The Closet (a short horror story)

THE CLOSET

A short horror story

By Del Stone Jr.

—

Introduction

This story violates one of the big rules of horror – never place a child in peril.

Which is odd. I see movies do it all the time. “Pet Sematary” anyone?

Be that as it may, in 1982, which is when I am guessing I wrote the first version of this story, I didn’t know about a prohibition against placing children in peril. I wrote what I thought was a scary story. (Actually it’s not so much a story as a vignette, but again I’m splitting hairs.)

Even in 1991, when I obviously revised the story after Operation Desert Storm, I didn’t know about such a prohibition. I didn’t start selling professionally until 1992 and it was then I learned about the no-kids-in-peril rule.

These days, with demon-possessed children, zombified children, vampiric children and God alone knows what else horror moviemakers do to kids, I think this story, about a boogeyman that may or may not be in the protagonist’s imagination, will be OK.

Who knows? Maybe it’ll influence some irresponsible parent into being a better Mom or Dad.

One can hope.

—

THE CLOSET

There. She heard it again, recognition sinking in with an ache, the voice touching her like a stone cast into a deep, dark pool. That small voice calling against the torrents of dark that had come spilling over the apartment as afternoon slumbered into twilight. He called that way every night, lately. Something had changed in the boy. He was afraid.

Aereal wrapped herself against the cold crouching at the edge of her thoughts. The apartment seemed big. Too big. And empty. Max filled the place, made it a home – when he was here. He took away the cathedral silence, the echo that lurked at the edge of every sound she and Kelly made, and filled the place so that it seemed too small for the three of them. Until the next six months when he’d be gone.

“Momee.”

Blink.

His voice dug at her. She moved without thought across the living room, her feet tracing a quiet, susurrating path through the deep, blonde carpet.

Where the hell is Qatar anyway?

Mother had warned her. Ever wise, mother, with that patronizing, self-satisfied I-told-you-so smile, her eyes glittering with an almost predator smugness. “Mark my words,” she’d said. “You’ll regret setting up house with that young man. His line of work? You’ll be lucky if you see him three months out of the year. He may be a good man, but that isn’t everything, Aereal. You know? I’m talking about companionship. How will you ever get to know a man who’ll be gone as often as he will? How will you ever know what he’s up to?”

Mark my words. …

The memory of her mother faded. Aereal was standing in the hallway, a huge tunnel of dark. Somewhere at the end of that pit was her son. Her hand automatically went to the light switch.

Oh, it hasn’t been that bad, she tried to tell herself. The longest he’d been gone was what? Six months? Eight months? Not like some of those husbands who go remote for a year or more. And after this Qatar thing he was supposed to get an assignment stateside.

“Momee!”

Blink.

She said in a hushed voice, “Yes, kiddo. I’m coming.”

It hadn’t been that bad. She had the Military Wives meeting on Thursday night, and the batik classes.

Kelly had come along somewhere between Panama and Dakar, she thought. Wasn’t it odd she couldn’t remember … only five years ago. And thank God Max had gotten extended leave to stay with her that first six months. Otherwise, she couldn’t have done it. Not alone.

I don’t want to depend on him so much.

She closed her eyes.

But I need him.

And Kelly. Lying here in the dark. Didn’t he need his father too? Because they were both afraid; she had tried to convince herself otherwise, had tried to deny the fact with distractions and phony bravado, but even through the most elaborate curtains of self-duplicity she could still see a light of fear burning, a fear of being left alone.

“Momee!”

Her fingers curled around the door jamb, finding the light switch and flicking it on. She raised her hand against the sudden brilliance and hurried into the room, shielding her eyes. The boy began to emerge from under the covers.

“Momee?”

At first she only saw a blonde thatch of hair, flattened on the sides and tousled into a chaos of curls on the top. Eight fingers, then all ten gripped the top of the bedspread as it were a trapdoor into which he would flee.

All at once, Aereal was filled with awe, and a helpless, crazy love. Had she and Max really made this perfect creation?

“Momee, Momee – ”

The tightness in his expression was working out, shifting and smoothing to relief, then love. She felt herself going soft and helpless. She sat on the edge of the mattress. Kelly reached out, took her hand and gazed at her.

“Momee, I saw a monster. In the closet. A real monster.”

Aereal smiled and let out a pent-up breath.

Blink.

A monster. She knew the feeling.

“It was a big one,” he added, his head bobbing in an exaggerated nod. “In the closet.”

She began running her fingers through his hair, straightening the curls.

He’s too young to look like Max. Yet … she stared hard. Those eyes … she blinked and smiled.

“And why would there be a monster in the closet?” she said softly.

“I saw it.”

“And what did this monster look like?”

The boy began to think; his forehead drew lines of concentration. When he spoke, it was in a slow, careful voice, as if he were describing an image that might change if the words didn’t come out just right.

“It was big … very big … like a gorilla. And it was hairy, and it had all these sharp teeth with gooky stuff dripping off. And its face was all yucky and ugly.”

He paused.

“And it had big yellow eyes that glowed in the dark.”

Areal chuckled to herself. Sounds like your father when he gets up in the morning.

“ – as big as a monster. And he’s in there right now, Momee.”

Aereal stood up, walked over to the closet. Kelly squealed, “No, Momee! It’s in there! An’ it’ll eat you all up!”

She held up a hand, shushed him and smiled. When she spoke, her voice was like fingers running through his soft hair.

“I want to show you something.”

She pulled the closet door open. The boy gasped.

Blink.

Izod shirts; neat, unmoving rows of Hagar slacks for boys; Levis; Ocean Pacific; Roos shoes; a plastic ‘65 Mustang which, if the battery hadn’t gone dead, could shine its headlights – ”right into your eyes and probably blind you,” or so Max had said, quoting Aereal’s mother when she had given it to Kelly.

“See? No monsters.” Aereal smiled.

Blink.

No monsters. Not in the closet.

She saw the terror going out of him, saw him fill with bafflement, as if she had pulled off some arcane magic trick.

“There never was a monster,” she explained. “There’s no such thing as monsters.”

The boy looked confused. “But I saw – ”

“You had a bad dream.”

And his eyes seemed to say: a dream?

She went to his side and took his hand. “A dream. You dreamed it. There’s no such thing as monsters. Besides, how could a monster the size of a big, hair gorilla fit inside your closet?” She giggled and cuffed his chin. He smiled uneasily. “That teeny-weeny closet? Why, a monster would squash himself to death trying to fit in there.”

The boy smiled broadly, a spontaneous grin that said all was understood. Aereal bent, kissed his forehead, her lips barely brushing his cooling flesh as he dodged shyly.

He’s so small. She stood, a thread of unease pulling at the corners of her smile. God, I wish Max were here.

“Now you go to sleep, young man. And I don’t want to hear any more nonsense about monsters – or this’ll be the last time you eat Showbiz pizza before bedtime.”

“Does pizza make you have bad dreams?”

“Sometimes spicy food makes you have bad dreams, yes. So if you see another monster, it’ll just be the singing gorilla you saw at Showbiz.”

Blink.

“`Night, Momee.”

He was pulling the covers up around his neck, wriggling beneath the sheets in a boneless squirm. She slid the closet door shut, paused at the bedroom door, and whispered, “Good night! Sleep tight! Don’t let the bed bugs bite!” The boy giggled. Then she turned out the light.

The darkness lunged at her, grabbing her and threatening to swallow her. She frowned. Had she turned off the living room lamp? It seemed darker. She felt another tickle of disquiet stir inside her, something she couldn’t quite scratch. She touched a finger to the wall and traced her way along the hall. Then she was walking on carpet, in light, and she let out a tiny, keening sigh of relief.

Where the hell is Qatar? When is he coming – no, don’t think about it anymore. There’s no point making yourself miserable … more miserable.

She curled into the La-Z-Boy. A Time magazine hung over the armrest. She curled her feet beneath her and began to rock … gently. The magazine plopped to the floor, the pages flipping open to a photograph of Saddam Hussein, still in power, shaking a defiant fist at the rest of the world.

Blink.

“I am not built for solitude,” she whispered to herself. She crossed her arms and tried to squeeze warmth into her. I thought I could deal with it … all those other wives who hold down the fort while the troops are off in some God-forsaken little stinkhole country. How in God’s name do they stand it? Aren’t they in love?

Darkness seeped in around the window panes and beneath the door. Across the room it took the form of a mist, coming no closer than the light.

Can they turn it off, like I could turn off this lamp? She did not move her head; her eyes rotated in their sockets until she was staring at the shade. She reached for the lamp switch –

Where the hell is Qatar? Where the hell is Max?

“Momee!”

 – and snatched her hand away as if it had been bitten.

Did I make a mistake, or am I just being selfish? Oh God, why couldn’t Mother have just kept her mouth shut … putting those thoughts in my head. Christ! Why can’t I be sure of myself? So he’s gone six months out of the year … eight months … that’s OK. Not great but OK. I should be able to cope. If it weren’t for these … fears? Qatar. Tank traps and mustard gas and Scuds. Maybe something will happen. Maybe I won’t be able to handle it.

She squinted against a sob. There were tears here, somewhere. She felt them oozing into focus, as everything else began to slip out of focus.

“MOMEE!”

I love Max. She flipped on the TV. CNN was airing a feature story. But damn it, I need him here … with me … God, I’m too small for this loneliness. I can’t beat it –

“MOMEE!”

Blink.

CNN broke into its broadcast with a telephone report from correspondent Peter Arnett. Explosions were occurring over Baghdad. Aereal’s blood turned to slush. Something whipped out of her, a shout of fear, blind and unintentional. She blinked uncomprehendingly, shook her head, and yelled, “Kelly! What is it?”

“MOMEETHE MONSTER IS BACK! THESHOWBIZMONSTERHE’SGONNAGETME – ”

Something serrated and feral, a growl, took the darkness at the end of the hall and ripped it to shreds, mixing the pieces into something darker and more terrifying.

Blink.

What in the name of God was that?

“MAW – ”

The wall thudded, the sound of something soft and ripe splattering against hard sheetrock.

Bombs were falling over Baghdad.

Horror drove through Aereal like a knife. It penetrated every nerve, every muscle, until it engulfed her body, finding all the soft parts, snaking around her throat in reptile bands of tightness, squeezing, squeezing –

Blink.

I can’t breath –

She moved with surreal slowness. The living room seemed to flicker out of focus. A wall came at her and she grabbed it.

And then she screamed.

She ran into the hall, felt the scream come back at her from crazy angles, rebounding from the pits of shadow in terror-filled pulses. The hallway seemed to unwind into a tunnel, a throat, ringed with cartlidge, swallowing her. She ran; she tripped and stumbled.

Blink.

She crashed into the door. The knob hit her between the ribcage and pelvis. It drove the wind from her, sent spangles of raw pain thumping up through the middle of her brain, the burning trails momentarily erasing thought.

Blink.

She winced and lunged at the door knob, attacking it, twisting and battering at the door until it gave way and she stumbled into the room.

Blink.

An ingot of pallid light fell through the thick, greasy air. Aereal raised herself on one elbow, grabbed a corner of the bedspread and tried to haul herself up. The bed started to pull itself away from the wall but she was up, overbalancing, toppling toward the sheets. Momentum drove her face-first into the mattress.

It squished.

Blink.

“Kelly?”

The bed was empty. From the living room she could hear the tinny CNN announcer saying: bombs, air strikes, bombs, air strikes. … Terror settled over her like rigor mortis, clotting her thoughts. She forgot to breath. Her hands scuttled automatically, pulling at the sheets, which were heavy, reluctant, slicked down in. …

Blink.

What?

Oily and black, like tar, in the half-light. She held up her hand and stared at the palm, stared into it as if something were crawling beneath the flesh, stared glassy-eyed as a reddish-black drop oozed across the palm, gathered at the lip of her hand and then dripped, splashing against the Ninja Turtles on Kelly’s pillowcase.

Blink.

“KELLY!”

Blink.

Blink.

Blink.

Her terror multiplied three-fold, four-fold, became something primal and uncontrollable, something she could not understand. It was beyond Kelly now. Beyond Max. Beyond any fear she had known. And it was growing.

Blink.

 – Max –

Blink.

 – Kelly –

Blink.

 – me –

She began to scream. It seemed to peel her, diminish her, make her smaller and more vulnerable. So the cold could creep in. The terror.

Behind her, the closet door began to slide open.

About the author:

Del Stone Jr. is a professional fiction writer. He is known primarily for his work in the contemporary dark fiction field, but has also published science fiction and contemporary fantasy. Stone’s stories, poetry and scripts have appeared in publications such as Amazing Stories, Eldritch Tales, and Bantam-Spectra’s Full Spectrum. His short fiction has been published in The Year’s Best Horror Stories XXII; Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine; the Pocket Books anthology More Phobias; the Barnes & Noble anthologies 100 Wicked Little Witch Stories, Horrors! 365 Scary Stories, and 100 Astounding Little Alien Stories; the HWA anthology Psychos; and other short fiction venues, like Blood Muse, Live Without a Net, Zombiesque and Sex Macabre. Stone’s comic book debut was in the Clive Barker series of books, Hellraiser, published by Marvel/Epic and reprinted in The Best of Hellraiser anthology. He has also published stories in Penthouse Comix, and worked with artist Dave Dorman on many projects, including the illustrated novella “Roadkill,” a short story for the Andrew Vachss anthology Underground from Dark Horse, an ashcan titled “December” for Hero Illustrated, and several of Dorman’s Wasted Lands novellas and comics, such as Rail from Image and “The Uninvited.” Stone’s novel, Dead Heat, won the 1996 International Horror Guild’s award for best first novel and was a runner-up for the Bram Stoker Award. Stone has also been a finalist for the IHG award for short fiction, the British Fantasy Award for best novella, and a semifinalist for the Nebula and Writers of the Future awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies that have won the Bram Stoker Award and the World Fantasy Award. Two of his works were optioned for film, the novella “Black Tide” and short story “Crisis Line.”

Stone recently retired after a 41-year career in journalism. He won numerous awards for his work, and in 1986 was named Florida’s best columnist in his circulation division by the Florida Society of Newspaper Editors. In 2001 he received an honorable mention from the National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association for his essay “When Freedom of Speech Ends” and in 2003 he was voted Best of the Best in the category of columnists by Emerald Coast Magazine. He participated in book signings and awareness campaigns, and was a guest on local television and radio programs.

As an addendum, Stone is single, kills tomatoes and morning glories with ruthless efficiency, once tied the stem of a cocktail cherry in a knot with his tongue, and carries a permanent scar on his chest after having been shot with a paintball gun. He’s in his 60s as of this writing but doesn’t look a day over 94.

Contact Del at [email protected]. He is also on Facebook, twitter, Pinterest, tumblr, TikTok, and Instagram. Visit his website at delstonejr.com .