts he could. He'd surprise his friend by paying the bill and delivering the car.

   Besides, Bay City, with its recently escalated crime rate, needed him.

   In a short time he was out of the business section of the city and into the edge of the suburbs, passing through an old section of town that, in its prime, was a desirable neighbourhood with large, stately homes. Now many of the old houses were in various stages of disrepair and decay, some empty and boarded up, others occupied by people who couldn't afford to keep them up. Starsky was almost through this district when his police radio crackled to life. Though he'd clocked off-duty fifteen minutes ago he turned up the volume and listened in half interest to the dispatcher. There was a break-in and the address she recited was only three blocks behind from where he'd just come. Well, he thought, why not? I'm here and all the other units are pretty busy. He informed Dispatch he'd take the call then smoothly coaxed the Torino into a U-turn and headed back into the dreary, desolate neighbourhood.

   Without lights or siren, he coasted slowly along a poorly lit street and peered out the side window, trying to read the numbers on the houses. He spotted the one he was looking for, edged the car up to the curb and killed the engine. A plain, two-storied structure, the house looked smaller, older and a little out of place amongst the bigger homes around it. The windows, upstairs and downstairs, were unlit and the paint had long since cracked and fallen off its drab facade. It sat on its lot in somber darkness.

   Starsky picked up his mike, clicked a button and waited.

   "Dispatch."

   "This is Zebra Three. I'm at the break-in call, sixty-two Harrow Street. Who called this in?"

   A short pause then, "A neighbour. She wouldn't give her name, just said nobody lives there but she saw someone moving around inside."

   Starsky looked at the surrounding darkened homes.

   "Huh... either she's peekin' at me now or she's gone back to bed. Okay, Dispatch, thanks." He hooked the mike on its stand, opened the dash and found his small flashlight then got out of the car. He walked up to a wrought-iron fence and pushed open the gate. It immediately caught and scraped on the walk and he squeezed through it. He moved quietly around the side of the house, mindful of the overgrown shrubs and brambles that pulled and snagged at his clothes, and peered in through the windows, most of which were curtained off. At the back door he turned on his flashlight and shone its light on the knob, tested it and found it locked. He retraced his steps, illuminating all the window sashes. Everything was shut tight, nothing broken or tampered with. He made his way to the front door again and inspected it; it too appeared undamaged.

   He placed a tentative hand on the knob, turned it easily and heard a soft click.

   "Well, no wonder, for cryin' out loud," he muttered and pushed the heavy oaken door inward. As if it were the very mouth of the house, it moaned despondently and yawned wide. He stepped over its threshold.

   Like a laser, the narrow, cyclical beam of his flashlight sliced through the blackness of the interior. It traveled up a bare wall on his right, ahead of him to a long hallway that ran to the back of the house and beside that a staircase ascending to the second floor. He directed the light to his left, into an empty, spacious room where strips of peeling, dingy wallpaper scrolled forlornly down its walls. Long, tattered drapes, hung haphazardly on a few hooks, covered an expansive window and dipped to the floor; the distorted, still shapes reminding him of long-dead corpses wanting only to lie down. There was a panel of light switches on the wall to his right and he flicked one toggle up, not surprised when no power came on.

   He stood there a moment, waiting attentively for any sound but hearing nothing. He aimed the flashlight down the hallway and as he started towards it a strange but vaguely familiar sensation suddenly washed over him and he hesitated, eyes narrowing in bewilderment.

   I've been here before.

   Huh?. . . No, I haven't . . . I never set foot in this house before tonight.

   Shaking the unsettling feeling off he set forward again. The floorboards protested noisily under his weight as the beam of light guided him through the pitch-blackness of the corridor. He slowly made his way into a kitchen and scanned his surroundings. A few cupboards hung open and there was a tipped over chair on the dirty floor but that was all. A door on the interior wall was slightly ajar. He went to it and leaned beside the jamb. He cautiously eased the door open and ran the light down a steep descent of stairs to the dirt floor of a basement. A piercing cold fingertip trailed tauntingly, malevolently up his spine and he closed the door harder than he meant to. He felt the thumping in his chest and chills on his skin.

   Get a grip, Starsky...just get a grip.

   Okay?

   He drew in a deep breath and blew it out slowly.

   Okay.

   He pushed off the wall and gratefully left the kitchen, walking through what he assumed was a dining room then, passing under a wide archway, he found himself standing in the middle of the big living room. The still-open front door, then the naked shape of the banister was caught in the glare of his flashlight. He began to walk slowly towards it when the sense of déjà vu glided through him again, this time allowing him fleeting recollections. The light wavered then lowered to the bottom steps where it remained fixed and momentarily forgotten.

   I know what's upstairs. Oh God. . . I know where the bedrooms are, the bathroom...the laundry chute in the hallway. . .

   He stood another moment, shaken and disturbed, trying to understand, to grasp what he knew and why when a noise, a low, indistinct rumble, startled him out of his reverie. The beam of light jerked to life and shot up the stairs then down again. It streaked to the dining room on his left. Nothing but bleak, dirty walls stared back. He swung it to the hallway and started warily towards it when another sound reached his ears, a faint, hollow thud. One foot froze in front of the other and his gaze slowly dropped to the floor.

   "Son'unnabitch," he whispered. "I hate basements."

   He made his way back through the dining room, acutely aware now of the wooden floor creaking with each footfall, until he was back in the kitchen. He eyed the narrow basement door uneasily then moved over to the side of it as he'd done before. He unsnapped the gun-pocket of his holster, put his hand on the knob and twisted it. The door opened soundlessly and he first aimed his flashlight along the stairs then craned his neck over and peered down. A low ceiling and confining walls followed the flight of steps down at a sharp angle. His view at the bottom was limited to a few square feet of the dirt floor. The sight of the tunnel-like passageway, inexplicably and ominously familiar, sent sharp prickles dancing over his skin and up the back of his neck. He felt a knot twist in his stomach.

   I don't want to freakin' be here.

   He realized the frenetic, whining tone in his thoughts, the giving over to fear, and cursed to himself. He put his head back against the wall and pressed his eyes tightly shut. After a short moment, composure battled for and somewhat regained, he looked around the corner again and trained his light slowly over the small patch of ground visible.

   "Police!" he called down. "Come on out of there."

   There was absolute quiet.

   "This is the police! Come out where I can see you. Come to the bottom of the stairs!"

   Still nothing. No sound, no movement.

   He stood to his full length and stepped into the doorway. Drawing in a deep, tremulous breath he reached for the crude railing and started down the stairs. They were thick and solid but the sharp fall of them made the footing awkward. He took each one carefully as he made his way down, sweeping the flashlight back and forth across the ground, his eyes darting anxiously with it. If it was possible it seemed even darker down here. Or maybe, he reasoned, it was knowing he was in the ground now. With each step taken he was able to glimpse more of the basement and he noted the floorspace appeared narrower than that of the house. The air was cool and had a faint odor of mildew and earth. To his left the lower rows of a makeshift wooden shelf were caught in the circle of brightness, a few grimy jars resting on them. He took another two steps until he was almost halfway down and was turning further to his left, illuminating a few old crates laying in the dirt, when his body suddenly went rigid. He knew . . . even before the flashlight would reveal it, he knew where the furnace would be. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he stooped down lower and leveled the light straight ahead then off to the right.

   It rose menacingly up from the floor, huge, broad and black, stopping close to the low ceiling. Fat, coiled arms streamed out of its top and snaked their way along the ceiling until they disappeared into the darkness. He stared, his blood running cold at the sight of the obese thing - and felt a total, utter dread in the immediate understanding, the certainty itself, that he'd stood in its sinister presence before.

   All his senses told him, implored him, to pick up a foot, put it on the next rung up, then another. And get out. Leave this ungodly hole under this unfriendly house.

   He lifted a heavy foot and took another step down. Eyes locked on the immense, primitive heater, he descended slowly to the bottom of the staircase. Just as he stepped onto the earthen floor a soft shuffling noise came from the dark recess behind it. His jaws tightened with anger though his eyes remained anxious, uneasy. He reached across his midriff and drew his gun out.

   "All right." He succeeded in keeping his tremors out of his voice. "I know you're behind there. Get out here...now."

   The silence was at once maddening and terrifying.

   "Come on, you stupid son of a bitch! There's nowhere to go!"

   In slow, deliberate steps he approached the furnace, gun and flashlight pointed rigidly straight out. Almost close enough now to reach over and touch it he was cognizant of a dull throbbing sound, like drums underwater, and he realized it was his heart pounding in his ears.

   His eyes shot wide as a voice spoke from the rear of the furnace. It was guttural, beastly and full with hatred. "You always were a brave fool."

   The span of half a lifetime, spent trying to forget, evaporated . . . and he remembered . . . and knew where he was. His knees almost gave way; by will alone he remained standing. As his arms weakened and the beam of light sank close to the ground a quiet, sorrowful groan worked its way up from his insides and out his mouth.

   This was the house, three streets over and two thousand miles away, that he and his childhood friends used to sneak apprehensively into at night. It sat on a weedy lot in his old neighbourhood in New York, dark, empty and decrepit. This was the house where once, a long time ago and at the awe of his friends, he'd ventured down into its basement alone.

   He'd stumbled back up, face as white as chalk and pushed past the waiting children at the top of the stairs, oblivious to their questions. He'd kept walking until he was outside and far away. He never went back and his friends, who'd swiftly dropped their queries, hadn't either. He'd discovered to be true what the others had only whimsically imagined. The Bogeyman did live there, behind the furnace.

   And now, just as he had then, he stood paralyzed, head swimming and listening to his own ragged breaths. Suddenly a thunderous boom, the slamming of a fist into the furnace, resonated throughout the room and he startled so badly the gun and flashlight tumbled from his numb hands to the ground. He was immersed in total darkness, the trail of light now skimming lowly along the ground to the opposite wall.

   There was a derisive, ugly bark of laughter then the sounds of shifting again, as if someone were rising, sliding up a wall.

   He tried to swallow but his throat was too thick and dry. His limbs felt like wood, cumbersome and weighty, but somehow he managed to drag his feet back a few steps. Out of the corner of his eye he saw, lit on the murky edge of light, the bottom of the staircase. Loathe to turning his back on the furnace he knew he could escape faster if he did. He turned and with agonizingly heavy, half-frozen strides made his way across the basement. Finally he was at the bottom.

   He heard it coming after him.

   One foot on a rung, then another, he began climbing the stairs. His body was starting to cooperate, arms and legs returning to life, and he blindly groped and tripped his way up through the blackness.

   Suddenly, long, cold fingers wrapped tightly around his ankle and yanked him backwards. He fell hard, his forehead smacking violently on a step. Stunned and helpless, his body collided mercilessly with each step as he was dragged down. Something deep inside him, an animal instinct to survive, stirred and arose, awakening his senses. He screamed in horror and rage as he savagely kicked his leg out.

   The grip was lost.

   Gulping for air, tears streaming down his face, he started up again, clumsily, desperately scrambling his way with hands and feet; for every two steps he took he fell on the third. Again a hand clapped down on his ankle and took a crushing hold . . .

~~~~~~~~~~

   The phone beside Hutch rang six times before he finally gave in, tore his eyes away from the television and picked up the receiver.

   "Hello."

   "Hey, Hutch."

   Somehow, he knew it would be him. "Hellooo, Starsky."

   "Whatchya doing?"

   "Watching a movie."

   "How're you feeling?"

   "Better. On the road to recovery."

   "Good...that's good."

   "I think so."

   "Still takin' it easy, I hope?"

   "Yeah, Starsk, laying low."

   "Good...that's good."

   There was dead air on the line and Hutch waited unsympathetically.

   "Hey," Starsky found new inspiration, "catch that Rams game today? I heard it was a good one."

   "Watched some of it, it was a good game."

   "Yeah . . . that's what I heard."

   "Uh huh."

   "Yup."

   Hutch stretched far back into the cushions of his couch and hiked his legs onto the coffee table. "What you been doing?"

   "Nothing much."

   "No?"

   "Just hangin' out."

   "You've been working on that story for the Halloween contest again, haven't you?"

   "No."    

   Hutch was bemused. "You've creeped yourself out again, haven't you?"

   "No."

   Hutch laughed. "Let me guess, Starsky. You're sitting there with all the lights on and your back against the wall."

   There was a pause, then, "You know, you're a real wise-ass. A guy just calls to see how his friend's . . ."

   "What's it about?"

   He could almost see Starsky pursing his lips, then, "I told you before, you can wait 'til it wins and gets printed in the paper."

   Hutch smiled. "Okay. Listen . . . got your feet back firmly on the ground? Cause I want to get back to my movie."

   "All right, I'll let ya go. Night."

   "Night, Starsk, and hey. . . "

   "What?"

   "Don't let the Bogeyman getcha!." Hutch chuckled at his joke and waited for a response. "Starsky?"

   After a long moment Starsky spoke, his voice thin. "You really know how to cheer a guy up, Hutch." The line went dead.

   Hutch stared in confusion at the receiver in his hand then shrugged and placed it back in its cradle. "I try."

THE END