Pest Control
Author’s Note
Stephen King says stories are like fossils.
They’re in your mind, fully formed, you just need to extricate them from all the things that get in the way.
Depending on how my current project is moving along, I have differing opinions about this theory.
At times, the story gushes out onto the page. The whole thing sliding out of my brain like, well, there are a lot of graphic human anatomy metaphors I could make right now, but I’ll save us all the visuals.
Things move so smoothly with certain tales that it’s easy to think the story was sitting in some back corner of my head the entire time like some lost forgotten keepsake, or a forgotten $10 bill found in the pocket of winter jacket as summer comes to an end.
Other times are not so clean cut. Other times it’s like all the connections between brain and fingers have broken, imagination is encased in concrete, and nothing seems to work.
With these stories, I have a hard time buying the theory, more joining the camp that thinks these stories are made with effort, thought, and time.
Lots of time.
Pest Control was one of the former stories. It took time, effort, and frustration to write.
It took many drafts, many edits, and many years to get it to this point where I’m happy enough to put it out there again. Yes, I believe I’ve released this story once before, if my memory serves me.
The first iteration was completed in 2010, edits were made in 2012, 2013, and 2014. Each time I’d pull the pages from the trunk (along with several others) tinker around with them a bit, then lose confidence.
It’s not that I wasn’t happy with the end result of Pest Control — I actually like the ending quite a bit actually — it’s just that getting over that final hurdle is always hard for me. Taking a piece of my writing, editing it and then pushing it over the finish line for others to read is my personal Everest, and there are a lot of bodies waiting to be removed from that mountain and published.
On the bright side — as Harry, my main man in this piece always tries to look — you can at least enjoy this horror jaunt while I work on recovering the others.
Thanks for reading.
J.J.W.
Cover by Backpack Studios
Everyone has regrets in their life, and Harry Chambers is no different.
“No regrets!” his father would shout after one too many beers, the exclamation coming before cracking each of his cans of Miller Lite. An excuse to get drunk, or a life lesson? Harry took it as the latter. However, on Harry’s list of life regrets, a list which is tacked to the dark back corner of his subconscious like a forgotten grocery list, are these things: never going to college, never writing a book, never living in a small cottage on the lake, and taking the call at the Pegota house.
If you were to speak to Harry in person he would tell you that for the first three things on that list that it isn’t too late. He can always write, and go to college as a mature student, and once he gets that book published, him and Grace can live in that house on the lake. Ta da! An optimist, Harry is. However, taking the call at the Pegota house is something he will always regret.
You see, tied in with the first thing on Harry’s list - the not going to college thing - has landed him into a job he hates. Well, despises is probably a better word to describe Harry’s feelings. The small company he works for his called Fry’Em!!! It is a pest control company, and yes, there are three exclamation marks behind the company name. Exclamation points that are represented by three dead cockroaches (their severed heads serving as the points) on the side of the bright orange truck he drives around each day. The same label is sewed into the patch on the front of his company baseball cap, which is also construction cone orange. A hat that Grace always says he looks cute in. Shiny sides to every coin. The knowledge of his cuteness is not enough to change his feelings about the job though, or his boss Mr. Gary. Mr. Jerry Gary. A strange name for a strange man. Once you meet Mr. Gary you understand the three exclamation points following Fry’Em!!! because it seems everything Mr. Gary says can be followed by three exclamation marks. And on one bright sunny morning in December at the wonderful hour of 8 a.m. this was no different. Harry and Grace can not remember exactly when Harry got the call for the Pegota family, but it was sometime in December and before Christmas. Oh and it was a Saturday, one of Harry’s days off, but he still remained on call.
The sunlight was creeping in through the blinds covering the large window on the eastern wall of their room, casting elongated checkerboard shadows across their bed. Grace’s arms were wrapped around Harry as they slept. The black curls of her hair began to shine as the sunlight found them, and illuminated the naked curves of her exposed back. On a colder morning than this, she would have stuck a knee in Harry’s back and yanked the sheets back to her side. A bed hog Harry was, but on this morning, the sunlight was warm and the cold hadn’t woken her.
Harry’s face was buried deep in his pillow, the mess of his brown hair sticking out at odd angles like the back of an angry porcupine. Only a minute before the phone beside his head began to ring, Harry was awake. Awoken by the fact that the thick stubble on his face had caught on his pillow as he twisted in his sleep. Any man who has been able to grow a few weeks worth of facial hair will know the feeling. Instead of pulled hair, it feels like some cruel person is flicking a lighter beneath your chin.
Now awake, Harry presses his face back into the pillow, causing another uncomfortable pull of the hair on his jawbone.
“Fuck,” he blurts into his pillow. I should have shaved he thinks to himself. Then his father speaks from Harry’s subconscious, something which happens quite often. As if he’s just set up camp in there, sitting in that same stained La-Z Boy from Harry’s childhood in the back of Harry’s head. No regrets! he shouts, raising another can of Miller Lite. Carefully removing Grace’s arm from his side, Harry swings his legs off the side of the bed. She releases a small moan as she turns in her sleep. Smiling and falling back onto one elbow, he slowly pulls the sheet down from around her and begins kissing the rising curve of her hip. Twisting, Grace awakes with a bright smile on her face, a smile made of full lips and happiness. A smile Harry fell in love with, and still loves close to six years following the first day they met. At this point, Harry’s morning wood is pressing into the cloth of his pyjamas and he swings his feet back onto the bed. Lying flat, Grace notices and releases a laugh.
“You wish pal,” she says. Her breasts swelling beneath her as she presses her stomach to the bed. Laughing, Harry rolls on his side.
“Oh I think I could change your mind,” he says caressing the lines of her back, leaning in to kiss the nape of her neck.
Tensing and releasing a long breath of air, she flips over using both hands to cup his neck. The sun reflects off the side of her face, turning her green eyes into glowing orbs of jade.
“You’re manipulating me you know that,” she says kissing his lips.
“Maybe,” he responds, kissing her back, “but I think you like it.” Snarling in her own playful way, she kisses him, harder this time and reaches down, her hand trailing the length of his chest and stomach.
Then the phone rings.
They both release matching frustrated grunts as Harry drops his face into Grace’s chest. Laughing, she playfully pushes him off.
“Answer it,” she says rising from the bed, her naked body striped with glowing lines of sunlight. “It’s probably Jerry Gary,” she says, laughing and yanking the pull string for the blinds, filling the room with brilliant light. Staring at her as she makes her way across the room to the small attached bathroom, her long curls bouncing around her shoulders, does not help the growing situation between his legs, but Harry reluctantly swings his feet off the bed once more, and reaches for the ringing phone.
“Hello?” he says, rubbing his unshaven face.
“Up and atom Harry my boy!” Mr. Gary yells into the phone. The yell didn’t deafen Harry any, as he was prepared and had the phone held about a foot from his ear. He pulled it back to reply.
“How are you Jerry?” he asks.
“Peachy!” he replies, “and how is my best worker doing on this fine morning?” You see, here’s the thing Harry did like about Mr. Gary, he was a nice enough guy and never did anything wrong towards Harry, but when you get cock blocked by your boss, you’re kind of sour.
“Just delightful,” Harry replied.
“Fantastic!” Jerry said, matching the tone of that annoying bastard from the Cash for Life commercials to a tee. “We’ve got an urgent call, you’re up to bat slugger!”
“Great,” Harry said, shaking his head, “where at?” He hears Grace switching on the shower, and immediately perks up.
“At the Pegota house,” Gary said. “Get out there and give it 110 percent!”
For a second, Harry wasn’t sure he heard Jerry right.
“The Pegota family house? Are you serious?”
“As serious as a Chinese kid in math class!” Jerry replied. Harry raised an eyebrow, not sure he quite understood, but he got the gist.
“What do we got?” he asks.
“Cock-a-roaches!” Jerry said. “Apparently the size of cats!”
Great, Harry thought.
“Are we going to have to fumigate?” he asked.
“Well, you gotta see what’s wrong in Kansas first, then we can decide.” Jerry said, “and Harry?” Jerry’s voice had dropped, and for the first time since Harry started working with him, he thought he heard worry.
“Yeah?” he asked, a little taken aback at this change of tone.
“Be careful up there.”
Harry didn’t know what to say, all he knew was he wanted to get off the phone.
“Alright, I gotta shower and I’ll be on my way.” he said.
“Great!” Jerry yelled, practically bursting the earpiece on Harry’s phone, “Give ‘em hell son!”
Well, that didn’t last long Harry thought.
“Will do Gary, talk to you soon,” Harry said, hanging up.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, a pit in his stomach ground its way further into his guts, a feeling like he’d eaten some bad food.
The Pegota house? Really?
For the second time that morning, he shook his head then made his way to the bathroom. Opening the door, he found Grace already in the shower. Leaving the door open to allow the bright sunshine to illuminate the tile floor, he pulled off his boxers and pulled back the curtain. With a sly smile, a famous Grace look; head tilted down, small smile, followed by a bite on the lower lip, she grabbed his arm and yanked him into the warmth of her and the shower.
Grace and Harry moved to Kitchener two years before he got the call for the Pegota house, and though they were a year too late to be there for the incident, they both knew all about it. Harry for the most part because Jerry knew all about it, and had the news story tacked to the decaying bulletin board in his dingy office. It read something like this:
Animal Attack at Blackclay Street home
Last night, Charles and Darlene Pegota returned to their home at 32 Blackclay Street to find the mauled body of local mailman Henry Todd in the basement.
“He was just laying there,” Darlene Pegota said through tears out front of their family home.
“He was laying all over the place.” Charles Pegota, Darlene’s husband stated.
According to the Pegota family they have never seen any large animals around their home before, let alone in their own basement.
“We don’t know what could have done such a thing,” she said. “Or how he could have got there.”
The police are investigating and suspect foul play may be involved. The Pegota family have been ruled out as possible suspects.
“We can say nothing about the investigation at this point,” said Chief Ryan Carpenter, “but whatever attacked this poor man was not human.”
Local pest control owner Jerry Gary stated that there have been no reports of any strange animal activity in the area.
“It sure is a head scratcher,” Gary stated.
Multiple circles made in black fountain pen surround where Jerry was quoted. It was one of his finer moments apparently. After this, the article is cut off, as Jerry says, after he was quoted you didn’t need much else.
Following this incident, which the cause of the man’s death was never found, wild rumours began to spread about the Pegota family. Some said they harboured a pack of wolves in their basement, some said their son Jim (who was away at college in Toronto at the time) is actually a maniac killer and his parents lure poor bastards into the basement where he tears them to pieces. One rumour went as far as saying the Pegota family were cannibals and that it was them who had ripped the poor mailman to shreds.
With all the rumours aside, the Pegota house has been quiet for the three years following its time in the spotlight. As a matter of fact, the entire Pegota family had been quiet since that time.
This still doesn’t calm Harry’s nerves as he nibbles the toast Grace made him.
“Not hungry this morning babe?” she asks, carrying two mugs of coffee to their tiny kitchen table. The thing was so minuscule that Harry’s legs, when outstretched, spanned the length of it, and Grace’s chair opposite him. On the flip side, the pair of them barely had to lean forward in order to kiss over their meals. Remember, a shiny side to every coin right?
“It’s not that,” he said, sipping the black coffee. “The call is at the Pegota house.” Grace’s mug of coffee halted for a second before her lips, her big green eyes staring at him, then she took a sip. One milk two sugars, as always.
“Are you serious?” she asked. Jerry’s one liner repeated itself in Harry’s head, he giggled.
“Yeah,” he said, “what do you think?”
“I think you should say fuck it,” Grace said. “That place is creepy, even though the rumours are a bunch of bullshit, it still gives me the shivers every time I even pass by the street. It’s just plain weird.” One of the many reasons Harry was so in love with her was that when required, Grace could let the curses flow like a truck driver at a swearing contest.
“Yeah, but what can I do? I can’t lose this job.” Harry said.
“Jerry won’t fire you if you don’t go.” Grace said, picking at the crust of her own toast.
“You never know,” Harry said, “we can’t stay in this place living on your income alone.”
Grace worked at a small coffee house in downtown Kitchener, and though she sometimes made good tips from the rich business guys who thought she was cute, it would never be enough to cover the rent.
“I know that,” she said lifting her feet and placing them in Harry’s lap. Short as she was, her legs, when fully outstretched, just barely reached across the table to Harry’s side. “I just wish you had time to write some more.”
After this they both fell silent for a bit. Harry had been writing short stories since he was in high school, submitting some of them to literary magazines, but with no success.
“I wish I could too,” he said. However, after a week of cleaning mould infested homes running wild with cockroaches, maggots, and flies, one was never really in the mood. Besides, after a week of listening to Jerry, after a day for that matter, Harry felt like his brain had been run through a meat grinder. Although, he always felt that Mr. Jerry Gary would make a damn good character in a short story. A wild, cliche spewing character.
“I should look for a better job,” Grace said, taking another sip of her coffee.
“No way,” Harry said, “that’s what I should be doing. It isn’t your fault there are no teaching jobs in this damn town. I’m the man, I should be the one making the money. I know I can write a damn good story, I just never have the damn energy, or the time.” Harry dropped his eyes to the coffee in front of him.
“I know you can too babe,” Grace said, “I have faith.” Lifting his eyes, he saw her famous smile, and couldn’t help but smile himself.
“You always did,” he said, taking a gulp of coffee, followed by a bite of toast.
“And I always will,” she said, “and we will find that house on the lake.” This widened the smile on his face and he bent over the table and kissed her.
“Where did you come from?” he asked.
“Oh I don’t know,” she said, leaning onto the back of her chair. “Heaven maybe?”
Harry laughed, reaching over to cup her neck and kissed her again.
“I wouldn’t doubt it.”
Gulping the last of his coffee, he got up and placed his dishes in the sink and flicked on the tap.
“Don’t worry about those babe, I’ll get them,” Grace said. Harry turned the tap off without a reply. Now, all the possible delays before heading to the Pegota house were done with and it was time to go. With a sigh, he kissed Grace, being sure to run his hands through the thick curls of her hair, and headed for the door.
As he opened it, Grace yelled from the kitchen. “Be careful out there babe, and hey you never know, maybe the cockroaches will see how cute you look in that hat and just turn and run.”
With a laugh, Harry stepped into the hall of their apartment.
Reaching the bright orange truck, which sat in the underground parking garage, Harry fumbled the keys into the lock. For being underground, the garage was colder than a witch's tit, as Jerry Gary would say.
Hopping up into the cab, Harry started the car. Waiting for it to warm a little, he placed his bright orange cap on his head, and clipped his ID tag to the breast pocket of his shirt. Harry Chambers. Professional Pest Eliminator, it read. Mr. Gary made them of course. Grace always thought it sounded like he was some sort of superhero. Harry just thought it sounded ridiculous. But he wasn’t the boss, so what could he do?
Pulling from the garage, after swiping his pass to lift the guardrail, he turned onto King Street, heading in the direction of Highway 85. As he drove, he thought about what Grace had said at the table. He really did wish he could write more. He knew he was good (well, he thought so) and knew if he had the time, he could write something that would be publishable. It’s just he couldn’t quit this job. They needed food, water, heat, and the apartment. Not all of which could be paid for using Grace’s income. She had a teaching degree, but with no available jobs in town, what was she supposed to do?
What if we moved? Harry thought. The idea seemed bright and shiny, as all good ideas do when they are first born in your head. That is, before they are tarnished and beat down by the cruel prick that is reality. They couldn’t move. Grace had student debt, Harry had little to no savings, and taking a loan would just not work. Harry hated the idea of having to live in a house that he hadn’t even paid for yet, and would continue to pay for until the end of time. So moving wasn’t really an option at this point.
If only I’d gone to college, maybe I would be making more money, he thought. This once again, cued dad from his La-Z Boy inside Harry’s head. No regrets! Immediately followed by the cracking hiss of a can of beer being opened. A sound which always seemed to bring him back to his childhood, a sound he heard all too often during that time.
Flicking on the right signal he jumped onto the northbound ramp. Merging onto the highway, his mind continued to search for solutions to the “money problem”. Then an idea occurred to him, a story idea. This is something that happens more than once a day for Harry. The story is about a bunch of people in such debt that they rise up against the banks taking matters into their own hands to solve their debt problems. Maybe a good story? Possibly, Harry thought. His mind continued to develop possible settings, motives, and characters for this story as he merged off the highway heading for the Pegota house.
Once off the 85, the phone attached to his belt began to ring. I’d like to solve the puzzle please, Harry thought to himself. Mr Gary! Sure enough, as he unclipped the phone from his belt, he found the caller ID to be the boss man himself. Pressing the green talk button he brought the phone to his ear.
“Hey Jerry,”
“What’s up doc?” he said.
“About three blocks from the place now,” Harry said, keeping his eyes peeled for police officers. That’s all he needed, a fat ticket for talking on the phone while driving, and talking to Mr. Gary of all people.
“Great news Harry my boy, you be sure to report back to me immediately after with a briefing.”
Jesus Christ, this sounds like some sort of covert operation. What else was Harry going to do after? Take the information home with him, afraid to reveal to the truth behind the Pegota family’s bug problem to the world?
The truth Mr. Gary? You can’t handle the truth!!! (with three exclamation marks).
“You got it,” Harry said, suppressing a laugh. “Immediately after.”
“Good man,” Jerry said, “Good luck in there.”
“Thanks,” Harry said, pressing the off button and lobbing the phone onto the empty passenger seat where it landed with a bounce, nearly falling down the crack between the seat and the door.
Hanging a left onto Blackclay Drive, Harry approached the Pegota house. The street dead ended several houses down, sealed off by a thick guardrail painted in stripes of yellow and black. On the other side, a vast farmer’s field stretched out, abutting a thick forest. The field was marred and stained with torn up pieces of dirt from the ripping treads of passing snowmobiles. The Pegota house was the last one on the street before the road ended, and what a sight it was. Harry had never seen the house in person, only in pictures tacked in Jerry’s office along with the article detailing his finest moment. When Harry pulled the truck into park on the opposite side of the street, he could only stare.
The house, in every sense of the word, looked normal. Blue siding, not chipped or stained, a white picket fence lining the front of the yard and a large brass knocker, (big enough that Harry could see it from his vantage point across the street) hung on the door. The only thing out of the ordinary was the windows. Two large windows opened up onto the upper floors, and directly beneath them, separated only by a small section of roof covering the porch, were two large bay windows which should have looked in on the main floor, but they were dark. They seemed to be covered in a tint, the kind of peel on tint you can use on the windows of your car. However, whoever applied it had failed to smooth it out fully, and large air bubbles stuck out in places like blisters. Besides that, the place seemed decent enough, but there was just something about it. Something that Grace had nailed on the head. The place was damn creepy.
To Harry, the house looked like a crouching monster, ready to swallow anyone brave enough to approach its mouth. It reminded him of the abandoned house on Neibolt Street in Stephen King’s It. The lattice wrapped around the lower portion of the porch, concealing what lay beneath it, only served to further the image. His mind’s eye could practically see the diseased leper crawling from the broken basement window, chasing Eddie who is frantically trying to kick his way through that pesky lattice.
Giving his head a quick shake, Harry reaches for his clipboard holding the initial inspection checklist. Pulling his keys from the ignition, Harry opens the driver door and steps into the street. Before turning completely from the truck, something catches his eye. Turning back he sees the light of his phone lying on the passenger seat. The screen is illuminated with a text. Picking it up, he figures the phone must have bumped onto silent when he dropped it onto the seat. The text was from Grace.
G: Love you baby. See you tonight :)
Taking a second to type a quick reply, a crow jumps from its perch atop a street lamp and flies off with a caww.
Harry: Love you too. I’ll text you after I inspect this place. Just pulled up. Catch ya later hun :)
A cool breeze blows across his now freshly shaven face, a lock of hair has fallen over his eye and he brushes it away. Something he has been doing since high school. People always asked why he never cut his hair, and he never really had a response.
But hey, if it’s not broken, don’t fix it right?
Clipping the phone back onto his belt, he makes his way across the street, and up to the front door of the Pegota house.
The wooden boards of the porch creak beneath his weight, and Harry again pictures the diseased leper, decaying and lying in wait beneath. Lifting the brass knocker, Harry raps three times. Swapping the clipboard from hand to hand, keeping the free one in a pocket to keep it warm, Harry has a second to wish he’d brought some gloves before the door is whipped open. One second the door was there, the next it was gone, replaced by a tall man wearing a dark pinstripe suit. A large pipe is hanging from the left side of his mouth.
“Good morning,” the man said, his voice so deep it makes you notice.
“Good morning, sir,” Harry said, “I’m Harry from Fry-”
“Yeah I know who you are,” the man cut him off. Harry was a little taken aback, then the man lifted the pipe from the side of his mouth, and motioned toward Harry’s chest.
Of course, his damn ID tag.
“Oh,” Harry said, “I guess you do.”
“I’m Charles Pegota,” he said holding out his hand.
“Nice to meet you sir,” Harry replied gripping the man’s hand who appeared to have stepped right out of a Sherlock Holmes story.
“Why don’t you come in,” he said, motioning with his pipe. Harry stepped into the house to find it warm, and oddly comfortable. The sweet smell of pipe smoke filled his nose as it drifted up and disappeared around the ceiling. It was then replaced by the smell of baking. Harry didn’t know what, but it smelt like some damn good cookies. Thick red carpet covered the floor of the hallway into the kitchen and up the stairs that started a few steps inside the front door. The walls were two-toned in shades of deep brown, and curved wooden tables lined the walls of the hallway leading away from the door, upon which rested countless picture frames.
Harry was shocked. He didn’t know what either of the Pegota’s did for a living, but it seemed they did pretty well for themselves. That stubborn piece of hair had fallen back in front of his eye, but he was too preoccupied to notice.
“A nice place you got Mr. Pegota,” he said.
“Charles, please,” he said, placing a hand on Harry’s shoulder, “shall we?”
With clipboard in hand, Harry allowed himself to be led down the hall to the kitchen. Charles was over a head taller than him and small puffs of pipe smoke drifted over his shoulder as the two of them walked down the long hallway. Stepping into the kitchen, which to Harry was the equivalent to stepping into the world’s largest chocolate chip cookie, Mrs. Pegota was in front of him immediately.
“Thank you so much for coming on such short notice,” she squeaked. Her voice carried a mousy quality, like someone had left the sound on and hit fast forward.
“It’s not a problem,” Harry said, allowing his hand to be shaken vigorously.
“Oh please call me Darlene,” she said. “And this is our son Jim,” she motioned to the table, to the only thing that seemed out of place.
A kid with arms and legs that seemed two feet too tall for his body sat at the table. His face was elongated, like someone had placed it in a vice and cranked it all the way in. His chin was practically a knifepoint and his skin was as white as the snow falling outside.
“Hi there,” he said.
“Nice to meet you,” Harry replied.
“Now where would you like me to start?” Harry looked around at the immaculate kitchen, which was filled with oak cupboards and flowered wallpaper. Harry had no idea how any bug could exist in such a place. The cleanliness was almost too perfect. There was also something else he noticed as he turned his gaze back to the three Pegotas. As nice as these people were, there faces were blank. No smiles, no signs of anything, just blank. And they spoke funny, their moves move quickly, snapping the words out quickly and closing their lips as quickly as possible.
Must be having a rough day, Harry thought. Well, waking up to a cockroach infestation in your home could do that I guess.
“Basement,” Jim said from the table.
“They’re as big as cats down there,” Charles said from where he now sat adjacent to Jim at the table.
“Well I’ll go take a quick peak and see what we need,” Harry said, giving a small salute with his clipboard.
“Won’t you have a cookie first?” Darlene said, practically shoving a tin of thick chocolate chip cookies into his chest.
“They’re delicious,” Jim said from the table. His hands were on the wood surface, his long fingers seemed to be doing some weird kind of dance with themselves across the surface.
Harry’s mouth immediately began to water. He’d only had a half piece of toast and was starving. But immediately the infamous Jerry Gary sounded in his head.
“Don’t take candy from strangers.” It was one of his first words of advice to new employees. “That means, don’t eat anything people offer you, remember you’re in their house to check for an infestation. Do you really want to eat their food?”
To Harry this was pretty sound logic.
“No thanks,” he replied, regretting it immediately, my wife made me a large breakfast. “Now, where?”
Looking around, it was Charles who pointed to the door that stood directly behind Harry.
“Oh,” he said with a laugh, starting to feel quite uncomfortable, “back in a jiffy.”
Opening the door, an old wooden staircase disappeared into the darkness below. At the bottom of the stairs, Harry could see a light bulb practically hovering in the darkness. A long drawstring dangled beneath it. Taking a breath, not bothering to reach for the flashlight resting in the shoulder pocket of his vest. He descended first one, then two, then three stairs.
Stepping on the fourth step, something touched his foot.
Dropping his work-boot clad foot onto the fourth step; Harry felt something catching around his ankle. He only had a second to picture a giant cockroach standing beneath the staircase, reaching out with its crusty clawed legs and gripping his ankle.
As big as cats! Jerry Gary had said.
Harry’s weight was being carried forward, then it was like someone turned out the lights. The light from the kitchen reached only to the fifth step, and after Harry flew past that, the darkness was as thick as a blanket.
His body came crashing down on the staircase with an impact that seemed to shake the entire world. Harry’s orange cap flew from his head, as if propelled, and disappeared into the dark.
Rolling ass over teakettle, Harry’s ankle again caught on something, this time in the empty space between steps and was twisted to an abnormal angle.
Harry screamed in pain. Luckily, his ankle came loose as he rolled into a pile of limbs at the bottom of the stairs. If it hadn’t, it probably would be have been snapped like a glow stick.
Lying with one arm over his head, the other beneath his chest, and his legs twisted like a pair of pipe cleaners, the second strange thing of the day happened. Harry was dropped into complete blackness as the door to the basement slammed shut. Followed by the undeniable click of a lock.
Harry released a breath.
“Fuck.”
He could see nothing outside an inch in front of his eyes. Shifting, against the floor of the basement, that he realized was dirt, he pulled the arm from beneath his chest and reached for the flashlight attached to his shoulder. It was gone, perhaps lost in the tumble down the stairs.
Panic was starting to set in, along with a million questions that popped into his head out of his subconscious mind.
What’s going on?
Did they really lock the door?
Why?
What do they want?
Is it a mistake?
Why am I lying in a heap at the bottom of the stairs?
Am I going to die?
What the bloody fuck is going on?
Breathe Harry.
He brought in a long breath, which carried with it a smell that almost brought his half piece of toast from breakfast back into the world.
As his job entails, Harry has been in some damn dirty places, but this smell was nothing like Harry had ever experienced before. The only thing that came close was the apple.
As a child in grade four he had just gotten home from school and was immediately in the fridge looking for something to eat. The gap between lunch and the end of the day was basically torture for Harry, who only ate small bits at a time, but ate constantly. At school, this wasn’t possible as you weren’t allowed to munch anything in class. So, by the end of the day, and after the walk home, Harry was basically famished.
His mother must have just gone grocery shopping as the fridge was stocked and the vegetable keeper was packed full with shiny Red Delicious apples.
Harry’s favourite.
Yanking the first one out, he placed it on the counter and reached for the apple slicer out of one of the drawers. The slicer they had was one that looked like a child’s drawing of a sun, complete with handles. Simple enough to use, place over top of said apple, and press down. If operated correctly, the apple could fall into perfect slices, leaving the seeded core standing erect in the middle.
However, this apple was no ordinary apple. It looked ordinary enough from the outside, red, shiny, solid. But, when Harry pressed down, using most of his twelve year old strength (which was usually required) the apple only collapsed.
Brown, mushy, decayed fruit flesh burst through the shiny red skin, covering the counter, Harry’s hands and the front of his shirt. If this wasn’t enough, the smell that came from the brown mush was stomach wrenching. Old cheese dipped in liquid cow manure, or any type of shit for that matter.
The basement of the Pegota house smelt something like this, but raised exponentially to the tenth power.
It was like the Pegota house was decaying from the inside, only being held together by its shiny exterior.
Pulling a rag from a pocket of his vest, he tied it around his face, which helped a little. Such a small action seemed to get his mind thinking a bit and he reached for the cell phone on his belt. Thankfully, it had not been damaged in his flight down the stairs, but unthankfully, there was no signal.
Of course.
But without a flashlight, the light from the screen would have to do.
Holding it out before him, he made his way to the light bulb string dangling limply from the ceiling in the centre of the room, giving it a short yank Harry was not surprised to find it didn’t work.
Shining the phone onto the dirt floor, he took a few steps to the nearest wall. He found that they were dirt also.
What kind of a house is this?
Walking around, Harry found no signs of anything he had seen in any of the unfinished basements he’d been in during his employment with Fry-Em!!!. No furnace. No laundry machines. No water heater. Nothing.
Besides himself and dirt, there were wooden two-by-fours, which upon exploration around the entire basement, were propped against the dirt walls at 45 degree angles. Harry counted twelve in all, three against each wall. They seemed to be supporting it somehow.
Ok, Harry thought to himself, this is not good, and one thing is for sure, there are no cockroaches down here.
“You okay down there?” It was Charles, and for a second, Harry was filled with a ballooning sense of relief.
“Yeah,” Harry yelled back, “I think I must have tripped, but I’m ok.” There was silence for a quick span.
“Well, then the trip wire must have done its job.”
Harry was frozen. Trip wire?
“Any broken bones down there?” a voice asked. The question was followed with a short laugh. It must have been Jim. Harry didn’t respond. “I hate broken bones,” the voice added.
“We are so very sorry about this,” Darlene spoke up. Their voices were muffled on the other side of the door, but Harry could still here them. The panic was starting to set in again. Standing at the bottom of the stairs, the light from his phone clicked off, plunging Harry once more into complete darkness. Slamming a finger down on the number pad, the light immediately flicked back on.
“What is this?” Harry asked. It was all he could think to ask. What was going on was pretty obvious. Well, sort of, he was locked in their damn basement. Why? Well right now he wasn’t really sure. “Can I get out of here please?” He knew it was a stupid question, but you never score if you don’t shoot.
There was silence following this, then more laughter. Loud, howling laughter, followed by a few bangs that were probably Jim or Charles banging their hands on the table when the laughter was too much.
Harry only shook his head. A flare of anger surged inside him and he thought if he ever got out of here he would shove that pipe where the sun don’t shine and give Jim a nice introduction to his fists.
“You’re a funny one Harry Chambers,” Charles said. He must have been standing directly on the other side of the door as his voice was much clearer now. “But I’m sorry to say I don’t think you’re ever getting out of there.”
Harry’s mind immediately returned to the mailman, who could have possibly died in this very basement. Murdered is probably the better word, Harry thought. The thought made Harry feel like throwing up. Swallowing deeply, he continued to breath through the rag tied around his face.
“We are so very sorry about this,” Darlene repeated. The sad thing was, Harry could actually hear a hint of actual remorse in her voice. Either that or she was a damn good actress.
“Well, I hope you’re comfortable down there,” Charles said, pausing, probably to take huff on his pipe. “Sorry about the lights, we never really got the stubborn thing to work for us.”
“Why are you doing this?” Harry asked. Again, he really didn’t know what to say. Charles spoke again, but seemed to ignore Harry’s question.
“Hopefully this time doesn’t turn into a media frenzy like last time, eh darling?” There was no reply from Darlene. “Don’t worry Harry my friend, you won’t be on the news, nobody will know you were ever even here. Jim is sending that ugly truck of yours for a trip down the Grand River as we speak. Then all we need to do is deny you ever showed up for our call, and presto, Harry Chambers, died in an unfortunate accident from which his body was never recovered”
Harry’s limbs, turned cold. They really did mean to kill him. The phone hanging limply at his side, clicked off again. He immediately turned it back on. Suddenly, a spark, someone did know he was here. Grace. He had text her right before he came in here.
“Someone does know I’m here!” Harry yelled out, immediately regretting it.
“Oh that cute wife of yours? Yes well, we can take care of her too if need be.” Both confusion and anger, spread though Harry’s limbs like an injected drug. How the hell did he know he was talking about Grace?
“We’ve been on you for a while Mr. Chambers. Once we knew how easy it would be to get you into our home, we made sure we would be able to tie up any loose ends afterward. Also, if you were ever going to see your wife again, I’d tell her to put some clothes on once in a while, you never know who’s watching.”
“You fucking lay a hand on my wife, I swear to God.” Harry realized how cliché this sounded, but he didn’t care. He meant it; the anger that filled his veins was overwhelming. Spit leaked from the corner of his mouth and he swiped it away using the rag around his face.
“There isn’t much you can do I’m afraid, and nothing she could do for that matter. We usually choose men for this, but her,” he made what sounded like a slurping sound, which again made Harry feel like retching.
Harry bolted up the stairs, taking them two at a time, (luckily hopping that step which housed the trip wire) and threw everything he had into the door. It was so solid that when he bounced off he almost took a return flight down the stairs, but caught himself. A quiet laugh began on the other side of the door, and steadily grew louder.
“Nice try,” Charles said. “I would save your energy for praying, Jim just walked in the door, and were about to start the fun.”
Harry didn’t know what was going to happen, but he knew that if they came down here they were going to meet one angry son of a bitch. Heading back downstairs, he searched for anything he could use as a weapon, holding the phone before him; he first searched for the flashlight, with no luck, and then spied his clipboard. Picking it up, he thought that it would have to do. That was when his eyes returned to the two by fours leaning against the wall. Taking a few steps over, he gripped one, and pulled. It didn’t budge, but small crumbs of dirt began to sprinkle from where it penetrated the wood. Giving it another yank, and another, and another, Harry finally freed it. It was long, and awkward, but it would do a hell of a lot better then his flimsy clipboard. Holding it in one hand, he realized he would need both hands to swing it, and placed the cell phone in his pocket.
Harry moved to the only semblance of a hiding place in the small dirt cube of a basement, beneath the stairs, and crouched with the two by four across his knees. Then the silence descended. He could hear nothing from upstairs.
Confusion seemed to swim around in his head, like a giant carp caught in a small tank, thrashing any coherent thought out and over the edges of his brain. Like any rational human being, he knew he didn’t want to die. Especially killed by the maniac son of the Pegota’s.
At this point, Harry had unconsciously accepted this. Not only by his unnatural appearance, but by the way he wrung his hands together as Harry was heading toward the basement. Rubbing them together like a poker player getting ready for the next hand.
Thoughts of Grace also filled his head. By opening his big mouth, he had drawn her into this. If for nothing else, he needed to survive for her. Her smiling face appeared in his mind.
He heard footsteps from upstairs, followed quickly by the turning of the lock of the basement door.
Harry took a deep breath, and gripped the wooden plank. Adrenaline was pumping so fast through his veins he felt like he would burst, but he was still.
What happened next, happened so fast that Harry had little time to react.
First, the door flung open shining a brilliant light down the first five steps, then something was coming down the stairs. Fast. The footfalls sounded like gunshots from an automatic rifle, and it moved faster than anything Harry had ever seen.
Then it was on top of him. At this point he realized that this thing was Jim.
When he jumped on top of him Harry fell back into the corner, and the plank fell down on to this chest, allowing him to grasp it and use it to keep Jim away from him. Harry was so confused; it was like Jim was trying to kiss him. Spit dripped from his mouth, down onto Harry’s cheeks and forehead. Jim’s face was almost an inch from his.
He was like a rabid dog. Right down to the growling. Jim was releasing a noise Harry had never heard any human make before. It was like a screeching growl, like the grinding of gears in a manual shift car, but much worse.
Screaming, Harry pulled his knees up and began kicking. Planting both feet into Jim’s stomach, he pulled back and shot them out. The breath flew from Jim’s mouth, sending a healthy amount of frothy spit into Harry’s face in the process.
Knowing he needed to get up, Harry immediately jumped to his feet, expecting Jim to do the same. Then the lights came on, well part of them. Charles was sitting about halfway down the stairs shining a flashlight onto the scene, partially illuminating the basement.
“Be careful Harry, he’s feisty.” Jim had a wide smile on his face now, and for the first time, Harry realized why he hadn’t seen a smile on his face upstairs. His teeth. His teeth were in points. To Harry, it looked like the teeth children carve into jack-o-lanterns. Except now there were more of them, and Jim’s grin was as wide as that of the Cheshire cat. It seemed to take up the entire bottom half of his face.
Harry had no time to think before Jim sprang at him again. This time Harry was ready and dodged it. Turning the plank, Harry gripped it and held it before him like a cave man holding a spear. As Jim rounded on him, Harry got an idea.
Backing up as Jim slowly walked toward him, his arms held up in front of him like he was some sort of horrific boxer, Harry backed up a few more steps, trying to judge the distance between himself and the dirt wall.
“Get him Jim!” Charles cried from the stairs, “don’t play with your food!” Harry didn’t have a second to register this before Jim jumped at him. The second he did, Harry planted the wooden plank into the dirt wall, which was luckily close behind him. Harry pulled the other end of the board in front of him, where it connected with the centre of Jim’s chest with a wet crack. The scream that sounded from Jim’s mouth was immediate and deafening. It didn’t last long though. Jim dropped to the ground in a puff of stinky dirt, and Harry immediately lifted one heavy, steel-toed boot, and brought it down as hard as he could onto Jim’s face. It was like an off switch, sending Jim into the land of unconsciousness.
Good riddance, Harry thought.
Silence once again descended.
Then a sigh came from the stairs as Charles got to his feet.
“You’ve got more fight in you than I expected,” he said, “is it because I insulted that wife of yours?”
Again, Harry’s limbs surged with a dangerous mix of anger and adrenaline. Come on, Harry’s mind urged. The violence bug had bitten him, and once it does, you’re in it for the long haul. Come on.
Harry didn’t bother picking up the board again. His fists clenched as Charles took the final three steps down into the dirt of the basement.
“You know,” Charles began, shining the light into Harry’s eyes, blinding him. “Oh sorry about that,” he said, noticing what he was doing. He moved the light to the wall behind Harry. “It’s hard living like this, we hate having to hurt people, we really do, especially Darlene, she absolutely hates it, but she’s got the hunger just like Jim and I.” He paused for a second, meeting Harry’s eyes. “She can’t help it, none of us can.”
Suddenly, Harry understood. Jim wasn’t a maniac killer that his parents trapped for him to kill. They were damn cannibals. Real cannibals. In the flesh.
Harry was frozen. These people meant to eat him. Rip the flesh from his bones and eat it. The sense of violation was so strong that he felt as if he were standing in front of an entire auditorium of people, bare ass naked, while each of them took their turn pointing and laughing.
“The fact is though, the meat is nothing like you’ve ever tasted,” Charles said. Harry could faintly make out Charles’s face. Once he noticed that Harry was looking at him, Charles gave him a smile.
A smile filled with those same filed down teeth.
“Makes it easier to rip those tough pieces of muscle from your stubborn bones,” he said as if reading Harry’s mind. “Those bones just don’t seem to want to let go of their meat.”
“So what,” Harry said, the anger taking the wheel, “you’re going to spill me the whole Hollywood bullshit that nothing else satisfies now?”
Charles had begun walking toward him, and Harry began to sidestep, all the while the flashlight shone on the ground between them casting an orb of white light.
“No, no, not at all,” Charles began, “let me explain. I assume you’ve had a steak dinner before am I right?” Harry didn’t respond, but Charles continued.
“Well then I’m sure sometimes when you’re hungry you get cravings for a nice thick, juicy steak.”
“Sure,” Harry said. His nerves were pulsing as if electrified as they continued their walking dance around the basement.
“Well imagine you had that craving, and wherever you went, giant t-bone steaks were walking all around you?” Charles halted. “Would you be able to keep yourself from sneaking a bite?”
“I would just go to a God damn restaurant and order a steak you sick fuck.”
Charles waved his hand above his head, where it connected with the dirt ceiling. A ceiling Harry would have to jump to touch.
“Well, that doesn’t really work for me, does it?” Turning around, he headed for the stairs, where he placed the flashlight on the fifth step from the bottom, pointing in Harry’s direction. Harry then realized, seeing the flashlight in the light from the kitchen that it was his, the one that was supposed to be strapped to the shoulder of his vest. He took it right when I came in.
“We really are sorry about this,” Charles said.
Then, for the second time that day, for the second time in all his years for that matter, Harry was fighting for his life.
To say that Charles Pegota was big was an understatement. This guy was Andre the Giant. He crossed the basement in two strides of his long legs. Harry had no time to react. A fist connected with the side of his face sending him to the dirt.
Black wings began to spread from the corners of his eyes, threatening to send him into a land far far away. Harry shook his head, clearing it like a kid clearing an Etch-A-Sketch. Gripping Harry’s hair, Charles pulled him to a kneeling position.
Then, his shoulder was on fire. Screaming, his throat ripping every last ounce of air from his lungs, he turned enough to see a set of fanged teeth, digging in.
Blood, spurted over Charles’s face as he ravaged his teeth deeper into Harry’s collarbone. In the glow of the flashlight, the blood spreading over his shirt and neck appeared black.
The pain was hell. A million tattoo needles all doing their thing all on the same nerve at the same time. The wings fluttered over his eyes again, Charles released a moan of pleasure as his teeth pulled the meat off Harry’s shoulder.
Harry thrashed and tried to reach back to punch him off, but Charles had a grip on both his arms, and he couldn’t break free. He could have been struggling within a straight jacket. Using the only limbs available his pushed his feet beneath him, Charles still did not let go. Harry continued to scream, his head thrashed forward and back, and when it did, it connected with the side of Charles’s temple. His teeth released pulling with it tendrils of Harry’s flesh.
Harry immediately made a break for the flashlight on the stairs, a large police style flashlight that Harry had always thought ridiculously big for his purposes. At that moment, he would be forever grateful that Jerry Gary required his employees to carry them.
Charles was after him, but must have assumed that Harry was making a break for freedom, because his pursuit was not that fast. Something must be waiting for me upstairs, Harry thought.
That didn’t matter. His hand gripped the metal handle of the flashlight, and doing so sent a way of fresh pain through his entire body, starting from the entry point at his shoulder.
Charles, realizing what Harry was doing, released a groan and with a giant stride over his unconscious son, moved to stop him.
Harry dodged, sending Charles sprawling onto the stairs. Harry went for the knee. Already bent at an odd angle as Charles pulled his top half off the stairs, Harry put all of his strength into the swing. Gripping the light in a fist, he brought the knob down directly on Charles’s kneecap.
Harry heard another crack, and felt the bone shift beneath the light’s butt end. Charles fell to the ground with a growl. Not a scream though.
Didn’t matter. As he got to one knee Harry lifted the light a second time, holding it above his head. Charles and Harry’s eyes met for a split second.
Charles grin was now a clown mask of Harry’s blood. Small pieces of Harry’s flesh clung to his teeth like red spinach. If Charles could have seen beneath the rag that covered half of Harry’s face, he would have seen he was grinning also.
Harry brought the light down directly on the top of Charles’s head. There was no crack like last time, but Charles immediately dropped, face down into the dirt. His massive form appeared even larger while lying next to his unconscious son.
Breathing hard, Harry gripped the light and turned for the stairs.
He made his way up, careful to avoid the wire. Each footfall sent further waves of pain down his arm, and up his neck. Harry had yet to look at the wound, he didn’t want to see it.
Entering the kitchen, which was filled with sunlight reflecting off the oak cupboards, he found Darlene sitting at the table, facing away from the door.
Lifting the flashlight, like a baseball player getting ready at home plate, he took another step toward the back of Darlene’s head.
When she spoke, Harry jumped and almost dropped his improvised club.
“Go,” she said. Harry couldn’t move. Each of his muscles was frozen in place. It was as if someone had nailed his feet to the floor
“Go!” she screamed, her head whirling around. Her eyes were red with tears, and her mouth was split in a horrible grimace of pain, revealing the same set of filed down teeth.
The image seemed to break his paralysis because Harry bolted for the front door. Whipping it open, he fled down the walkway.
His shoulder burnt, and continued to burn as sweat poured into the wound which would need close to 300 stitches and skin grafts to heal perfectly.
He was nearly unconscious and didn’t know where he was going, but he ran until he couldn’t run anymore. Nobody seemed to be outside. It didn’t matter to Harry.
When he couldn’t run anymore, he collapsed. Pulled the phone from his pocket, and called Grace.
Grace didn’t understand much of what Harry said on the phone that afternoon, but she got the gist. Harry was hurt and needed help, and to call the police to the Pegota house.
She found him nearly a half-hour later, unconscious on the lawn of a house, fourteen blocks from the Pegota house. She managed to wake him enough to get him in the back of her Jetta and took him to the hospital. The wound on his shoulder was like nothing she had ever seen. Once they sewed him up, and gave him some water and time to calm down, he told her what had happened.
She didn’t believe it, the only thing that convinced her was the inch deep crater, which Charles Pegota had bitten into her husband’s shoulder.
After he finished, all she could do was cry.
Cry because of what he went through, and cry because he was ok.
Three weeks later, while sitting down to breakfast, Harry received a call from the detective who was running the investigation at the Pegota house. All three of the Pegota’s had been arrested and charged with attempted murder, and murder in the first degree in the case of the mailman. All three of them were in solitary confinement at a prison outside of Kitchener.
“How are you doing this morning Mr. Chambers?” the detective asked. For the life of him, Harry couldn’t remember his name.
“I’m doing great,” Harry said, smiling at Grace. “How about yourself?”
“Good, good, I just thought I would take a minute to update you on some of our findings.”
“Thank you,” Harry said.
“Well,” the detective began, “as you already know the Pegota’s did murder that man three years ago, and you are very lucky to have survived.”
Yeah, you’re telling me, Harry thought.
“That basement they locked you in isn’t part of the blueprints for the house, which means they must have dug it out themselves.”
“Wow,” Harry said. It was all he could think to say.
“The last thing we found, that I thought you might find interesting, a tin of cookies was found on the table.”
“Yeah,” Harry said his mind drifting through the image of Darlene waving the tin beneath his nose. “She offered me one of those.”
“Well I’m guessing you didn’t eat one?”
“No,” Harry said, “kind of in my job description.”
“It’s a damn good thing you didn’t,” the detective continued, “there was enough tranquilizers in one of those babies to knock out a horse.”
To this, Harry had no reply. After a minute, he spoke.
“Thank you detective.”
“Not a problem Mr. Chambers, you have yourself a great day. I’m glad you made it.”
“Thanks again.” Harry hung up the phone, placing it on the kitchen table.
“What is it?” Grace asked, sipping her coffee. Her knees pulled up to her chest.
“Oh nothing important.” Harry said, staring into his mug.
“Hey,” Grace said. Harry looked up at her.
“I love you,” she said. Harry smiled.
“I love you too.”
Then Harry’s phone rang again. Mr. Gary. Harry held up the phone to Grace, who started to laugh. Placing the phone back on the table, Harry chose to ignore this one.
“You know something,” Grace said, getting up from the table and pouring herself some more coffee.
“What’s that?” Harry asked taking another gulp of his and placing it down on the table in front of him.
“As horrible as the whole thing was,” she paused to put cream and sugar in her coffee.
“You don’t have to tell me,” Harry said.
“As horrible as it was,” she repeated, making her way back to the table. “It would make for one hell of a story.”
Standing before him, the morning sun shining in from the window above the sink, she leant down and gave him a kiss on the forehead.
Harry crossed his arms, a smile on his face.
“You know,” he said, “I guess you’re right.”
