Terror In The Closet

"Terror In the Closet"
By
W. P. Gerace

Bobby had not been home to Philadelphia in nearly fifteen years. If anything, things in the city have become worse. There was more crime and drugs on the streets and increased violence. Coming back here spiked his anxiety so badly that he began to have those dreadful tremors that would start in the pit of his stomach churning everything about, then made its way up to his arms and legs, making it impossible to walk or remain in composure. He could feel the eyes of everyone glaring at him at the airport, their judgmental tones calling out to him, whispering how he looked like some freak of nature. They were so mean here. It was one of the reasons he left this dreadful place to enjoy a calmer lifestyle in Phoenix.

A crowd of people stood in the luggage area, waiting for the belt to move and start displaying everyone's luggage. He hated the anticipation of this. Could he just get his luggage and be out of here? For fuck's sake, this was way too much. A towering man with a stone-cold glare walked up beside him. The man was three times Bobby's size and had a bright red pentagram on his hairy chest. Both arms were the size of tree trunks. Each had a black dagger with drips of blood on the point that edged into his skin. His eyes were so dark and cold Bobby wanted to get away from this man whom he could tell was wreaked of alcohol. If he moved, he would lose his place and lose his luggage.

Sweat began to pour through him. His chest closed as the passageways in his lungs were suddenly restricted as if he were breathing through a straw. Everything was happening so quickly it was crazy. He was only off the plane for nearly thirty minutes, and all the terrors returned to him in a violent outburst. Out of nowhere, the clunk of the luggage belt jolted him out of his current frantic state.

Thankfully he saw his luggage appear right away. He was grateful he paid extra for first class, so he had some perks to go with that; one of them was getting his luggage first. Quickly leaping out and grabbing his bulky maroon suitcase, he knew he probably looked like a fool, but at this point, he really did not give a shit. He wanted out of this place and now.

"Bobby. Bobby over here, honey. Bobby. "He recognized that sweet, compassionate voice that took so much shit from people. There she was, his mother, Maggie standing by herself amidst this crazy crowd wearing a sunflower dress and yellow sandals.

Bobby could not help but notice how much his mother had aged. She was no longer that big strapping woman who worked ten-hour days at Jerry's Pub as a waitress and Bartender. The fire in her deep blue eyes was gone now. It was just a flicker like the light had gone out seasons ago. She appeared small and withered as if time had gradually eaten away at her and reduced her to just a minuscule of the woman she once was. Bobby's heart sank seeing this. What happened to his mother in 15 years? She always sounded excellent and chipper, as if everything was perfect. She had deceived him all these years, but why Bobby wondered?

"Mom, you look great. I have missed you so much." Giving his mother a big hug, he was fearful of crushing her. He could hear her bones maneuver under his arms.

"You look great too, honey. It was great that your therapist told you to come home for a visit. It's been too long. "Smiling, she still had that old happy-go smile she always possessed when things were at their worst. After three cruel, abusive husbands, Bobby figured his mother could use that guise well.

"Mom, have you been eating? You look so skinny. Are you feeling, ok? "Bobby, not one to hold back punches he said whatever came to mind. It was one of the primary reasons that he had hardly any friends or a girlfriend at nearly forty years of age.

"Don't be silly, kiddo. Of course, I am good. Let's get out of this airport. You know how much I hate crowds." Grabbing Bobby's arm, even her hands seemed so fragile as if he could feel her bones beneath her flabby skin protrude through.

There were cars everywhere. Another thing about being here he hated. People were on top of each other. You barely had room to breathe. The boisterous honking and yelling of drivers sent a shivering chill up Bobby's spine. He could not wait to get out of this wild place. The desire to be alone was something he inherited from his mother. He could recall even as a kid sitting in his living room playing with his plastic dinosaurs, his mother a few feet away doing a crossword puzzle or reading a good book. Her then-second husband Bill liked to go out every night and drink, then come home mad drunk and use his mother as a punching bag. When Bill was out, and the house was quiet, his mother enjoyed it best.

"Honey, did you hear me? Do you have a girlfriend yet? You know a man your age needs a woman, honey?" Bobby hoped his mother would not bring that up, but she could not resist as usual.

"No, mother. Girls are a pain in the ass. Not interested. "He could feel her next question come up as if he could predict it.

"Honey, are you swinging the other way? You can tell Mommy you know I will love you either way. "His mother questioned, twisting her key chain around her wrist.

"No, mom. I am not gay. No, Mom, I don't have a girlfriend. I feel like I am doing an interview on television. Geez mom. "Bobby was beginning to regret this trip. His mother could sometimes be quite the nuisance, something he was not sure he had the patience for.

"Oh, honey. I am sorry. Now let's get in the car. It is only a short drive home, baby cakes. "Speaking in one of her little six-year-old girl voices, her shrilling pitch beginning to onset one of his migraines. He rubbed his temples and hoped she understood what that shriek did to his head.

Despite his mother's shrinking size, she still managed to get behind the wheel of her gray Ford Pick Up truck left by her last husband, Max, a former construction worker. Gone nearly five years ago, claimed by cancer, he was surprised at how well his mother handled the car and seemed not to be bothered by the crazy traffic on the expressway. Singing and chirping along, singing all his songs from childhood, he could not help but wonder when this torture would end. Exhausted from the long trip and lack of sleep, surprisingly, he fell asleep.


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A loud crash woke Bobby out of a sound sleep. Bolting up, he noticed he was in his old bedroom. His mother left everything as it was when he went to Phoenix. There was still that pale blue wallpaper with pictures of Dinosaurs galloping along a brown desert-like surface. Ever since he could recall, Bobby had a fascination with Dinosaurs. He had seen all the Jurassic Parks millions of times. Off to the room's far left were posters of aliens, their oval dark green faces staring at him with their wide dark eyes. His desk, a sturdy oak wood piece with three deep drawers, sat in the center of the room. Mounds of papers and books were spread all about the desk, still sitting the same he had left them fifteen years ago. Once daydreaming about a life in the literary world as one of these famous authors, he left that dream here, another thing from the old life he left behind.

Another thunderous crush rumbled underneath the faded beige carpets. Pulsing, Bobby could feel something beneath him moving under his feet, repeating every step he took. A slow rattling noise filled the darkness of the room. But this was no snake. This was something else. A snake had a steady rattle. He had seen plenty in Phoenix. Whatever this was had a pulsing kind of rattle that vibrated through the walls and floor.

"Mom? Mom? Mommy, are you here!" Bobby yelled into the darkness of the room. Nothing could be heard but the pulsing rattle of this mysterious creature.

The stench of meat left to spoil in the heat took over his senses. That horrid aroma was so strong he nearly threw up right here. Trying to control the urge, Bobby covered his mouth, seeing if he could escape. Where in hell was his mother? Damn, this room was so frigging cold suddenly, and it was the middle of July. Mom never kept the air this low.

Briefly, the lights flickered in his room as if a significant power surge was going on. Clear across the room by his closet, a man was standing there. Dressed in a suit and dark pants, his white hair neatly combed, he stood there just staring at Bobby. For a moment, Bobby thought it was Max, but that's just crazy. Max has been gone for some time. Darkness encamped the room again at the same time. There was a voice calling his name. It was a man's voice though relatively weak; he recognized it. It was Bill. Get out of here, Bobby. You are in danger. Your mother is not who she says she is. She is evilllllllllllllllllll. Bill's words could no longer be heard. All he could make out was the gurgling sound of someone in the final stages of life before death. Bobby's skin froze. He had to get out of this nightmare but how.

Anxiety rose in him like a beast about to claim his life. Sweat glazed his arms and hands. His feet, slippery from perspiration, slipped across the floor. Nearly colliding with the end of his bed, banging his foot against the hard surface of his desk chair. Crawling up, he desperately flailed his arms to find anything to latch onto.

Out of nowhere, he felt what appeared to be the knob on the door. Finally, escape. Maybe he could find where his mother was. Twisting the knob quickly, his hands slippery from sweat, proved ineffective as the door would not budge. For the first time in his life, praying to the man above for forgiveness for all his evil ways, including stealing ice cream from the local Walmart just for fun. Suddenly, the door opened. The man above had not turned a deaf ear to his disobedient servant.

Blindly walking through, he smelt that god-awful stench of mothballs, something his mother used all the time to keep the house clean and moths away. It was so bad on his asthma he could barely breathe. His nostrils began to sting with each breath.

"Oh, Bobby, you made a poor choice coming home. You really should have stayed in Phoenix. "A red light lit up in the center of the room.

The red light was so bright he could not see anything around or behind him. It illuminated the entire area. Slowly the light let up, and he could see that he somehow took a turn in his mother's closet. He could see rows upon rows of her favorite shoes and clothes, all tucked neatly along the narrow walls of the cabinet. Bobby was stunned by how many clothes and shoes his mother owned. As a child, he could only recall her wearing certain things, not all this stuff.

From the corner of his eye, he saw a huge box or something protruding from the back wall. Curious, Bobby sauntered towards it. This box was huge. It had glittering diamonds on it, and in the center of it was a peephole type of thing you could look through. Strange, he never knew his mother had this either. Gazing into the peephole, out of nowhere, an eyeball popped out. Frightened, he jumped several feet back. Already limping from his crash into the desk chair, he could not afford to fall into anything else, or he would be in bad shape.

Breaking his fall were someone's hands. They felt so skinny as if they could crumble at any moment. He was shocked that someone could break his fall as he was a big boy at nearly six foot three, weighing over three hundred pounds. Turning around, his mother stood there, but her look differed from what he was accustomed to. This was even different from the frail joking newsy character she had been hours earlier. Staring at him with dark eyes, her face not showing one emotion. It was as if she were either in a trance or possessed. Clenched, her thin hands drenched with blood trembled.

"Mom, what is going on? What are you doing? "Bobby asked, not sure if he wanted the answer this time.

"You dumb poor anxious boy. You should have stayed in Phoenix and led your boring fucking life like you had been doing all these years. But here you are, so I cannot change that. All I can say is thank you, son. You will give me life for another forty years. For that, I want to say thank you. "Bobby's mother stated, almost as if what she said was rehearsed on a script somewhere.

"What do you mean? "Bobby questioned, the pit of his stomach clenching up, about to regurgitate everything he ate the past twenty-four hours.

Putting her wobbling hands on his cheeks, she had such strength in them as if she had mustered this up for hours. Unable to move or break off her tightening grip, she put her lips on his. Her breath stunk of rotting spoiled trash. Nauseated, he needed to get away from her so he could vomit, or he would risk throwing up on her face. Not having a chance to do anything, she quickly inhaled, drawing all his breath from him. Slowly he could feel his lungs collapsing as if he was breathing throw a pin. Gasping, begging for her to stop, unable to talk or even move, he watched as his once strong hands began to wither and turn into loose flaps of flesh. Quickly her aging, pale face regained a full glow to it. Her straw-like grey hair rejuvenated before him, returning to its once vibrant golden color. Her cheeks, only a few moments ago sunken now, were well-defined, muscular, and strong.

With each passing second, Bobby could feel his own body withering away in front of him. He could not move or even attempt to do anything. Quickly his strength was dissipating in front of his very own eyes. He could hear his own bones crumbling away. The sound reminded him of a sledgehammer that was pounding relentlessly on him. Pieces of his flesh and hair were falling on his bedroom floor. He briefly saw in his mirror a man he didn't even recognize. In fact, he was practically a skeleton. Standing before him, his once sickly mother, whom he was seriously worried about only hours ago, was now this tall blonde with clear sea blue eyes, a strong build, and beautiful flowing blonde hair.

Gasping, he had no energy to speak, move or do anything. He was just here, an existence of his former self. His surroundings suddenly became dark as he heard his mother's laughter piercing his ears, the last thing he heard before he collapsed to the floor.