They seemed inescapable. Night after night, James bore witness to his gruesome death. He sat, hunched and sweaty on his dilapidated couch, at the center of his fourth-story apartment. The recurring nightmares had hounded him for weeks, and he’d been thinking about them so much his head ached, like a ball-peen hammer pounding at the front of his brain.
He didn’t know why he feared them. Dreams couldn’t kill, and the creature with the six glowing green eyes didn’t actually exist. But maybe there was an explanation. Maybe all of this was residual trauma from the schoolyard incident.
He could still feel the fists of Danny Pates and Tyron Walsh smashing against his face. He could hear the snapping of his right ankle as they stomped it, mercilessly. They’d beaten him within an inch of his life that day, and he’d sensed the coldness of what lay beyond.
James supposed he’d never understand this stuff on his own. Too much had happened to him; life was too fucking complicated. He needed a shrink, or, at the very least, someone he could talk to—someone he could trust. If only Allison were still around; if only James hadn’t torched that bridge.
He leaned back on the couch, overwhelmed by the misery of what his life had become. He caught sight of the one-inch hole in his thin textured ceiling. Like many older buildings, there was only a tiny bit of space between the ceiling and the floor joists supporting the subfloor of the residence above—a fact he hadn’t realized when he was banging on it a few nights ago with a broom handle.
Why did I have to strike that thing so hard? Was all that noise from upstairs really such a big deal?
The kid in the apartment overhead always played his electric guitar at max volume. So, what? James was a rocker, too, once upon a time. It hit him that, at thirty-three, he’d become the crabby old man he used to loath when he was younger.
Serves me right, he reflected, glaring up at the hole.
He promised himself he’d buy earplugs tomorrow, because that was the adult thing to do. Those obvious mature solutions often eluded him. He was quick to anger, which was why Allison left him. Until recently, James had been employed at the Easy Way convenience store down the street. A week ago, he screamed at a customer and stormed out. Now, thanks to his short fuse, he was alone in more ways than he cared to admit.
He wondered where Allison was. Was she thinking of him? Probably not.
There were several faint scratches from above.
Great, now I have cockroaches nesting in my ceiling. That’s just perfect.
He’d found two of them in his room earlier tonight and killed them. Another infestation was all he needed to complete this real-life nightmare. The superintendent had only just handled the rat problem six months prior, because it’d gotten so bad the cheapskate landlord couldn’t let him ignore it anymore.
James kicked his coffee table in frustration.
His digital clock read midnight. His eyelids were heavy. He needed to be well-rested for his job interview, at a car dealership, twenty miles away. He’d have to wake up around six to make it there in time. It was like Allison always used to tease him: he needed his beauty sleep or he’d be grumpy all day.
Rising from the couch, James started for the bedroom. There were louder scratches from above, and he froze, glancing upward. Fragments of the ceiling were chipping away around the enlarging hole. Something was stirring in there, something larger than cockroaches or rats.
He inched toward it, arching his neck to see what was inside, but there was only pure blackness. A low rumbling growl came from within the hole, followed by a hiss.
James backed away, as pieces flaked off the expanding fissure. It reached twelve inches in diameter, then stopped.
“Oh, my God,” he mumbled, stumbling backward, catching his leg on the couch and almost tripping.
From out of the hole slithered three slimy, long, thin, black tentacles.
They languidly crossed the ceiling towards James.
He pivoted, hoping to sprint to his room and retrieve his pistol from the sock drawer. But he twisted his right ankle, collapsing, slamming his head onto the hardwood floor.
Dizzied, James was only dimly aware of the tentacles peeling off the ceiling and reaching down for him. They wrapped around his legs, sliding up his body. They stunk of rotten eggs and vomit, as they slipped onto his face—their slime dripping into his mouth, metallic and rancid.
James tried to scream, tried to call for help, but the tentacles were around his throat, squeezing his windpipe shut. He felt himself lifting off the floor. He smashed against the ceiling, was dragged painfully over its rough acoustic texture, and pulled up into the hole.
It was the strangest thing; nothing else was up there, just endless space. Six glowing green eyes stared at him through the gloom. The creature lunged at James, roaring. Its needled teeth bit through his skull, into his brain.
—
K.N. George is a lifelong lover of the arts. He attended the Art Institute of Washington for Animation, but found his creative writing classes to be the most rewarding part of the experience. He lives in Northern Virginia where he enjoys his hobbies of writing, reading, drawing, and drumming. His passion for storytelling stems from being an award-winning stage actor as a child/teen and he continues to be fueled by his desire to grow as an author of horror and science-fiction stories.
A good old-fashioned horror story, well-executed.