The Wicked Face

I've decided to post this as I write it, and plan on being done in the next few days. So you can either wait and read it all at once, or read it in these installments. Heres the first chunk of it. Let me know what you think! Feedback is always appreciated, even if you hate it!

ps, I haven't edited it or anything, this is literally as I write it.



The Wicked Face

Matthew Ashcraft

Standing in his driveway at one thirteen in the morning, Sam Reed felt shivers slide along his spine. They dripped slowly down, like a congealed liquid, clinging onto the bone, fighting gravity. Then they easily ran back back up, to repeat the process. Was it the cold, which, on this November night, was heavy and constricting? His lungs worked harder to pump a mist of breath from his mouth, which hung in the air before him, partially obstructing his view of his car. I've got to start warming the car up Sam thought to himself as his feet crunched on his gravel driveway. Sam lived in Loveland, Ohio, forty minutes or so from downtown Cincinnati. His home was mid sized and white, built in the nineteen forties, but renovated shortly before he and his wife had bought it, ten years ago. His wife, Cynthia, had been pregnant at the time with Megan, and the apartment they had first moved into after their marriage seemed suddenly, too claustrophobic and small when a crib had been introduced, and then a changing table, dressers, clothes and toys, and all of the things they had received at the baby shower. They had found this house in Loveland, and it was perfect for them. To the East, fields for as long as you could see, until they dipped slightly, rolling down over the horizon to the large home of the family that owned them. West, about half a football field away, the Reeds only close neighbors. A grand three story house painted a soft blue, like a robin's egg shell. An elderly couple lived there, Elliot and Clara Walters. They were in their seventies, retired and hating it, two cats and a small dog filling a small part of the void left to parents who had had ten children, none of whom lived closer than a seven hour drive. Across the street from the Reeds residence, more of those glorious fields.. Behind the house, a few acres of short green grass, which gave way to woods, nothing but dark and twisted shapes here so early in the morning. Sam had an obscene image flash behind his eyes as he opened his car door, looking back at the woods. For a second, the trees were like fingers, crippled and clawed, reaching up, out of the ground, as if to tear heaven from the skies.

Sam was middle management for a trucking company. He, had his own office with a nice view of the parking lot, and had seven people who answered to him. He made good money, His wife worked from home, a few hours a day, writing articles for a website. They had never exactly struggled. Until this year. The trucking industry was one of the hardest hit because of the economy, and as Christmas neared, Sam had taken a job at a major retail chain doing part time overnight stocking. On days he worked his night job, he would go to sleep as soon as he got home from his day job, around six or so. He awoke at midnight, showered, at a quick meal, and was pulling out of his driveway around one fifteen, a duffel bag with business casual clothes to change into at the office on the passenger seat beside him. He worked until six in the morning, and then went straight over to the office.

The car dipped to the right side slightly as Sam backed out onto the road, missing the last inch or so of his driveway catching the lip of the ditch in his yard. His headlights swung across his side yard, running along the grass like a spreading flame, meeting the side of the Walters home, and climbing along the paneling. The lights hit a kitchen window, and for a second, Sam was looking straight at the face of a man. The lights hadn't just plunged through the window, clearly showcasing the small cuckoo clock hanging opposite on the wall, as they normally did. In fact, he hadn't seen the clock at all, with it's small waving bar, ticking away the minutes until dawn. No, this time, the lights had illuminated a face, one that Sam was sure didn't belong to Elliot or Clara. It was a strange face, a pale face, a wicked face. Sam blinked, from surprise, and when his eyes opened again in no time at all, the face was gone. Sam sat in the middle of the road, his car diagonally across both lanes, the headlights still spilling intrusively into his neighbors kitchen. Sam sat a long time, not sure of what he had seen. Should he do something? Should he go over and check if his kindly old neighbors were being robbed? Should he call the police? Sitting in the cold, the engine idly pumping visible exhaust into the air, Sam decided he hadn't seen what he thought he had, and he drove on down the street.

*

The store Sam worked at at night had locks on a timer. They would not open until five minutes before two, and it was ten minutes before two now, and he had to sit in his car, waiting to get in. He had driven without the radio on, something very rare for him. He had thought of nothing but that face, with it's cold dark eyes, brows slanting down on top of them, two small dark snakes on an otherwise white background. The lips were turned downwards in a frown, no more like a snarl. “This is ridiculous!” Sam spoke aloud to himself, fingers finding the dial to the heater and turning it a few clicks down. There was no way Sam could have seen the face that clearly, no way he could have seen the position of the eyebrows, what sort of emotion the face displayed. There was no way of telling if it hadn't been either one of this neighbors. Or even if the face had been there at all. But It had been, and it had been a terrible, wicked, and deadly face. Sam knew it.

“Hey Sam.” Nathanial stood in front of the time clock, carefully punching his numbers in as Sam stepped by him.

“Hey.” Sam slid his coat off his shoulders and hung it on a hanger on the rack. He turned to Nathanial. 'What's going on?”

“Not much, had a hell of a test today, I'm beginning to rethink this whole college thing.”

“I had plenty of those days too.” Sam grinned as he moved to the time clock. “But look at me now.”

What Sam, Nathanial, and twenty or so other two a. m. folk did was empty a truck every night. A truck only arrived two or three days a week in most months, but every day but Sunday the week of Thanksgiving until Christmas. Two people would enter the truck, lifting them to a long line made up of rollers. The boxes were slid down and placed onto various skids. As skids reached their maximum height, “bowlers” took them to the floor and bowled them out. This consisted of finding the correct aisle from the label and sliding them down to the correct section of shelf space. After all of this, the rest of their work time was taken up by moving through the sections of the store, one person to an aisle, and putting the product on the shelves.

The team stocked in the small grocery aisles, Sam kneeling in front of the cooler, pulling out bottles of orange juice, sliding the ones with a further sell by date in, and then replacing the removed ones. He stood and stepped back, letting he door swing shut on it's hinges. Sam gasped and jerked away from the door. He spun quickly around, looking back into an aisle. He had sworn he saw the wicked face, leering behind him, reflected in the glass door. “What's the matter?” Gus spoke, an older man working in the aisle.

“Nothing.” Sam answered, tossing the cardboard box the orange juice had come in in his trash cart. Gus shrugged and stood, Sam unable to tell if the groan that came from Gus was from, his mouth or his knees. Sam turned back to the cooler, eyes scanning for the face. He put a hand to his face, and was startled to find he was sweating. His fingers came back slick and warm, and he wiped them off on his pants. He left his trash cart along the cooler and made his way to the bathroom. After making sure the door was locked, Sam stepped to the sink, hesitantly. He felt foolish when he realized he moved so slowly because he was half sure he would see the face reflected in the mirror, peering over his shoulder. The mirror was empty, besides Sam's own face, red and wet, making Sam absurdly picture a tomato, sprinkled with a morning rain, set atop his shoulders. Sam turned the faucet on, keeping the water cool, letting it flow over his palms and fingers for a moment before forming his hands into a diamond shaped bowl. He leaned forward and splashed the water onto his face. Sam stayed bent, turning the water off and held his eyes closed as the waters streamed from his face at first, and then lessened to droplets, pattering against the porcelain. Sam remained stooped, even after no more drops fell from his skin. He kept his eyes closed. Once again, he was sure that, as he stood up, in the mirror the wicked face would greet him. Sam took a deep breath and straightened up. He opened his eyes. Nothing.

Sam got through the rest of his late shift without seeing the face in anything other than his mind. It was never far from there. He thought of it as he stocked, he thought of it as he folded boxes down and slid them into the baler, he thought of it on his break. Every minute he was thinking of that face. Of that pale, terrible face. Sam changed for his day job in the office bathroom, carefully avoiding looking into the mirror. He stepped from the bathroom with the duffel slung over one shoulder. The office was dark, and empty. The only light came from a few computers in various cubicles, whose screens burned with that somehow bright black. A few people always forgot to turn their monitors off. Sam was an hour early on days he worked his night job, but what was the point of going home if he had to turn around and go right back out again? He walked to his office, unlocking it and letting himself in. He left the door open, fingers finding the light switch and flipping it up. He barely heard that soft buzz as the fluorescents kicked on, and it seemed his eyes were more accustomed to their harsh glow than a natural one. Sam dropped his duffel in the corner behind his desk and sat down, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles. He turned on his computer, and got to work.

*

Sam's wife Cynthia stood in the living room, staring out of the large side window, looking across the yard to their neighbors home. The heavy wooden front door was wide open. That wasn't like Elliot and Clara, Cynthia knew. Sure they were old, but they were mentally sharp, and wouldn't just forget to shut the front door. Cynthia made up her mind, moving to the small coat room off the kitchen and pulling her jacket on. Megan had gone off to school on the bus an hour or so before, she had been the one, standing at the end of the drive, to notice the open front door of the Walters' home. Stepping lightly over the crisp grass and crunching fallen leaves, her arms wrapped around her torso, Cynthia made her way to the front porch of the grand home, moving up the stairs and stopping just outside the door frame. “Hello?” She called, her voice filling the foyer. The early morning light had a hard time entering this front room, even with the door wide open. Shadows were deep and plentiful, and Cynthia was hesitant to give herself to them. “Clara? Elliot?” No answer. With a deep breath, Cynthia entered her neighbors home.

Cynthia made her way right, into the kitchen, her fingers balled into fists subconsciously. She was dimly aware of the stab of pain as her nails pressed into her palm hard enough that later she would find deep red trenches in her skin. Cynthia stopped in front of the window, just opposite the cuckoo clock, ticking softly. Cynthia looked across to her own home for a moment, before turning and making her way out of the kitchen.

“Anyone home? Guys?” Cynthia called out as she climbed the staircase to the second floor. Her hand slid along the banister, her shoes making little sound on the hardwood. She reached the top and hesitated, the hall split left to right. Cynthia had little opportunity to come up to the second level of her neighbors home, and was unsure of which way the bedroom was. Looking right, she saw a dark patch on the beige carpet of the hall. Cynthia edged towards the spot, her palms becoming slick with sweat. The spot was dark brown, not the red that Cynthia was accustomed to seeing on television, but there was no mistaking it. Blood. The blood lay sticky just outside a closed door. She reached out, fingers wrapping around the door handle. A deep breath, and Cynthia twisted the handle, pushing the door open. She screamed so loudly two deer in the fields on the other side of her house lifted their heads, turned their tails to the sound, and fled.

*

It was around ten that morning when Sam's cell phone buzzed. He lifted it from his desk, checking the ID screen. His heart gave a jump when he saw it was from his home, the worst flashing through his mind like a flash flood. “Hello?”

“Sam. Oh my god.”

“Cynthia, what is it? Is Megan okay?”

“Yes, we're fine. It's Elliot and Clara.”

Sam's heart seized up, a breath got caught in his throat. He coughed a few times before he could speak. “What?” Sam closed his eyes, the wicked face was all he could see behind his eyelids.

“They're dead, Sam. I went over, their front door was wide open all morning. I went over to check on them.”

“Oh my god.” Sam leaned back in his chair. “What happened?”

“They were murdered. God Sam, there was blood, everywhere. I ran back here, and called the cops, and then you. I hear sirens now. Please come home.”

Tires squealed as Sam took the turn onto his road a little too fast. Around two bends and then Elliot and Clara's place was visible, with his own house after it. Around his neighbors house, five or six police cars, an ambulance, and what Sam guessed was a van belonging to the county coroner. One other vehicle was parked in the front lawn, right by the steps to the front porch. It was a pick up truck with a few cages in the back, a fading sticker on each door identified it as an animal control vehicle. A man with gloves on was carrying Clara's beloved little dog out of the house and as Sam slowly passed, pushed him into one of the cages. The idea that the animals were being forced out of the house made Sam uneasy. It was only forty minutes after his wife had called him. Surely this stuff was all being handled too fast. Surely, there could still be some sort of mistake, either Elliot or Clara, or better yet, both of them were still alive. Hurt, but alive. Sam shifted his focus to his own house, and was startled to see a police cruiser parked in his driveway. Outside of the side door, his wife stood talking to a chubby office, who held his wide brimmed hat under one arm, jotting notes down on a small pad. Cynthia looked past the cops shoulder, watching her husband pull the car into the driveway. Their eyes met, and Sam could detect no flash of emotion in his wife. She normally had beautiful, unnaturally bright blue eyes, but as he pulled forward, pulling to one side of the police cruiser, Sam could see they were dull. They seemed almost lifeless, and, just as it had this morning as Sam left, a chill attacked his spine as he returned home.

“Oh, Sam.” Cynthia stepped forward and then hesitated, waiting for the cop to take a step back, and give a slight nod before moving the rest of the way to her approaching husband. They embraced each other, a tense and rigid hug, the contact doing nothing to east the tension they both felt in their bodies. “It was terrible. Blood. So much blood.”

Sam shushed his wife, running a hand along her head, brushing her hair back absently. He didn't know what to say. As he held his wife, she started crying, those usually beautiful eyes shifting once more, from dull to red and angry. As Cynthia cried, Sam pictured that wicked face in his mind.

“Mr.Reed?” The police officer stepped forward now, holding one hand out as he did so. Cynthia broke off from her husband, wrapping her arms around herself, he head turning towards the house next door, watching as the animal control truck moved down the driveway.

“Yes. Sam would be fine.”

“Sam then, I'm Officer Benson. I was just taking your wifes statement. She says you leave around one in the morning?”

“Yes, that's right.”

The cop nodded, his eyes searching Sam's. “It's hard to tell with such little testing done of course, but a preliminary educated guess, based on the drying of the spilled blood, the pooling of what little blood was left in the body, and things like Rigor mortis, would place your neighbors deaths right around that time.”

“Oh.” It was a statement, not a question that eased past Sam's lips.

“Yes. Did you notice anything. When you left I mean? Anything strange, was the front door of their house open.”

“No. It wasn't.”
“Did you see anything? Anything at all?”

Sam thought once more of the face, staring out of the kitchen window. How he was sure he could see the expression, the brows furrowed, how he was sure he could see nothing but malice etched onto the face. He thought of the unease he carried along with him throughout the night. How he could have sworn he saw the face as he stocked the cooler. Sam opened his mouth and answered. “No. Nothing.”

Sam and Cynthia hardly spoke for the next few hours. Cynthia busied herself with various chores around the house, dusting things that didn't need to be dusted, doing a load of laundry made up of clean clothes, just to have something to fold. Sam sat in the living room, staring blankly at the TV, not taking anything in as morning news shows gave way to a talk show, and then to soap operas. His mind felt like an old car, the motor was running, but was having trouble getting out of park and into drive. Every few minutes, if he wasn't already thinking of it, the face barged into the place where you keep mental images. When he wasn't picturing the face, Sam thought of the times spent with his neighbors, the generational gap between the two couples easily conquered by genuine kindness and affection. Saturday nights spent playing Euchre in the older couples dining room, Megan a room away, curled up and fast asleep on the over stuffed love seat in the family room. Sam and Elliot standing outside in the evenings, the old man holding one end of a leash, his wife's dog on the other end, barking at squirrels. Elliot would tell Sam how much he hated dogs, but how much he loved his wife, and therefor was willing to walk the 'little shit' when her knees acted up. Sam began to recall the time during the first summer he and his wife had lived next to the Walters, and- but there it was. The face, and the memory was lost, not to be found for the rest of the day.

“Megan is home.”

The voice seemed far away and tiny. Sam barely heard it, certainly didn't register it. Then he was pulled back to the hear and now, back to reality. He turned to find his wife sitting next to him on the couch. How long she had been doing so, he couldn't guess.

“What?”

“Megan is home.”

Sure enough, through a front window Sam could see the back end of the big yellow school bus. “I hadn't even thought of..” Sam trailed off, looking back to his wife. She stared at him, her eyes had been beginning to regain some of that beautiful color, the hue that reminded him of the one and only time he had ever seen the ocean. Now, thinking of telling her daughter about what had happened, Cynthia's eyes glistened once more with tears. She stood from the couch and walked out of the room without a word to her husband. The front door opened, and Megan stepped in, slinging her backpack off her shoulders and dropping it to the floor.

“Dad? Why are you home?” Sam stood and moved to his daughter, stooping and hugging her. When she spoke, her breath felt warm against his neck. “What's wrong?”

“Sweety, something terrible has happened.”

Megan's eyes grew, forced wider with terror. “Where is mom?” She pulled away from her father.
“No, Megan, mom is fine. It's Elliot and Clara.” Sam bit his bottom lip, letting one knee hit the carpet, looking into his daughters eyes. She drew back from him slightly. “They were killed.”

“What?” Megan stepped back, against the door, her small hands flat against the wood. “Killed? Daddy.” She trailed off, her voice sounding as little and scared as her body looked. Sam could practically feel his heart tearing, breaking over spilling this news to his daughter.

Soft barefoot foot steps behind him, Cynthia had reentered the room. Megan saw her and darted past her father, practically lunging at her mother, wrapping her arms around her waist as she let out a howl of pain that gripped and tore at Sam's heart even more. His eyes stung, and he was unsurprised to realize he was crying. He stood up straight, but didn't look at his wife and daughter. His wife spoke after a few minutes, Megan sobbing against her stomach. “I don't want to stay here tonight.”

They each packed a small bag and loaded them into Sam's car. First, he drove into town, and was slowing to turn into a Day's Inn, but his wife shook her head, and he kept on driving. No one spoke as he drove, though Megan continued to sob and sniffle. Sam got on the highway, and made his way towards downtown Cincinnati. His wife and daughter stood back from the desk as he bought a room, and he carried all three of their bags to the elevator. They rode up to the seventh floor, and made their way to their room. He had gotten one with two beds, and Megan ran to the one closest to the door and flopped face first onto it, overtaken by another round of tears. Cynthia stood just inside the doorway, looking at her daughter, but not seeing her. She had seen nothing but the mangled, slashed bodies of her neighbors, for the last ten hours. There they were, their blood staining the wall, even the ceiling in parts, squishing under foot, soaked into the carpet. She saw this when she closed her eyes, and the image lingered when she opened them. She moved to her daughter, and lay down beside her.

Sam didn't have to work his second job tonight, and he would call in to his other job in the morning. He sat at the food of a bed, his wife and daughter sleeping in the other one. He watched the late news, until his eyelids felt heavy. He changed into pajamas, unlike the two girls, who slept uneasily in the clothes they had worn that day. Sam looked at the bed with his wife and daughter on it, and then sank onto the empty one he had watched TV on. He turned off the small table lamp, pulled the comforter to his chin, and slept.

Sam woke hours later, laying on his side. He opened his eyes, his pupils tracing the neon blue light edging past the curtain from the lamps that illuminated the parking lot below. He turned over, and there, standing over him was the shape of a man, completely dark except for that hideous, wicked face, which seemed to glow in the night. Sam startled, sitting up in bed, his arms shielding his face. He could do nothing but wait for the whistle of a blade cutting through the air, the sting as it would cut through his skin. Neither came. Sam lowered his arms, and looked across to the other bed. His wife was facing him, her eyes open. “I'm okay.” Sam said softly. His wife hadn't asked, and replied with nothing. Sam slid from the covers of his bed, and pulled on a tee shirt. He moved to the doors to the balcony and stepped out into the chill. He leaned forward, forearms resting on the iron railing, and looked down into the parking lot. He thought he saw the face looking up at him, half hidden behind every car, every lamp post. Closing his eyes offered him no escape.

*

the stupid holidays got in my way. I'll continue working on this asap!