I'll Tell You a Story

The Malodor

It had been a week since Jett saw the last jewel-like winked of the windows, each one gleaming and clean. Now, the doors locked and shades were pulled low, drooping over the sills like limp sails, while thick curtains were drawn tight to avoid the light from entering.

Every time he looked at them, the past would haunt him to his very soul. He was as if their slave and they were luring him now. But no matter how strong the screams in his head were, the only voice he could hear was his father's, repeatedly telling him the rule. A rule that would keep him alive, safe and sound. Never go outside. They won't be the way you remembered them.

The vibrant color of his shirt was muted in the darkened living room. White candles on the fireplace mantel flickered and dutifully melt away. Still, it was enough light for him. They were used to it. He closed his eyes and, again, listened to the creepy-nature noises outside their house.

The forest had twisted and grown, the shadows no longer familiar. The wind bullied through the leaves of trees making them dance ballistically. Raindrops grew bigger, sharply pattering on the roof as if they were stones. There were also shattering peals of thunder, followed by the crash of a tree falling over. A storm, of course, but his father decided keeping indoors would mean no danger. After all, it wasn't ordinary bad weather—the storm had been battering the town for a week.

Three knocks blared from the weather-beaten door, rattling him out of his nightmare brain. A chill came rivered, seeping into his bones as mixed emotions struggling for dominance within him. The noise continued, the doorknob was now jiggling. It settled a clot of heat in the middle of his chest. His incoming nausea had turned to something else: threatening omen; icy, biting fear. He reached for the violently twitching knob, cradling it in his burned-with-sharp-cold hands until it was frozen again.

"Son, open the door! They're after me!"

It was his father—pleading like a lost lamb caught in a thick bramble. His hormones did a little shuffle. Thoughts started churning around his head like lottery balls in the popper as his father begged again to let him in. He fell silent. A sense came of being confronted by something totally inexplicable—his father was upstairs, sleeping.

With beads of water accumulated on his forehead, he had the briefest hesitation ending the self-deprecating look on his face. He found his hand again resting on the doorknob. An enormous sigh fluttered through his lips, his voice within lost its edge. He twisted the knob.

He slightly opened the door. He took a long pause but no one came in, not even a shadow appeared. The wind growled like a hungry lion into the house. The shriek of the wind felt like a death grip taking hold, squeezing tight and wrenching his insides. The door now flung open.

Their once neatly-trimmed lawn had turned into a dumpsite. There was a sea of strangers, clamoring, forming endless curves as if cows lined to slaughter. Their faces wishy-washy milk and eyes sunken, incorporeal black that froze his blood. Slowly materializing, several devilishly black clouds of smoke rose from the garbage bags scattered.

The sudden ripe, rich smell of human decay was overwhelming. He swallowed, trying to breathe through his mouth. He put on a disgusted face and covered his nose with his hand. But the putrid odor was too intense he already smelled it, enough to give him a headache. Blue veins began to bulk on his temple, his teeth clenching they seemed to splinter anytime. He felt his heartbeat coming into a screeching halt as he slumped to the ground. He was dead as a doornail.

His father was automatically screaming upon seeing the open door downstairs. Sprinting to close it, a vision of hell stepped into his view outside—his son as one of the malodorous monsters.