© Ilkin Guliyev | ID 91026947

The Dark Beneath – Part Two

© © Ilkin Guliyev | ID 91026947

By Christopher Opyr


          Thirty minutes passed with Lori staring out the window, considering her options. She didn’t open it. She knew once she did she’d have to be prepared for anything. If It heard the window being forced open she might not have much time to react. So instead, she stared out through the dirty panes of glass into the grey of the Los Angeles night. Lights blinked to life in the nearby buildings and cars sped by below, but she had seen no one close enough for her to ask for help without being heard by that thing in the hallway.

          As she stared, hoping for some answer to miraculously appear, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the glass. A nesty welt rose just below her hairline, scrapes and minor cuts covered her arms, and bruises loomed everywhere. Every inch of her ached, her side and the fractured rib most of all.

          She hugged herself tight, that beast right outside her door, and let herself slip away.


***


          The Badgers were down by one in the bottom of the seventh to the Coyotes. They already had two outs and as she stepped to the plate, Lori was very aware that any chance at staying in the game rested on her turn at bat. Ready, her bat raised and her eye on the pitcher, Lori prayed she didn’t screw this up. The other girls on the team weren’t fond of her. She didn’t buy into their shit, and hadn’t bothered to try to endear herself to them. If the loss fell on her, she’d never hear the end of it. Lori glanced to Joy Stevens. The barbie doll blonde danced on third base. One decent hit from Lori and the Badgers could at the least tie up the match.

          Whack!

          The pitch came in hard and fast, right as Lori glanced to Joy, but it was off. Lori felt the pain burst in her eye as the ball connected right in her face. Her head whipped back and Joy fell into the dust behind home plate. As she winced and the fairy lights in the black that clouded her vision, she could hear Coach Edwards telling her not to move. She could feel his calloused hands on her neck and cheek as he examined her face.

          At the same time, she could feel the blood from her busted brow dripping down towards her. She could taste it as the blood trickled from her nose and back down her throat. She opened her good eye and she could see the pitcher smirk. That jerk had meant to hit her. She’d done it on purpose.

          “Lori, how many fingers?”

          The coach waved his hand stupidly in front of her, but she didn’t have time for this shit. She could feel a rage building up inside her and before she knew what she was doing she was on her feet, pushing past her coach and through her teammates. They had crowded to see the blood, surely, because not a one gave two craps what happened to her.

          “Lori!” Coach Edwards again. He said something else after, but Lori was already two thirds of the way to the pitcher’s mound and didn’t have time for his nonsense.

          “Hey, that looks like it hurt.” The Coyotes’ pitcher stood a good six inches taller than Lori and absolutely confident in her upper hand. “Maybe you should go put some ice on that.”

          Lori had thought about saying something witty – all the cool action stars did – but she was pretty certain she’d just screw it up. Best just to let her actions speak for her.

          She feinted for the pitcher’s face then sucker-punched her gut. As she doubled over she kneed her in the face.


***


          Lori smiled at the memory of it. She’d been kicked off the team for that stunt, but she’d never liked those girls anyway. Now, looking at her battered reflection, she realized she hadn’t had a broken bone since that ball fractured her eye-socket. It had hurt like nothing had since, not even the fracture in her rib, and she had stood her ground. She could do so again.

          Outside the door she could hear the gurgled breathing of that man-thing. In her final flight into the room it had been obvious it was almost human, like a walking corpse covered in third degree burns or even worse. It’s skin felt crisp beneath the wet of that outer layer, like aloe spread over a blackened char. The breathe continued slow and steady and wet. It was waiting.


***


          Lori hadn’t tamed with age, not really. She had perhaps grown less physical, but had become quite prone to focal confrontations. Much like with her fellow Badgers, this trait had done little to endear her with coworkers or employers. She’d held a slew of jobs since graduating summa cum laude, most well below her skill level.

          Currently she was on her third year as a project manager with an entertainment marketing firm, Spotlight 15. They were small time, mainly working in the digital space, though the firm had grabbed an Emmy campaign for a streaming startup last year. That had been their biggest campaign yet. Her employer hadn’t let her anywhere near it. Instead she’d been stuck on the marketing campaign for a direct to video sequel for some aged action star nearing his seventies. They were all the same to her, and though she’d felt the campaign was beneath her, she’d played her part.

          And when Teddy from accounts tried to steal her copywriter two days before deadline to help with that Emmy campaign, Lori had flipped her shit. There was no way in hell she was going to miss her deadline because Teddy wanted to start prep two months before the client needed copy approval. Hell with that.

          Teddy lit red when she refused to let him take her writer. He’d been ready to have her fired. Then this junior, this account manager in training, steps in trying to persuade Lori to calm down. He tries to tell her that they only need the copywriter for a day and that he can get back on her campaign before deadline. Yeah, right. Because accounts always got shit done on time. No, she lit in him, too.

          He’d fought right back. Dean had a much stronger backbone than Eddie. She had started dating him three months later. And he never did get that copywriter.


***


          Crap, she thought. Dean!

          Lori glanced to the clock on her nightstand. Dean was supposed to arrive in fifteen minutes. She had to act now.

          For not the first time, Lori cursed herself for having set her phone in the organizer in the foyer. She couldn’t call to warn Dean, and her computer was in her home office so she couldn’t login and message him either. Being nine floors up, she didn’t suspect anyone in the street would pay her any mind, and she couldn’t yell to them without drawing that thing’s attention. She could try to get someone a message though. All her paper was in her home office, along with her pens and markers, but there had to be something that she could do.

          She looked giving her room a once-over and at first saw nothing of use. Then, her gaze fixed on the master bath. She had an idea.

          Roughly ten feet stood between her and the bathroom, and its door was catty-corner to the bedroom entrance, and the thing on the other side of that threshold. She’d have to approach as quietly as possible.

          Sticking out from under the bed she could see the soft, fluffy heels of her bedroom slippers. She inched over as quietly as she could and slipped them on. As she did, she knelt and glanced under the bed. Beverly had crammed herself all the way back against the wall just beneath the headboard and buttressed by a nightstand. The dog was sound asleep. How long had she been trapped in the apartment with this thing? How exhausted did that dog have to be to have fallen asleep with It right outside the door?

          No matter the answer, Lori decided it was for the best. If Beverly stayed asleep, stayed quiet, she should be safe until Lori could get help.

          Lori rose and tip-toed in her slippered feet towards the master bath. The cushion of the slippers dulled the noise of her footsteps, and yet she thought she could make a change in the breathing beyond the bedroom door. Was she imagining it, or was it growing faster, almost as if it were anticipating her approach. She could still hear the wet gurgle caught in each breath, but even that had lessened, the exhalations now taking on a more raspy quality. She paused three feet from the door. There was something else besides the breathing, something fast, almost like running water. No, that wasn’t right – not running water, but boiling water.

          Lori lost traction beneath her slipper, tumbling to the floor with a loud thud. Immediately the bedroom door bulged, straining at its hinges as that thing outside slammed against again.

          Wham!

          The door bulged again. Lori fixated on the hinges, watching as they shifted. One of three screws on the top hinge seemed to be loosening and the side plate was prying loose from the frame.

          Wham!

          It hit again, and this time the door splintered. Lori didn’t dare move. She waited for the next battering, for that thing to break the door completely. As she waited, her gaze shifted between the loosening plate of the hinge and the ragged crack in the center of the door. Too many points of weakness.

          A minute passed and then another, yet it did not attack the door again. Slowly its breathing settled and she could hear its footfalls as it retreated elsewhere into the dark of the apartment. This was her moment.

          Careful to regain her balance, Lori rose to her feet and tiptoed the rest of the way to the master bath. Her overhead lights and the exhaust were connected so she didn’t flick the switch. If that thing came back, if any sound drew it, she doubted the door would last. As quietly as she could she slid open her makeup drawer, rummaged in, and pulled out a tube of lipstick. Muted rose. It would have to do.

          Two drawn out minutes later and she had returned to the bedroom window without alerting that thing, whatever it was. She opened the tube of lipstick and carefully scrawled a message on the window so that would be legible from outside.

Intruder. Call 911. Apt. 905

          That done, she examined her handiwork. The letters could have been larger and the color didn’t pop as much as she would have liked, but the message was direct and impossible to misinterpret. With the light on in her bedroom the message should be readable. She only had to hope that someone, anyone, would see it and call for help.

          With nothing left to be done, she settled to the floor, her back to the wall. On her nightstand the clock continued to while away the minutes. Dean was due in five. She hoped he’d be late, and though she didn’t believe in a higher power, she prayed nonetheless. She prayed that someone would call for help before Dean also stumbled in on this nightmare. She prayed and she waited.

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