Scary Stories, Rituals, and Urban Legends

The man in my basement takes one step closer every week part 3

Thus far I'd broken nearly every single so-called rule:1: He will begin in the furthest corner of your basement. If you see him, do not overreact. He may decide to move on.I'm guessing that snapping the intruder in half and throwing him into a trash compactor counts as overreaction.2: If the intruder decides to stay, he will take one step closer each week.Based on my math, I had about 264 days to go until he reached my bedroom. Probably sooner, since he seemed to be moving faster now.3: Do not attempt to speak with him, hurt him, or get third parties involved.I threw him in a trash compactor.4: Any violation of rule three generally results in several quick steps forward (Depending on severity of transgression.)That would explain why he's already in the center of the rumpus room.5:Barricading the doors is acceptable. This will slow him down, but the process will be very loud. (Difficult to sleep)I might do this when the time comes. (Earplugs and white noise to sleep over the sound)6: To others, the intruder will appear as a mannequin (or a rubber dummy, or a coat hanger etc.) Do NOT let guests near him.I don't even wanna think about this one right now7: The intruder will not move forward so long as you have guests in the house (Guests who actually want to be there) Once, I had an old friend sleep on the couch for three months and the intruder didn't move a step.I have no friends.8: You can leave the house, but NEVER sleep anywhere else. NEVER make plans to move (even browsing for houses online etc.) The importance of this rule cannot be understated.Okay.From here on out, I'd follow the rules until I thought of something better.__Two sleepless nights crawled by until I finally built up the courage to go back downstairs. Mainly because I needed my phone.Down the basement hallway, in the center of the rumpus room, stood the coat-rack. Behind it, my phone lay face down against the concrete floor. I crept forward, averting my eyes all the while. Sliding into the rumpus room, I pushed my back up against the wall and glanced over at the coat-rack. Immediate regret followed from the sight I saw. Nail's and wire snaked around mangled shards of wood. If the coat-wrack was a substitute, then what did the actual intruder look like? An image flashed through my mind: A gaunt man with a carnival smile, held together with nails and wire. I shook it off and leapt forward. Snatching my phone, I scrambled away and hauled up the stairs. The hands of nothing chasing me from behind, reaching for my ankles, ever-stretching arms desperate to pull me back into the dark. I slammed the door shut and pressed my back against it. Breathing heavy, I slid down to the floor.It's a coat-rack, I told myself.But the words rung empty now. Like a parent telling a frightened child there's nothing to be afraid of. There's nothing hiding under the bed. When really, they both know, there is. There's always something hiding under the bed. Maybe it's not the long-toothed monster you imagined as a child. Maybe it's a feeling, a hidden thing that you can't accept because you don't even know what it is. So instead you pretend it doesn't exist. A festering task you keep pushing back and back and back. A stalking truth always lurking just out of sight. Hiding in your peripherals. Sometimes, you even catch a glimpse of it, only to look and find - nothing. So, you shrug it off. You turn back to your food, your booze, your marriage. You pretend it doesn't exist. You--KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.Pounding at the front door. I got up, slinked over and pulled it open. There stood Howie, just as I expected."Brandon!" he said, wearing an over-sized smile and an over-sized white tee with baggy sweat pants."Howie." I said, fighting back the pull of sleep deprivation."Sorry to bother you so early, it's just..." he paused, looked over his shoulder, then back to me, "There's been a few break-ins around the neighborhood, last night... and, We're you hit?"I shook my head, "No.""Fortunate." Said Howie.I looked past him. In the driveway of the house across the street sat a red Kawasaki motorcycle. The first, and only time I'd seen a vehicle over there."Anyways," said Howie, "see you 'round." He turned to leave."Howie."He stopped and turned back."Did you know him?" I said, still watching the house across the street."Mr. Walker? A little." He said, "He ran a restoration thing. Fixed up our basement after a flood... A nice man, but... quiet."I nodded, Howie smiled and turned back, "Anyways, be safe out there." He said, humming to himself as he strolled off. I pulled the door shut and turned back inside. Reaching into my pocket, I took out my phone and dialed. The tone rang out a couple times until-"-Hello?"—Mitchell Walker and I met in a diner on the edge of town. A 2010's diner designed to look like a 1950's diner. Every roadside greasy spoon cliche in the book. Movie posters plastered the walls, the front grill of turquoise Cadillac hung up above the front door. Red-leather booths lined up against the windows. I sat there, staring blankly outside. Across the highway sat abandoned middle-class suburbs, foreclosed twelve years back. Traffic droned like swarming flies.Mitchell sat across from me. He wore a letter jacket and a ball-cap, looking even more jock-like than the last time we met."You don't count as third party?" I asked.He eyed me, confused."The rules. No third parties." I saidMitchell shook his head, "No.""Why?""Already a believer."I took a sip of bitter black coffee, studying him. He still seemed sincere. But trustworthy? I wasn't sure."What's belief got to do with it?""I don't really know." Said Mitchell, leaning back in his seat. He glanced around the diner, almost like he was expecting someone. He turned back to me, suddenly serious, "You need to tell me what happened.""Excuse me?""The first time it showed up."I raised an eyebrow. I never told him about the first coat-rack incident for several reasons. Mainly, I didn't want to set him off. Mitchell, for all his sincerity, did not seem like the most stable of individuals. Not that I could blame him, considering his life circumstance."Why are you helping me?" I said, changing the topic.He blinked surprise and looked out the window. His eyes flicked back and forth as traffic sped by. He turned back to me, "I killed my dad," he said, "I mean not literally ...but it's my fault he died." He weighed over his next words carefully. The traffic outside slowly droning ever-louder, like a rising tide. Mitchell continued, "The last few years of his life. Nobody believed him, we all thought he was ...crazy. But he never talked about it straight up, he just left notes. Sometimes you'd go home after a visit and find one in tucked away in your shoe." He looked off past me, staring at the wall as if the memories played out right there behind me, "The notes were always about the person hiding in his house. How they were trying to terrify him to death."-The front door chimed open. Mitchell tensed up and glanced back over his shoulder. A family of four shuffled inside, he relaxed and turned back to me. "Look, I just wanna make sure what happened to him doesn't happen to anybody else." He leaned back in his seat again, hands wrapped tight around a cup of untouched coffee."Fair enough.""Look." said Mitchell, "If you broke the rules once, even twice, that's fine. But you need to tell me what happened."I nodded slowly, took another sip of coffee and set my cup down. "I snapped the coat-rack in half and threw it in the trash compactor."His eyes filled with shock, a shock he immediately repressed. Like a doctor trying to act cool in front of a patient with horrific test results. "Okay..." He said, "And it came back the next day?""Yeah. Held together by nails and wire."Mitchell nodded, "How much further ahead was it?" The front door chimed open again, but he didn't look back."About ten steps from the corner." I said.Mitchell nodded, again trying to act like it was all good, when it clearly wasn't.Another question dawned on me, "Why does it look like a coat-rack?"Mitchell shrugged, "None of the rules are set in stone. Did you buy the place with your own money?""Yes. Well, sort of. Mortgage.""Yeah that shouldn't-""-Mitch?"A voice from beside us cut into the conversation. I turned to see an older man, wearing a brown leather jacket and carrying a red bike helmet. Tall, wiry and in need of a shave. Clint Eastwood vibes."Mitch, where've you been?" he said, his voice strained with sadness. Mitch looked away, acting like he wasn't even there."Mitch?" he said again, his voice shaking now. I turned back, Mitch stared down at the coffee in his hands, his reflection rippled in waves of highway traffic rumble. His eyes were wet."Mitch please..." the man said, leaning forward slightly, "I've been looking everywhere for... I've..." the stranger trailed off into silence and stepped back, he looked at me. His eyes were filled with years of suffering. He reached into his coat pocket, produced a card and placed it face down on the table. He looked back at Mitch one last time, "I'm always here kid." He smiled grimly, then turned away and wandered back towards the exit. Hands on the door, he stopped and looked towards us. He opened his mouth to say something but......He turned away, pushed outside and stepped down into the gravel parking lot. He crossed the lot and climbed onto a red Kawasaki motorcycle, he looked back at me through the window. His eyes were different now. Apathetic. Suddenly, his eyes lit up, glanced around, darted back and forth for a couples seconds, then snapped back to vacant apathy. It almost looked like someone had crawled into his mind, taken a quick look around and jumped back out. He pulled on his helmet and revved up the engine and sped off."...Mitch?" I said, still staring out the window. The realization of who that was finally dawning on me-"-It's not him." said Mitch, "Just looks like him."I turned back. Mitch, hands shaking, took a sip from his coffee and set it down. "You wanted to know what happens when it reaches you." He threw up his hand as if to say, wish granted. Reaching across the table, he grabbed the card left behind and handed it to me. I already knew what it said, but I turned it over and read anyways:Walker Restoration & Renovation - - Owner: P.T. Walker