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Authors: Brian Keene, Brian James Freeman
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far away, but he recognizes the shrill noise in the gusting winter wind. He and Sarah have wanted to replace the antique phone since the first time it rang in their presence, the harsh buzzing scaring them both. Like a lot of things, they just hadn’t gotten around to it yet. Henry peers through the kitchen window. There’s no monster to be seen, but the table is smashed and the phone is on the floor, nearly ripped from the wall. Cabinets are open, pots and pans are strewn about, and plates and glasses are broken into jagged shards.
Henry wants to ignore the phone, but there’s only one person who might be calling and he needs to speak with her if he’s going to die today, a possibility he’s coming to accept now that he’s bleeding and shivering and the cold is moving up his spine into his brain.
He hurries to the back door, which is locked, and he smashes a panel of frost-coated glass with his elbow. The pain is faster and sharper than he expected. He reaches through the broken glass and unlocks the deadbolt, pushes the door open with a shove.
He carefully crosses the kitchen, watching for any sign of whatever made this mess. The house is quiet, with the exception of the phone. He tries to avoid the broken glass and shards of china—the remains of a wedding gift from his in-laws—on the linoleum and he grimaces in pain as each unavoidable piece becomes lodged into his foot.
Henry lifts the receiver and answers with a quick: “Hello? Hello?”
“Henry?” the crackling voice on the line replies. “Henry, I can barely hear you!”
“Sarah?”
“Henry, if you can hear me, we’re at the end of the driveway. You didn’t answer the phone, I’ve been calling since last night, so I tried to make it home…”
The line goes to static, then clears.
“…we’re stuck and the battery died about an hour ago. We’re going to try for the house…”
The line goes to static.
“…build a nice warm fire, okay? Henry? Can you hear me, Henry? I love you, okay? I want you to….”
And then the line dies.
“Sarah, no!” Henry yells. He slams the phone and tries to dial, but there’s no dial tone.
Henry fully understands what he heard: his wife and his little boy are a mile away, trapped out in the storm, and they’re going to try to travel on foot to the house. That’s insane! It’s freezing, but is it too cold to spend the night in the van? Henry doesn’t know, but Sarah must think so or she wouldn’t endanger Dillon.
Henry has to help his wife and son, he has to find a way…but then he hears another wet thump from the cellar…and then there’s a deep, bitter laugh, too, as if the monster senses more food is coming.
Henry understands this truth in his gut. He drops the phone and runs back into the snowy night, focused on his original destination: the garage. Now he has a different reason for going there. If he can accept that monsters are real, all he has to do is ask himself one question: how do you destroy a monster? The answer is simple and he feels almost giddy. The answer is obvious now that he’s thought of it.
Again the ice and snow is soothing on Henry’s battered and bruised and bloody feet. The chill crawling through his bones is numbing him to the pain, but he isn’t sure that’s a good thing. Once he arrives at the garage door, Henry breaks yet another window. His keys are on the hook by the kitchen door, but he never thought of them and he has no time to waste.
Inside the garage, the walls offer him shelter from the weather, although the air is brisk. His little Honda sits by the garage door, alone in the middle of the empty space. There’s no clutter here, unlike the cellar. In the far corner is the riding lawnmower and the rakes and the red gas can. There are also old cans of house paint and rough paintbrushes and a bag full of torn rags.
Henry grabs the cleanest rag he can find and he gently brushes the glass and broken china off his feet. Next he removes the rose thorns hidden under the
Henry wants to ignore the phone, but there’s only one person who might be calling and he needs to speak with her if he’s going to die today, a possibility he’s coming to accept now that he’s bleeding and shivering and the cold is moving up his spine into his brain.
He hurries to the back door, which is locked, and he smashes a panel of frost-coated glass with his elbow. The pain is faster and sharper than he expected. He reaches through the broken glass and unlocks the deadbolt, pushes the door open with a shove.
He carefully crosses the kitchen, watching for any sign of whatever made this mess. The house is quiet, with the exception of the phone. He tries to avoid the broken glass and shards of china—the remains of a wedding gift from his in-laws—on the linoleum and he grimaces in pain as each unavoidable piece becomes lodged into his foot.
Henry lifts the receiver and answers with a quick: “Hello? Hello?”
“Henry?” the crackling voice on the line replies. “Henry, I can barely hear you!”
“Sarah?”
“Henry, if you can hear me, we’re at the end of the driveway. You didn’t answer the phone, I’ve been calling since last night, so I tried to make it home…”
The line goes to static, then clears.
“…we’re stuck and the battery died about an hour ago. We’re going to try for the house…”
The line goes to static.
“…build a nice warm fire, okay? Henry? Can you hear me, Henry? I love you, okay? I want you to….”
And then the line dies.
“Sarah, no!” Henry yells. He slams the phone and tries to dial, but there’s no dial tone.
Henry fully understands what he heard: his wife and his little boy are a mile away, trapped out in the storm, and they’re going to try to travel on foot to the house. That’s insane! It’s freezing, but is it too cold to spend the night in the van? Henry doesn’t know, but Sarah must think so or she wouldn’t endanger Dillon.
Henry has to help his wife and son, he has to find a way…but then he hears another wet thump from the cellar…and then there’s a deep, bitter laugh, too, as if the monster senses more food is coming.
Henry understands this truth in his gut. He drops the phone and runs back into the snowy night, focused on his original destination: the garage. Now he has a different reason for going there. If he can accept that monsters are real, all he has to do is ask himself one question: how do you destroy a monster? The answer is simple and he feels almost giddy. The answer is obvious now that he’s thought of it.
Again the ice and snow is soothing on Henry’s battered and bruised and bloody feet. The chill crawling through his bones is numbing him to the pain, but he isn’t sure that’s a good thing. Once he arrives at the garage door, Henry breaks yet another window. His keys are on the hook by the kitchen door, but he never thought of them and he has no time to waste.
Inside the garage, the walls offer him shelter from the weather, although the air is brisk. His little Honda sits by the garage door, alone in the middle of the empty space. There’s no clutter here, unlike the cellar. In the far corner is the riding lawnmower and the rakes and the red gas can. There are also old cans of house paint and rough paintbrushes and a bag full of torn rags.
Henry grabs the cleanest rag he can find and he gently brushes the glass and broken china off his feet. Next he removes the rose thorns hidden under the
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