I swiped my sleeve across where I’d gripped the window sill entering, and scuffed my feet across the floor where my hands had rested when I piked my way in. Sloppy cleanup, but there were timeliness constraints here.
Automotive tools hung neatly on wall racks, and hot-rod accessories lay all about ready to service the Cougar’s souped-up needs – this garage was a wrench-head heaven, and perfectly organized by an anal retentive type. On a work bench next to me I saw a hammer, a 24-ouncer used for framing with a waffle pattern on the face of the head.
I picked the hammer up and hefted it. It wasn’t the jawbone of an ass but it’d have to do.
I rounded the Cougar and stood in front of the closed door into the main house, breathing open-mouthed to improve my hearing. I held the framing hammer up by my ear as I turned the knob with the sleeve of my work shirt covering my hand, slow as possible, dreading the smallest noise.
It finally wouldn’t turn any more and I opened the door a crack, dim light spilling through to illumine my hand. After waiting a few seconds I pushed the door just far enough ajar to take a peek through and make sure no one was lurking, then opened it enough to allow me to slink through and close it gingerly behind me.
A short hallway extended in front of me, with doorways to either side. Directly ahead and to the right was a large archway; it would lead to the front room and the front door.
Only two of the hall doors were open, both leading to lit rooms. The light from the doorway closest to me was flickering and dim; the glow from the one at the far end had the steadiness of artificial lighting.
I side-stepped my way to the closest doorway, which was on the left side of the hall. When I got close enough I leaned against the wall next to it, carefully placing my sleeve-covered free hand against the door frame for support. I leaned over to turkey peek around and through the doorway for a split second before pulling back and away as quick as I could.
I took a few seconds analyzing what I’d just glimpsed – a room painted entirely black: floor, walls, ceiling, and even the window panes. The only piece of furniture seemed to be some kind of altar with a statue and burning candles atop it. There’d been nobody in there I could see.
I crossed to the far side of the hall to make it harder for anyone in the room to ambush me. I side-stepped into position opposite the doorway, ready to float away in any direction if the Driver showed himself, or to jump in at him with the framing hammer if he saw me.
I took a better look into the room without moving any closer to the doorway. Two black candles burned on the left side of the altar, and one white candle burned on the right. Shadows pulsed and danced all about the room, created by the candles’ heartless light. Humped on the altar next to the white candle was a freshly severed woman’s breast, its nipple already wilted and pitiful in death.
Smack dab in the middle of the altar was a statue carved out of dark stone, depicting some kind of fantastic creature. It was a hunched miniature monstrosity, a squatting semi-human perversion. What passed for a face was looking to its left, toward the far end of the hallway.
I side-stepped onward to the open archway, and took my next quick turkey peek around. It was a dark empty living room with sofa, coffee table, and dead TV, its normalcy surreal after the altar room.
A wave of relief flooded me when I saw the front door on the far living room wall; it shone like a beacon promising eventual escape from this place. I could feel Sam out there guarding my back, the knowledge warmly comforting.
The smell of mold and decay filled the air, and clumps of mushrooms sprouted between the baseboards and the edges of the living room’s carpeting. Old plastic Revell models cluttered pretty much every horizontal surface; mainly airplanes and cars. Children’s games and toys were stacked on the floor, all decades old and covered in dust.
Were they the Driver’s? Had the boy he’d once been laughed and played within these now decaying walls?
A photo on the coffee table caught my eye, a high school graduation photo of two young men in caps and gowns with arms over each other’s shoulders, both smiling for the camera. One of the boys was a teenage Officer Hoffman; in the picture Rick looked almost human, though that furtive gleeful slyness was already evident in his eyes. The answer to the other boy’s face was a little harder, of the two he’d changed the most in growing up – but after a few more seconds certainty blazed in my mind and I nodded to myself, unsurprised at this revelation.
Next to the high school graduation photo was a box filled with paperwork, and with video and audio cassettes. Even in the gloom I could see something printed on the manila folder on top in my big brother’s almost illegible handwriting.
I wanted to stay there and dig through Karl’s box of evidence and see what he’d died to learn, to touch something he’d touched while alive. But the clock was ticking for Little Moe.
I continued toward the open doorway at the far end of the hall. I moved past each closed door in turn, listening intently as I passed with my war hammer ready and hopeful. But there was no noise, no movement; the rooms behind the doors felt empty as I passed. And then I was at that last open doorway, the light from within spilling out onto the hall floor in a curdled sour puddle.