Trick or Troll

Pitch black surrounded him. Jerry sat on the floor, in the corner of his kitchen, knees drawn up under his chin. He wrapped both arms in a bear hug around his legs. His right hand clutched a Jack Daniels bottle by the neck in a stranglehold. A half-smoked cigarette dangled from his lips.

He couldn't see his front door from where he sat in the dark, but he knew the little beastie was back. It had returned... probably had never left. He didn't have to see it. He felt its presence—greasy and slick—in the pit of his stomach. Not only that but an inexplicable, eerie draft slithered like a snake along the back of his neck, gooseflesh attacked his scalp, whispers jabbered incessantly within his head, and the air turned heavy, hard to breathe, as if it were polluted by the black soot from Nazi death chambers.

Yeah, he knew the signs, it was there all right, crouching at the threshold of his home, lurking, lying in wait.

God said to Cain, "Sin crouches at the door."

Well, Jerry believed it; sin—a troll—had been crouching at his door the past three years. And with the beastie skulking there, he dared not cross any threshold; he dared not leave his home.

He never knew from where it had come or what had brought it or how it had gotten into his home. Although he called it a troll, he never truly knew it by name. He never saw it clearly either, straight on, anyway; he only caught glimpses of it out of the corner of his eye—a dark form, grotesque and twisted, creeping about in the shadows.

But whether it came from heaven or hell, whether it traveled there on foot or on an unearthly wind, whether it followed him through the door or slipped under it like a serpent, whether he called it a troll or a beastie or a demon, none of that mattered. The only thing that mattered now was it called Jerry's home its own.

That and it liked to kill.

Not everyone who came to the door or crossed the threshold. Not indiscriminately. It was smarter than that. It chose its victims carefully, one at a time. Although not always, it usually waited for its favorite night—like tonight, when little Halloween ghosts and goblins lurked in the neighborhood and came knocking at the door. For even if seen its existence wouldn't be questioned on Halloween—just another scary costume or decoration or maybe nothing more than a trick of light and shadow on a night when imaginations ran wild.

So, as he had the past two years, Jerry hid in the back of the house. He turned off all the lights inside and outside his home, hoping to discourage anyone from coming to his door, hoping to thwart the same needless bloodshed of the past.

But somehow he knew at least one foolish kid would brave the dark shadows, venture onto the porch, and sing out with that horrid refrain, "Trick or treat." And like the others, that poor soul would be lost forever, never heard from again.

Except by Jerry, that is. He would hear them again.

Because the troll always took its prey to a secret place somewhere in the house then tortured them over a course of days. Jerry knew not where and dared not look. But the screams pouring through the walls kept him awake day and night until finally the victims fell silent, succumbing to the ordeal. After death, their spirits joined the others that haunted the place and jabbered incessantly inside his head, as if he were guilty of murder and not the troll.

Voices of the dead bombarded his thoughts now. He had hoped the whiskey would silence them. But no such luck. They still hissed their accusations, threatened their reprisals.

Maybe he was guilty. Maybe the sheer lack of trying to stop the beastie made him culpable. Maybe the fact that his home served as the troll's killing field made him responsible.

But how could he stop a supernatural force, a killing machine?

Jerry removed the cigarette from between his lips and replaced it with the mouth of the whiskey bottle. He took a long pull of Jack Daniels and swallowed hard, all the while praying that this night would end uneventfully, that the lack of light and activity from within his home would discourage anyone from coming to his door.

But his prayers went unanswered.

"Trick or treat," a boy's familiar voice called from outside his darkened door, "trick or treat."

Jerry's breath caught in his lungs. He held it there, imprisoned, as if afraid that letting it loose would set in motion horrible and unavoidable events.

"Call again, Brian," a man's voice instructed. "I know he's in there. Your Uncle Jerry hasn't left the house in almost three years."

Jerry's held breath burst from within him. He crushed out the cigarette against the linoleum and scrambled to his feet. He thought he had recognized the boy's voice, but the man's voice confirmed it; his brother and nephew stood outside his door, unaware of the danger crouching there.

"Trick or treat," Brian called again.

Still clutching the whiskey bottle, Jerry stumbled to the kitchen table. He set the bottle down and peered through the doorway and into the living room. From there, with eyes somewhat adjusted to the dark, he could make out the front door looming just ahead.

"Mike...Brian," Jerry called, "go away...get away from the door."

"Jerry, open the door," Mike called back, "let us in."

"Trick or treat, Uncle Jerry," Brian chimed.

From the corner of his eye, Jerry caught a glimpse of the troll's twisted shadow. It darted toward the door, stalking its prey at the threshold, carrying in its grasp what looked like a large knife.

Jerry lunged toward the doorway between kitchen and living room but dared not go through it. Instead, he gripped the doorframe, digging his fingers into the wood until they bled, and shouted, "Go away...run...quick, get away...before it's too late."

If Mike responded, Jerry didn't hear. The voices of the dead now deafened him to all other sound. His world suddenly spun out of control, rocking him back on his heels. He stumbled about in the dark kitchen, unable to think. The mind-numbing voices in his head quickly turned to screams pleading for mercy.

And all he could do was join in with screams of his own.

* * *

He woke lying facedown on the cool linoleum of his kitchen floor. Moaning, he pushed himself up into a sitting position and cleared the cobwebs from his brain with the shake of his head. In a maddening rush, it came back to him—Mike and Brian at the door, the troll, the screams.

He scrambled to his feet, switched on the kitchen light, and staggered out into the living room. Within the eerie backlight from the kitchen, the opened doorway gaped at him as if in a mocking laugh. He longed to close it but dared not approach the threshold for fear the troll still crouched there in the shadows.

His brother and nephew were nowhere in sight. He could only guess as to their fate.

Then a thought came to him. Tiptoeing to the nearest wall, he put an ear to the hard surface and listened. A muffled groan greeted him from somewhere on the other side.

"Mike?" Jerry whispered. "Brian?"

Another muffled groan answered.

As he thought, they were somewhere within or behind the walls, just like all the others. The troll had taken them to its secret place, to its torture chamber.

Jerry had never been able to find it. But, then, he had never truly looked. Fear had always shackled him into inaction. Even the pleading screams from the troll's victims hadn't pushed him into rescue mode. Instead, those beseeching cries for mercy had fallen on deaf ears. To drown them out, he had played loud music through headphones.

That's why the spirits haunted him, cursed him, whispered vengeful nothings in his ear; he had never even tried to save them.

But they were mostly people he had never met, strangers he had never invited to his home. This was different. This was his brother, his nephew. He couldn't turn a deaf ear to them. He had to save them no matter what.

With his ear still pressed to the wall, he followed the faint groan around the room until it led him back inside the kitchen and toward the refrigerator. He scrunched himself against the side of the appliance and listened intently. But before he could be sure of what he heard, the refrigerator turned on, clunking and humming, drowning out all other sound.

He stood back, scrutinizing the large appliance as if it were an alien machine beamed down to his kitchen from an orbiting starship. He listened to its incessant hum, while his trembling hands pulled a pack of cigarettes and a book of matches from his shirt pocket. After lighting up, he threw the spent match onto the floor and tossed the remaining cigarettes and matches onto the table. Picking up the whiskey bottle next, he took a long pull of the stuff. If he were to face the horrid troll and save his family, he would need to steel himself with all the whiskey and nicotine he could get.

He startled when the refrigerator suddenly turned itself off and fell silent. He trembled even more when he heard the faint sound of groans and whimpers come from it, as if Mike and Brian were somehow held captive within its frosty walls.

But he knew that couldn't be.

Inspecting the refrigerator, he noticed the cord went to an electrical outlet a few feet away. He took one last gulp of liquid courage before setting the bottle back on the table and slowly moving toward the appliance. With burning cigarette dangling between his lips, he pulled the heavy thing away from the wall and out into the room.

Afterward, he stood back and stared at a closed door, dumbfounded.

Why hadn't he put the refrigerator in front of the outlet to hide both it and the cord? Why would he put it in front of a door, hiding the existence of another room or maybe a basement?

Then he remembered. The refrigerator had come with the house. It stood where it always had, since the day he moved in. He never thought to move it. He was never told about the hidden door and whatever waited beyond it.

With a trembling hand, he removed the cigarette from between his lips. He blew smoke out into the room as he studied the mysterious door and contemplated its meaning.

He had always assumed that maybe the troll had followed him home, that it was somehow attached to him. But now, after finding this hidden door, he thought that maybe the beastie had come with the house, undisclosed by both the realtor and the former homeowner.

With that thought, a shiver slithered along his spine, and a skullcap of fear gripped his scalp. Surely he had found the troll's secret room, the torture chamber. Surely, he had found his brother and nephew.

He listened intently. Groans and whimpers came from the other side of the door. Although muffled, he heard them clearly enough.

He took one last drag of his cigarette, pitched the butt onto the linoleum floor, and crushed it under his shoe. He exhaled the smoke slowly through his nostrils and tiptoed toward the closed door. He had no workable plan, no idea how to proceed. He only knew he had to find Mike and Brian. And to do that, he knew he had no choice but to cross the threshold into the troll's lair.

His right hand held the doorknob in a death grip, squeezing it with white-knuckled intensity. But he couldn't bring himself to turn the knob.

What if he came face to face with the troll? What would he do?

It didn't matter. He'd think of something. He had to save Mike and Brian, no matter what. But he also needed to be smart about his rescue attempt. If not then they would all surely die.

Maybe he needed a weapon.

He released the doorknob and went to a kitchen drawer. From within it, he took the biggest and sharpest knife he could find, some kind of butcher's knife. In his right hand, he held the knife at the ready. With his left hand, he turned the doorknob. The door creaked like a rusted cemetery gate as he slowly opened it. A long staircase greeted him on the other side. From where he stood, the stairs descended into what looked like a black hole. A stench ascended out of that blackness and slapped him across the face. A groan like that of a graveyard ghost rattled his nerves.

What little courage he had summoned now faltered. His trembling hand almost dropped the knife. He longed to slam the door shut and forget he had ever found the hidden basement. But if he did that then he sealed both Mike's and Brian's demise. He would have to live with their tortured screams for days. Afterward, their vengeful whisperings would join the others, haunting him until only his own death finally silenced them.

He couldn't live with that. He had to find a way to brave the basement.

From the corner of his eye, he saw a light switch on the wall. He knew the light would give him away if the troll was indeed down there. But the mere thought of venturing down the stairs and into that black hole made his stomach roil. Right now, just standing at the top of the stairs and looking down into solid darkness brought what felt like hot lava up into the back of his throat.

He could get a flashlight; he had one somewhere. But he held little hope that a narrow beam of light would settle his stomach and steel his nerves.

Without further debate, for better or for worse, he switched on the light. The basement immediately brightened, but what he saw made him feel no better about descending those stairs than had the foreboding blackness.

Bloody clots of human tissue and hair clung to each step. Smears of blood stained them. Bloody hand prints streaked the wall and ran along the railing too—the troll's victims apparently putting up a futile battle to remain topside.

"My God," he whispered.

Swallowing down an eruption of hot lava, he somehow forced himself to take that first step into perdition. With that first step came a second then a third, until finally he found himself just three steps from the bottom. From there, he peered about, searching for the grotesque and twisted form that had haunted his home for three long years. Thankfully, the troll was nowhere in sight, and the ghostly groans had fallen silent, as well.

But what he saw and smelled appalled and sickened him more than anything he had experienced so far.

One big, square room stretched out before him, its walls covered in blood, hair, and human tissue like macabre wallpaper. Hand tools—both mechanical and electrical—littered a workbench and the blood-soaked floor. A stench of feces and death punched him in the gut and sent him reeling. The room looked and smelled like the workshop of a maniacal handyman.

As his gaze darted from one horrid sight to another, Jerry glimpsed two stainless-steel surgeon tables at the center of the room. Strapped to one was Mike's naked body. A coroner's Y-shaped incision split him open from under both ears to his breastbone and on down to his pubis. Internal organs spilled out of him, across the table, and onto the floor, as if he had exploded from the inside out like overcooked macaroni and cheese in a microwave.

Jerry hunched over, heaving both lunch and whiskey onto his shoes. Even when nothing remained, he convulsed with dry heaves. Finally, he straightened and used his shirtsleeve to wipe slick remnants from his chin. To steady himself, he had to grab onto the soiled handrail as he stumbled down the three remaining steps. Averting his eyes, he staggered past Mike's desecrated remains to the second table. There, Brian lay strapped and confined. The boy remained clothed and relatively untouched except for a large bump on his forehead, scrapes and scratches on his face and hands.

First Jerry felt for a pulse. It felt weak but steady. Then he tried to wake the boy by tapping his cheek.

"Brian," Jerry whispered, "wake up...it's Uncle Jerry."

He unbuckled the belt from across Brian's chest and used the butcher's knife to cut the leather straps away from the boy's wrists and ankles.

Tapping Brian's face again, he whispered, "Brian, wake up."

The boy groaned. His eyelids fluttered.

"Come on, Brian," Jerry urged, "I'm going to get you out of here."

Groaning again, Brian opened his eyes. But the sight of Jerry with the butcher's knife must've been too much for the boy; his eyes quickly rolled back into his head, and he again lost consciousness.

Jerry let out a long, hitched sigh, realizing he should have put the knife down and out of sight. His traumatized nephew apparently couldn't tell the difference between uncle and troll, couldn't comprehend the difference between being harmed and being rescued.

"Okay," Jerry whispered, "I guess I'll have to carry you out of here."

He set the knife on the stainless-steel table and picked the boy up in his arms, cradling him there like a baby. But Brian was no baby. He was a fairly sturdy nine-year old, getting heavier by the second.

Again, Jerry averted his eyes away from his dead brother as he hurried with the boy to the stairs. He rushed up the staircase, hardly believing his luck for not coming face to face with the troll. At the top of the stairs, he kicked the door closed with his foot and stood there in the middle of the kitchen, breathing hard, and barely cradling the boy in his aching arms.

What now? He had invaded the troll's turf and stolen its prey. It wouldn't be happy. It surely would come for them, soon, and he had stupidly left the knife downstairs in the troll's domain.

What he had to do was get Brian out of the house. But that was easier said than done. He hadn't left this house in three years. How could he now?

Besides, the troll probably waited by the threshold, hidden just outside, waiting. He was convinced that was why he hadn't seen the beastie downstairs; it was playing with him, taunting him, daring him to take Brian and attempt an escape.

He carried Brian into the living room and set the boy on the sofa. The front door still stood open, mocking him. The unknown outside terrorized his soul and the mere thought of leaving this house after so many years gave him the shakes, like a heroin addict going cold turkey.

But then he thought of the troll and the misery of the last three years inside the house. What waited outside couldn't be worse than that, could it?

He took a deep breath and gazed down into the innocent face of his nephew. That calmed him or at least resigned him to his fate. Whether he liked it or not, he had to get Brian out.

But the troll surely waited for him at the threshold. What he needed was a diversion, a way to get through the doorway and outside to safety without the troll noticing or caring, something big enough and bold enough to not only throw the beastie into turmoil but also destroy it at the same time.

Jerry hurried back into the kitchen, retrieving the cigarettes, the matches, and the Jack Daniels. Back in the living room, he took a long pull of whiskey before throwing the bottle at the wall nearest the drapes—glass shattering, alcohol splattering. He took a cigarette from the pack and lit it. Inhaling long and deep, he relished both the smoke in his lungs and the nicotine buzz in his head. One more drag and he was ready to do what he knew he must.

If this doesn't silence the voices then nothing will, he thought.

"This is for Mike...and for all the rest," he whispered.

With a flick of his finger, he sent the lit cigarette flying toward the whiskey-soaked drapes. They ignited instantly, flames dancing up toward the ceiling and down toward the carpet. Within seconds, the fire grew from infancy into a roaring monster. With that monster came a choking, black smoke.

Now was his chance. He turned to scoop Brian up into his arms, but the boy was suddenly conscious and on the move, running through a maze of flames, crying out in terror.

"Brian, wait," Jerry called, "the troll...the threshold."

But the boy paid no heed to Jerry's warning. Instead, he kept moving through the flames, disappearing into the black smoke.

Jerry plunged into the dense blackness after the boy, heat scorching his skin, smoke stabbing his eyes and filling his lungs. Blindly, he reached out for his nephew but grabbed only flames. He screamed in pain and barreled his way toward the door. Tripping, he went down hard, knees hitting first, the rest of him following with a thud. He lay across the threshold, head and arms outside, the sweet scent of fresh air pushing the smoke from his lungs in long, violent coughs, the rest of him still captured within the fire-ravaged house, hot flames licking at his legs and feet.

Brian sat on the porch, back against the railing, coughing, gagging, rubbing his eyes.

"Brian, help me," Jerry called. He reached for his nephew, fingers barely touching the toes of the boy's sneakers.

Brian dropped his hands and stared at Jerry with wide-eyed terror. He screamed, kicking free of his uncle's outreached hands and jumping to his feet.

"Brian, help me," Jerry pleaded. He struggled to crawl the few feet to freedom, but he couldn't move, as if something inside the house had a hold of his legs. "Help me, Brian," he pleaded again, reaching out to the boy.

Brian moved sideways along the railing, feeling his way to the stairs, eyes riveted on his uncle.

"Brian, the troll's got me," Jerry screamed. "Don't leave me."

At the top of the stairs, Brian turned and ran, Jerry's screams giving chase. The boy made it down the stairs and across the lawn to the safety of the sidewalk. He turned back just in time to see the house collapse, crashing down into a blazing pile of rubble and finally silencing his uncle's tortured shrieks. Burying his face in his hands, the boy sobbed and wailed.

In the distance, fire engines and police cruisers joined the boy's lament, their mournful songs resounding through the Halloween night.

* * *

Brian sat up in bed, unable to sleep. Outside, a storm brewed. The wind whistled through the eaves and shook the trees. The limbs of the tree right outside his bedroom scratched at his window as if trying to get to him. A flash of lightning ripped open the black sky, and far off thunder rumbled like a waking monster in the night.

Pulling the covers up to his chin, the boy scanned the dark room through tear-soaked eyes. It was Thanksgiving, but he had nothing to be thankful for. Yeah, he had survived the Halloween ordeal. But both his dad and his uncle were dead. His mom cried constantly and hovered over him every second. Policemen still visited, asking him questions he didn't know how to answer. Doctors asked him questions too, insisting he share his feelings.

What he felt was scared, all the time now. During the day he jumped at every sound, every trick of light and shadow. Sleepless nights were spent huddled under the covers, just like this night, hiding from the thing that stalked him.

It was there now, in his bedroom. He couldn't see it, but he could feel its presence in the pit of his stomach, like when he ate too much candy. He shivered and pulled the covers tighter to ward off the weird feeling of spiders creeping along his arms and scurrying across his scalp. He found it hard to breathe, like when that bully at the playground pushed him down and sat on his chest. And the pleading screams of his uncle haunted his thoughts.

The patter of rain struck the windowpane. A flash of lightning lit up the bedroom for a split second, revealing a grotesque and twisted shadow lurking near the door; Brian caught a glimpse of it from the corner of his eye. He screamed simultaneously with a boom of thunder.

"Brian," his mom called, her footsteps pounding in the hallway, coming fast.

A hard rain beat against the window. Lightning flashed across the room again.

In that second, Brian again glimpsed the twisted form. It crouched at the threshold of his room, large knife in hand.

But darkness soon swallowed it whole.

"Brian, are you all right?" his mom asked, opening the door.

"Mom, don't come in," Brian hollered.

But thunder buried the warning under its deafening boom.

Lightning flashed again, revealing his mom framed in the doorway, about to cross the threshold, the twisted form ready to strike.

But darkness quickly followed. And thunder buried the screams.

Back to: Vol 1, Issue 3