The Monster

The Monster.

“I don’t know why you do his to me.” Leslie’s voice was harsh, ridged.

Fred puffed his cigarette. The cherry ember glowed brightly for a moment before dimming again. She thought he was lying; proof that once you lost your credibility, it was gone forever.

“I’m not lying,” he said.

“Fuck you.”

“Why would I lie about something like this? You think I want to be seen as a nut case?”

“No. I just know what alcohol and lack of attention do to your brain.” Leslie pointed to his skull as she spoke.

“I really saw it.”

“I’m sure.” Leslie’s eyes burned with disdain. The sarcasm in her voice was thick.

But then, maybe he didn’t believe it himself. How could anyone?

“I have to go to work,” Leslie said. “I’ll see you at four thirty dear.” The last word was coated in venom.

Fred nodded. He didn’t know what else to do. He watched her go, puffing the last few drags of his smoke. When he finished, he went back inside and sat at his desk playing solitaire on his computer, waiting for a return call from one of his prospective employers. Maybe one of them would give him a chance. He wasn’t hopeful, though.

After a few hours he got up, grabbed a couple beers from the fridge, sat in front of the TV, and clicked it on. The news anchor was saying something about a convenience store robbery, but it didn’t matter what he was talking about. The president could have been declaring war on some third world country and he wouldn’t have cared. What mattered now was the yellow malt beverage in his hand, and the voice that still rang in his head. Fred took a few sips, savoring the bitter taste. He started slowly, but it never stayed that way for long. After a few minutes, his speed picked up. He chugged down a second and then a third and then a fourth. He lost count after that. He watched the news, cranking the volume, but still not taking it in. He was just trying to drown out the voice. He could still hear it, even after he drank himself into half a stupor. It had been icy and distant, and there was a thick, murky quality to it that he couldn’t explain. Maybe it was because he hadn’t been able to see the thing, the monster. He still wasn’t sure it had happened.

He had been walking alone down an alleyway. It was dark. A bum slept under some newspapers, his moldy hair covered his face in thick tangles. The bum had been snoring as Fred walked by. The alleyway was behind the liquor store, where he spent the remainder of his unemployment check, He’d needed the booze more than anything that he could think of at the time, though, of course, Leslie had told him otherwise when he’d gotten home. His wife had a knack for telling him when he was doing things wrong.

Fred had been stumbling down the alleyway, still a little buzzed from finishing off his Jack that morning. He fished out a new bottle, opened it, making sure to keep it mostly concealed with the paper bag, and took a slam, relishing the sharp taste. He capped it off and placed it in his coat pocket for easy access. He was almost back to the sidewalk and open air when he heard the cold, distant, thick voice.

“In two days, at two o’clock p.m., I’m going to kill you,” It said. Fred turned around, expecting to see the bum, just a crazy bastard who wanted to steel his liquor.

“I’ve got a knife in my pocket. A big one,” Fred said. It wasn’t a lie.

“You think that you can hurt me with that?” the voice said.

The bum was still snoring on the ground a few feet back. Fred could see that the voice was coming from over in the distance. There was a figure, but it was horribly blurry. He could barely make anything out at all. Whatever it was, though, it wasn’t a human. Thinking about the voice, it wasn’t even close.

“At two o’clock p.m. in two days, I am going to kill you,” the voice repeated.

“Who are you?” Fred asked.

“Does it matter?” the voice asked. “You should know I speak the truth, though. In two days, at two o’clock p.m. I will kill you.”

“Why?” Fred asked. He believed the voice. He didn’t know why, but he did. “What have I done?”

“Nothing, but that’s the problem. You’ve got nothing. You’ve done nothing. I think you know it,” the voice said.

“Screw you,” Fred replied. His voice sounded weak, empty. Wasn’t it true? He had a wife, but divorce papers were on the way. He hadn’t done anything to stop them from falling apart. And his brother had died. Heroin. He hadn’t even tried to help him. It wasn’t his business, and besides, he was too busy getting boozed up and being depressed over his lost job. The job he still hadn’t replaced. He had no pride, and he hadn’t tried to fix that either.

“That doesn’t give you the right to kill me.”

“Oh, you misunderstand me. I never said I had the right. I said I was going to do it. You just happen to give me a victim that nobody will miss. In fact, you are giving me a victim, who in many ways is willing. See, I’m not completely evil. I just need to feed.”

Fred could tell that the blur—the indistinct speaker—was moving, now. He still couldn’t make out a distinct body, but there was no doubt about the motion. It was coming closer.

“Stay away from me!” Fred shouted. The movement stopped.

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to come for two days, remember? I just thought I’d get a closer look at you.”

The blur approached but stayed indistinct. It made Fred’s eyes hurt to look at too long, but he was afraid to look away for more than a moment. Now that he was closer, he cold smell it, sharp and harsh. He recognized the scent, but couldn’t name it for some reason. He wanted to recoil, but his legs wouldn’t move. He wanted to get away from the thing—the monster, he was sure that’s what it was—but he couldn’t move anything. He felt helpless.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be gone in a minute. I have too much business today to let myself get caught up, but I do want to offer you a bit of advice or maybe a little truth. This, and what I’m going to do to you, is your fault. Have a nice day.”

The blur disappeared. Fred’s head became clear, and he felt control over his legs. He took off when he realized he could move again. He ran home, and when he got there, he collapsed. He sat huddled in the corner of his kitchen. The bag of booze that had been clenched in his arms as he ran was sprawled on the floor.

And now he was here, the next day, drinking himself into a stupor. His hands shook at the memory. That voice echoed with so many things, but the most frightening of all was the truth, and how much of it he believed. Fred drank until he couldn’t raise the bottle to his mouth.

It was the next morning. He woke up with what felt like a screw grinding into his head. The throbbing was aggravated by light from the window and the chatter of birds just outside it. He hadn’t had a hangover this bad in years. How much had he drunk? He didn’t remember. He only knew he hadn’t been awake when Leslie had come back from work.

Fred hobbled into the kitchen. There was a note on the table in Leslie’s handwriting.

Gone o my sister’s place. Be back late.

It wasn’t signed. Fred crumpled it up and threw it into the trash. He headed for the refrigerator for a beer when he heard the voice in his head, at first a tiny echo, but then louder. “In two days, at two o’clock p.m. I’m going to kill you.” Fred let go of the door handle. He sat down at the kitchen table. His life was Hell. ‘At my sister’s,’ what a joke. Leslie hadn’t spoken to her sister in three years. More like off to find the divorce Lawyer, or off to screw my new boy toy. And now a monster was threatening him. Fred checked his watch. He would be dead in three hours because some monster decided that he didn’t deserve to live. He wouldn’t have it. He should have some control over whether he lived or died.

Fred stood up. He wouldn’t let it happen. He let himself be fired; he let himself lose this brother; he let himself lose Leslie; he let his life get screwed up, but now he was going to change that.

“Where’s my gun?”

His voice sounded stronger in his ears than he remembered it being. He sounded commanding. He liked it.

Fred dashed to his room. He slid his bed to side with a rough shove. Underneath was a single grey box covered in dust. Fred grabbed the keys from his pocket. He fished around for a small brass one. When he found it, he jammed it into the key hole, turned it, and heard the click. He swung open the box and pulled out a small .38 revolver, feeling the weight of it in his hands for a few moments before pocketing it. He might need more fire power, though. He wanted a shotgun.

Fred stopped for a second. Would guns do anything? Maybe, maybe not. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was that he didn’t go down without a fight. He would swing until the bell rang.

Where can I buy a shotgun? He thought. He let the gears turn for a bit. They were rusty from ill-use, but it was good to be doing something for a change. There was a sporting goods store a few miles downtown, but he didn’t have the cash. Did he know anyone with a shotgun? His brother had, but that didn’t help. His old friend Rodger did too, but how did you bring that conversation up?

“Hey, Rodger, this is Fred. I know I haven’t spoken to you for what, a year now? But do you mind if I borrow your old Shotgun?’

No. The pistol had to do. But where would he get the extra firepower? Fire. Gasoline. He had enough empty bottles in his kitchen and lying around the house to make thirty or forty Molotov cocktails. Those would be perfect, but was he willing to burn down his house? No, he’d go into the alleyway. He would take the fight to the monster.

Fred began cutting cloths for the wicks. Then he dowsed the rags in rubbing alcohol. He grabbed four bottles and headed out into the shed. He doubted he’d need or be able to use more than four. In the shed he rummaged around for his fuel. He uncapped the muzzle and began to fill the bottles. He didn’t know how much to put in, so he filled it three quarters of the way up and jammed the rest of the bottleneck with wick rag. When he was finished, he slid two into each of his big coat pockets, making sure they were upright. Fred grabbed a Zippo and pocketed his revolver. He was ready. His watch said that he still had time yet. Now he just needed to calm himself for the fight. He thought about pulling out a beer, but he decided against it. He needed his senses intact.

At 1:45 he left, walking at a brisk pace toward the alley. It was bright and cheerful out, not the type of weather befitting a fight for your life. The walk only seemed to take a minute. He was ready for this.

Checking his watch, he noticed it was less than five minutes to two. Fred pulled out his pistol and looked around. The alleyway was empty. Even the bum was gone. That would make the whole thing easier.

Time ticked by slowly. The wait was killing him. He wanted the Monster to be here already, and now he was sweating. The paranoia started. His hands shook. He didn’t’ know if he could shoot this way.

Fred pulled out the bottles. His shaking hands made them clank together noisily as the put them on the ground. He grabbed the lighter in one hand and the pistol in the other hand. He tried to get steady, but his hand just seemed to dance around more vigorously. Fred looked down at his watch.

1:57 clicked to 1:58.

The monster still hadn’t appeared. He looked around. His senses seemed to be heightened. He saw and heard everything. Every movement caught his attention, and every time it wasn’t the monster. It was a scrap of paper, a bird a car going to fast to notice the man with his gun.

There was a click. 1:59.

Almost time. Fred was chewing his lower lip. The sweat was rolling down his forehead. It wasn’t hot out.

Click.

It was time. Fred waited. Still nothing, but he knew the monster hadn’t bluffed. Somehow he just knew. He couldn’t say how, but he knew it as clearly as he knew that he was standing in an alleyway.

Click.

Could the monster be late? How long would he wait for this thing? How long before it jumped out from nowhere and mauled him? Did he even want to know? Would the bullets even hurt it? The longer he waited, the more foolish this fight seemed. The fire might not hurt the thing either. Could it be killed?

Click.

No. He wouldn’t let the thing have him. He would die by his own hand first. Fred spun around, looking in every corner for the blurry outline. There was nothing. Where was he? Fred’s hand flung to his head. He pushed the cold barrel into his temple. His life had come to this. He couldn’t find peace. Everything was going to hell, and now a monster that he couldn’t even see was threatening to take his small, shitty life from him. He would do it himself if he saw the monster. He’d put the bullet in his head rather than suffer the fate the monster had in store for him.

Click. The voice rang through his mind again.

“You’re late,” Fred said to the monster that wasn’t there. His voice had taken a turn. It had been so strong and confident a few hours ago. Now, that had all changed. Almost. He still had a tone of dignity. That was left. And he still had his choice. He would be the one who decided if he lived or died.

Finally, he had some control. In one way, he was still the master. He wouldn’t let the monster have his way. He waited.