Another Man's Wife plus 3 Other Tales of Horror (2 page)

Beth pointed towards the cell phone and when
Harold’s glare was off her, she kicked the cellar door closed.

Garrett watched as Beth, Harold and the
kitchen vanished. The force at which the door slammed almost
knocked him back. What was Beth doing?

“You son of a bitch,” he heard Beth yell.
“You told that lady to come here so we wouldn’t be able to go out,
didn’t you?”

Garrett smiled. Beth was quite the
actress.

“No, sweetie. I don’t feel like heading out
today. Besides, the guy probably needs his phone.”

“Bullshit. You’re an asshole. When is she
coming?”

“Around two or so. Come on, babe. Let’s do
your thing; hang out in bed and watch movies all day and
night.”

“Fine,” Beth answered. “But that means you’re
all mine. No cellar. I’m sick and tired of you disappearing down
there.

“For you, anything.”

Garrett heard them leave. It sounded like
they went into the living room, but he couldn’t know for certain.
He’d have to wait until Beth got free and could signal him. At
least he could rest easy knowing Harold was off limits to the
cellar.

Garrett walked gingerly down the steps, each
one a potential landmine. He felt safer knowing the basement was
off limits to Harold, but he still had to be careful. He reached
the bottom, his breathing normal again.

The cellar was damp and the air stale, like a
swamp at dusk. Garrett glanced around. The cellar was smaller than
he’d imagined, only running half the length of the house. Four
support beams, telephone pole width, stood like tired old relics.
Large, rusted tow truck sized chains hung from nails on each beam,
burdening them further.

The floor was half plank board, half
compacted dirt. Steel shelves lined three of the walls, each filled
with various sized cardboard boxes, faded coffee and paint cans,
and a number of plastic storage units, probably used for sorting
small screws and nuts.

Shovels, rakes, hoes, sickles, and other home
improvement tools hung from the wall adjacent to the staircase.
Harold was an apparent do-it-yourselfer.

A cement staircase led to a pair of storm
doors, another possible way out if things got hairy. Garrett walked
over and inspected them. The stairway was clean, like it was swept
regularly. The storm doors seemed solid, made of high gauge steel,
but what Garrett found pleasing was the locking feature. Storm
doors locked from the inside using a simple latch. He’d wait for
Beth before trying them; the heavy steel might make for too much
noise and alert Harold.

Above all, the rest of cellar was dusty.
Garrett’s intrusion stirred the room. Dust particles could be seen
fluttering in the sun’s rays like thousands of tiny creatures
taking flight. The cellar had one small window. It looked rusted in
place as if it hadn’t been opened since the house’s construction.
The number of cobwebs covering it only added to Garrett’s
speculation that the window wasn’t used. He was easily spooked by
the cobwebs, but it was the spiders he really feared. Garrett had
developed a minor case of arachnophobia at the age of ten when a
spider’s egg hatched near his bed, sending thousands of baby
spiders crawling over his skin while he slept, until waking. It was
something he was never quite able to forget.

Garrett surveyed the cellar again. Two of the
corners had spiders in them, sitting on webs. They were of a decent
size, but it was the one’s he didn’t see, the one’s hiding that he
was concerned about.

He walked over to a workbench. It was worn
and stained with a number of colors, mostly crimson. He found a
woman’s fingernail near a vice grip attached to the table. The big
oaf had his wife help him with his chores. It was no wonder she
looked elsewhere for sex. He left the fingernail alone, jumped up
onto the table and waited.

Garrett glanced at his watch for the third
time since entering the cellar. It was 3 p.m. and still no sign,
not even a hint of Beth. His wife had probably picked up his phone
already, now wondering where he was. Staying put was no longer an
option, he had to get out. He’d be quiet and as soon as he was
outside, he’d run straight into the woods behind the house, before
working his way to his car. He’d left it on Baker Street, three
blocks away.

Garrett sat back down on the workbench,
calming himself with slow deep breaths. He tried ignoring his
watch, but found himself poking a look at it every so often. He
never imagined he’d have to wait so long. He was thirsty; his
stomach, warm from lack of food. Time seemed to be slowing down and
with nothing to keep him occupied, it would remain so. Garrett’s
watch read 4 p.m.

“That’s it,” he said softly, lunging himself
off the table and walking over to the storm doors. Quietly, Garrett
moved the L-shaped pin, the mechanism that held the doors from
opening, and pushed upwards. The heavy doors held. Garrett tried
again, exerting himself, using all his strength. A crack of
sunlight came through, but something was keeping the doors from
opening, a lock no doubt. Harold was some kind of security freak.
Garrett turned around, and not but an inch from his face was a
large hairy spider hanging from a web. He skidded backwards,
banging his head into the cellar doors and giving himself a huge
headache. He watched as the eight legged creature went back up its
web. Garrett crouched, straining his neck to keep an eye on the
spider as he went under it and waddled his way over to the
workbench.

Garrett sat cross-legged atop the table,
tucking his legs and feet in close to his body and every so often
craning his neck, looking upwards, making sure no more creepy
crawlers were descending upon him. He began to come up with excuses
for his whereabouts, first his wife. It would require some damage
to his car, but with the bump on his head, it would work. He’d hit
a tree, head-on; say he’d swerved avoiding a deer. The bump was on
the back of his head, but he’d say it wasn’t the accident that
knocked him out, it was the fall he took getting out of his car.
He’d say he woke up in the grass, got back in his car and drove
home, perfect.

Garrett had tried staying awake, slapping
himself, thinking of spiders, but hunger and weariness overtook
him. He managed to lay down in a fetal position where he eventually
nodded off.

Garrett awoke, sitting up immediately,
disoriented. The lump on his head reminded him where he was. He
could barely see across the room. The sun had all but vanished.
Where the hell was Beth? She must not have been able to get away,
maybe even fell asleep. Garrett pressed the illumination button on
his watch. The soft light was almost blinding, he squinted. It was
7 p.m., Beth must be up. It was time to leave.

Garrett climbed off the table, took a step
forward, jumping back quickly and bashing his hip into the
workbench. The pain was hard, like he’d been hit by a hammer. A web
had touched his nose and Garrett was hysterically brushing himself
off, wiping his face, running his fingers through his hair and
checking his chest area. Any webs that may have been on him were
off, along with any spider that made it, but the sticky sensation,
like an invisible string, was still with him. He told himself it
was only a phantom feeling, nothing was there. Garrett crawled back
onto the table, deciding to wait, where it was safe. His right hip
throbbed, but it was nothing to fuss over.

The cellar was quiet, the air musty and his
vacant stomach growled as it churned in its own acids. Two more
hours had passed when Garrett looked at his watch again. He found
it harder and harder to stay sane. 9 p.m. was the limit, he
couldn’t take it anymore. His wife would now have the police
involved, and even though he wasn’t missing for 24 hours, they’d at
least keep a look out for his car. For all he knew, his wife had
seen it down the street if she’d gone that way. She’d surely
contacted his work numerous times, making them worried too.

He’d come back late from deliveries before
and had been reprimanded for it. It was the customers, his
loyalists, whom shopped religiously every week, and demanded no one
else deliver groceries. Garrett always delivered everything as
requested, and with the new Super Center going in a few miles from
town, G-Mart needed to please its customers. Garrett needn’t worry
about his job so much as his wife. He needed to get out, call the
police, see if his wife was looking for him, give him a feel if his
plan could work.

Garrett decided he’d go up the cellar stairs
and listen for any evidence of people. From there, he’d assess his
situation and make a move. Using the light from his watch he walked
cautiously across the room, stopping only when he bumped into
another string. This time it was heavier and didn’t have that
sticky feeling to it. A pull-string dangled from a light fixture,
bulb included. The temptation to pull was overwhelming, as if his
life depended on it. He began to have a tug of war with himself. A
quick pull and his darkness problem would vanish. The fear of
someone, Harold, seeing the light was too great. Maybe he could tug
the string, look around and absorb his surroundings, check for webs
in his path. He would only need a few seconds. No, he couldn’t. Any
amount of light, especially a flash of light, could attract Harold
to his presence. He had no way of knowing where the man was. In the
kitchen? Outside? In the bedroom? Taking a crap? If only Garrett
had looked around more, earlier, when the sun was still shining,
maybe one of the boxes had a flashlight in it. He wasn’t about to
go prodding amongst them now, his watch’s light would have to do.
Garrett proceeded toward the stairs.

He climbed each step slowly, using the
foundation as a guide. The rickety steps hardly concerned him.
Thirst and hunger had jumped to his highest priority. It almost
seemed like getting caught was a secondary, maybe even a thirdly
concern. He kept his composure, allowing his mind to control his
actions, not his emotions.

The same blackness engulfing the basement,
filled the top of the staircase, the kitchen lights were off. He’d
hoped for a sliver of light, a glow from beneath the door,
something he could use for hope. He kept on nonetheless.

At the top step, he bent low, putting his ear
by the bottom of the door. A cool breeze, fresh air, flowed across
his face, revitalizing him. Silence, however, filled his ears.

Garrett reached up, found the doorknob,
turned it and pushed. He closed his eyes. “Please, please, just
open,” he whispered and tried again. The door was locked. Garrett’s
hand fell hard to the step. Defeated, he wanted to cry.

Composing himself, Garrett stood up, anger
overtaking him. It was time for action. The door was thick, but
enough bashing would bring it down. Who cares if he’s caught, he
had to live. Garrett took a step back, put his hands against the
walls and brought his leg back. He was about to bash the door down
when a roar of thunder erupted from the cellar. Someone was opening
the storm doors. Two consecutive screeches, one, a pause, then the
other, like two banshees screaming in the night.

Garrett inched his way down a few stairs,
crawling on his chest, his feet behind him. He peered around the
corner, where the sheetrock wall ended. Intense light poured in
from the outside through the open storm doors. Garrett lay
protected in shadow.

Harold came down the storm door steps, a huge
black bag, plastic in appearance, slung over his right shoulder.
Garrett could hear a car’s engine running. The light must be from a
vehicle’s headlights.

Harold walked to where the string for the
light was, and clicked it on. The bulb did its job, engulfing the
entire room, like a tiny sun. Garrett squinted against the blinding
light as Harold strode over to one of the shelves, grabbed a piece
of the support and pulled. The entire shelf came away from the
wall, opening like a door. The items on the shelf hadn’t moved an
inched, as if they’d been glued in place. A shiny metallic door
with a key pad attached, stood where the shelf had been. A small
red LED emanated above the pad, indicating it was locked.

Garrett watched, frozen in place, like a
tongue to a flagpole on a frosty winter eve. Harold punched a
sequence of numbers. Garrett couldn’t quite make them out, but
noticed a pattern, the number 7. The red LED became green, followed
by a sharp beep, like a microwave’s at the end of its countdown.
Harold went in, leaving the door slightly ajar. He came out a few
minutes later, bag free, shut both hidden doors before clicking the
light off and left the way he came. The light from outside
disappeared as Harold drove off.

Garrett came down the stairs, the cellar as
dark as ever, like the inside of a bat’s wing at midnight. Using
the light from his watch, Garrett found his way over to the
shelf-door. The metal was warm where Harold had touched it. Garrett
tried pulling, but the shelf remained where it was. He tried again,
still nothing. Frustrated, he felt around until he came across a
button. It was on the inside of the shelf-door’s handle. Garrett
pressed the button with his forefinger and pulled. The shelf came
away from the wall, exposing the menacing red LED light. He tried
the key pad, using the pattern he’d noticed, 4, 1, 2, 3, 6, 9. The
door beeped and the red LED was replace by a friendlier green one.
The heavy, vault-like door popped open, like an airtight
refrigerator releasing its suction. Garrett went in.

The place was spotless, air-conditioned, and
resembled a sterile operating room. The room was lit by overhead
track lighting. A large, stainless steel operating table, complete
with straps at the top and bottom, stood in the center of the room.
Large halogen lights floated above it.

A long counter ran along the back wall, above
it were cabinets. Bone saws, rib spreaders, hacksaws, ice-picks,
hammers of various shapes and sizes, a sickle, a number of
scalpels, and other surgical and not so surgical implements lined
the counter, and all new in appearance as if the owner polished
them regularly.