The Hallway

Billy stood defiantly at the bottom of the stairs, staring into the blackness of the hallway. He didn't want to go down the dark corridor, but he had no choice. He was ten years old now, and not a baby like his older brother Josh taunted. He was determined not to let fear rule his life any more.

The basement hallway spanned the entire length of the old church, almost half as long as a football field. Behind Billy, a pair of double doors stood like guardians between the hallway and his side of the world, only their windows giving a glimpse of the gloom beyond. And, of course, the only light switch was at the other end. It was hard to make out anything in the dark hallway; the doors to the Sunday School rooms on either side were shut tight, sealing their hopeful lessons behind heavy wood. An exit sign added a patch of green light to the end of the hall. Off to the right, a square of sunlight descended from the small window at the top of the far staircase.

Billy wrung his hands nervously, feet shuffling. "It's a lie, it's all a lie," he muttered to himself. Josh told him ridiculous stories about an evil presence lurking here, preying on the innocence of children caught unaware, fooled by their belief in the safety of a House of God.

Billy swallowed hard as he peered through one of the door panes. "You can do this," he muttered, seeking inner strength.

He pushed on the left door, its weight pressing back on him more than any Sunday morning. The bottom edge scraped along the old, worn linoleum floor, echoes traveling down the hallway, announcing his arrival.

Billy took a deep breath and started the long walk, his sneakers squeaking on the linoleum squares. He was convinced that his slow pace would prove his bravery above everything else. To run down the hallway would be cheating. "This is good for me," he said out loud.

"me... meee... mmeeee..."

His voice echoed off the painted cinder block walls and twisted through the darkness. Billy stopped, shocked by the sound. Normally the hall would be filled with laughter, but today, the echo seemed like a cry of loneliness, perhaps despair.

"Jumping at shadows like a little kid," he admonished himself. "Grow a pair already." He shook his head a little and started walking again. His feet left the last bit of glow from the stairway's pale light, and his toes were touching the first gradient of shadow on the floor. He cringed slightly against his will, lifting his left foot slowly, dropping it with determination into the gray. In moments, he was engulfed in the darkness.

Squeak... squeak... squeak. His shoes issued bright sounds against the blackness. Their sounds reverberated back to him, twisted into the cry of a trapped, dying creature. The sounds, while quiet, were distinct, a whisper of malice that squeezed his heart. It pounded against the rushing blood in his ears, the rhythm of his heartbeat trying to drive the other sounds out of his consciousness.

At the fringes of his vision, colored specks danced in the murkiness; his head turned sharply to catch the movement before he realized the stress on his eyes was creating the odd shapes. See? Nothing but us chickens down here... his thoughts offered as comfort. Nothing at all.

His hands spasmed, nervous energy dripped from his fingertips. He considered running the distance, but his shame would follow. His brother would know, just by looking at him. Resolve straightened his back, and his right foot took another step forward, landing gently to avoid any noise.

Billy let go of the door and allowed it to swing shut behind him. It slammed loudly on its frame, the wooden crack giving him a start. The path behind was closed; the only way out was forward. He looked behind him. The light coming through the small windows was gray, distant, even though he still stood in its light. The staircase was a million miles away.

His left foot came forward, light as a cat's paw. He passed the nursery room on the left, the kindergarten on the right. Behind these doors were his bright memories of toys, the comfort, and the security that the ignorance of great youth shares as true bliss. He clung to the memory for a moment. Like a shadow from his past, a bright bell rung beyond the nursery's door. It jingled a merry tune of randomness as a ball fell from a shelf. He could hear it rolling across the floor. With a light tap, the bells stopped at the door.

Billy put another foot forward.

His eyes began to pick up thin cracks of light along the floor, near the walls. He stopped again, unable to define what the illumination was coming from. Then he got it – it was the door frames of the other classrooms. This light was the outside world that pierced the very heart of the darkness. With a sigh of relief, he moved with greater purpose. Now he knew where he was, and his eyes took ownership of the gloom.

On his left, first grade. On his right, second grade. He didn't need the signs on the door to tell him where he was anymore; he knew these rooms. He loved the first grade classroom; picturing it again added to his courage. A mural dressed the far wall, a serene picture of the lion lying down with the lamb. In his comfort, his hand reached out to caress the door, adding solidity to his newly-found orientation. His eyes fell to the floor, encouraged by the cascade of light under the door.

Then the light was broken; then returned – something was moving in the room, its shadow blocking the light. Billy's ears strained again, searching for a sound that would connect the shadow to reality. The only noise was a soft padding, slow and cautious against the classroom floor.

"A mouse," Billy muttered. "The church has mice. It's just a mouse creeping by the door." He realized he was holding his breath, and getting light-headed. He forced the air out, drawing in another breath to reassure himself. His fingertips splayed against the door, a solid focal point while his head stayed down and fixed on the light.

The shadow under the door consumed the rest of the crack, the light shut off by a solid form. Billy froze. Something heavy was pressing against the door.

Sniff... sniff...

Air rushed past his ankles, drawn under the door and into the shadow. His ears perceived a new tone, a wet tone as the air moved back out from the room. It returned hot and moist over his feet. More wetness under the door; a sopping movement of flesh over porcelain, the smacking of lips over teeth. A low rumble shook the doorway. Billy withdrew his hand and backed into the darkening gloom of the hallway.

The first grade door shuddered once. A thunderclap of booming wood traveled down the corridor. The door held, but under protesting groans. Another slam shook its timbers. The door groaned its final protest, and all fell silent.

He blindly backed away. A weight pressed on his shoulders. He turned quickly, expecting to see monsters gathering. Instead he saw shadows highlighted by the cracks of light from the remaining doorways.

The wooden doors creaked. The lights dimmed to gray. He looked nervously at the walls, but saw only the granular phantoms created by his own mind.

"Let's just do this," he whispered.

"this... tthisss... thiiisss..."

The echoes reverberated instead of fading. Each repeating word became louder, more drawn out, like a snake in his ear. His blood roared. He could feel cold air on the back of his neck, freezing the sweat that trickled down to between his shoulder blades.

He began walking again, much faster. His body felt tight, alert to any change. His hands began to tremble and his arms shivered in the increasing cold. He could feel the humidity of his own breath before him.

The midway point.

The third and forth grade rooms were on either side of him. His foot landed with a sickly wet sound. His mind raced; this is where the stain was. He stood completely still, wanting to move but unclear of what direction to take. To walk though the stain would be asking too much—the stain where Father Charles had fallen and died last year—but to venture closer to the groaning doors was not a pleasant option either.

Sliding. Slithering. Scuttling in the dark. The unidentifiable sounds were the only things answering his silent pleas. He closed his eyes in the dark to focus. The shaking got worse, the noises amplified. Eyes flew open, but the darkness was just a black. The exit sign's light at the end of the hall was a pin-prick, easily a mile away.

Billy pulled his foot back from the sticky pool on the floor. He made up his mind to try his luck with the walls instead of the void in the middle of the hallway. He grasped for the wall on his left, hand extended to lead the rest of his body along. The wall was cold and solid, rough under his hand and unyielding in the dark. He scooted his back up against it. He had no idea how far the stain extended, and he intended to creep along for the rest of the journey if he had to. He thought with dread about what he would find on the bottom of his shoe when he came out into the light.

With the solidness of the wall behind him, he felt better. He almost laughed at himself. He must look ridiculous hugging a wall in an empty hallway. He'd leave this part out when telling Chris his tale.

The wall sagged behind him, sinking backwards and sucking him in. He tried to scream but the sound was choked back by the darkness. His hands clawed at the edges, scraping for purchase on the rough concrete surface. In a panic, he wrenched his entire body forward, breaking the gravity of the pit. He stumbled and slipped on the sticky floor.

Billy looked back to the first stairway; the light was almost entirely gone. A form loomed up against the thin light, blocking the way. Billy turned and ran.

A drop fell on the back of his neck. He could picture the beast above him, ready to bite through his spine and devour him on the spot. The beast his brother warned him about. The beast that had killed Father Charles.

The beast.

It rattled above him, a metallic clang bumping against the concrete, claws raking against the cinderblocks.

Another drop hit his neck. It was warm and thick, and it smelled of earth and salt and blood.

The green exit sign hung a thousand feet ahead like a banner of hope. The ravenous presence pulsed on his back, sending him reeling into the right side wall. His arm grazed the cinderblock.

He slammed into the wall at the end of the hallway. His hand fell immediately on the switch. The florescent lights sputtered and hummed.

The hallway was empty. Plain, simple, short and clean, just as it had always been. The foot-long brown rust stain in the middle was wet, and he could see his streaks along the floor from his escape. Above it, the hot water pipe dripped and added to the hot puddle. The light brown wooden doors stood resolute.

Billy couldn't believe it. His mind raced at the sight of normal life. He checked his arm; his skin was bleeding, but still intact. His clothes were wet from the rusty water.

The leftover adrenaline shook his muscles, and a nervous laugh escaped his lips. "See? No stupid monsters, it's just me!" He opened the office door and retrieved the book from its regular spot on the desk. He would still have to explain the wet clothes, but that was easy enough. He'd just let Father Smith know that the hot water was leaking again. No one would ever know that he freaked out.

He stepped out of the room, shutting the door. He glanced at the light switch. A small sign hung above it: a happy sun face singing "Be sure to turn out the lights!"

His hand lingered a moment. Behind him, the doorframes groaned and the wood splintered into a low chuckle.

He flipped the switch.

Back to: Vol 2, Issue 2