Free Gods and Monsters: Unclean Spirits by Chuck Wendig Page A

then.”
    “No, I don’t think you will.”
    “Sure thing, Trixie.”
    “Watch your mouth.”
    “No problem, Trix. Hey, I dated a girl named Trixie once. Had a dog named Trixie, too—cutest little poopsy-doodle poodle.”
    “I swear to—you know I have a gun, right?”
    “Trixie’s a good gun moll name. I bet you tuck it in your garter belt—”
    “Frank!” the freak yells. Spit flecking the back of Cason’s neck. “My name’s Frank, mmkay? Frank Polcyn. Now, I know what you’re thinking, Cason Cole . You’re thinking now’d be a real good time to do some of your fancy ninja fu-fu shit and kick the gun out of my hand or twist my wrist or whatever wily bullshit you got up your sleeves. You do, you’ll never know. You’ll never know why your boss was some kind of freaky seduction magnet. You’ll never know how I unzippered him like a fucking Members Only jacket. You’ll never know why your wife and son turned on you.”
    Cason stops. Fingers tightening into fists.
    He’s frazzled. He’s waving his hands around like a drowning man.
    And he’s right. Now’s a good time for that fancy ninja fu-fu shit .
    Frank the freak.
    His fists relax.
    “I need to know,” he says, voice low and quiet. “You promise to show me?”
    “I promise. But first you gotta walk.”
    Cason walks.
     
     
    T HREE BLOCKS UP and one over, they arrive at their destination. It’s a single house with white siding, sandwiched between two sets of brown townhomes—the world’s ugliest ice cream sandwich. The siding on the house is green with striations of mold and mildew. Gutters hang, broken. Latticework under the front porch reveals gleaming eyes: cats or raccoons or possums, Cason doesn’t know.
    Broken walkway stones lead to the front steps, which are themselves just cinder blocks with boards laid across them.
    The wind shifts and a smell comes from the house. Something wild and gamy. Olfactory memory is strange—Cason knows it reminds him of something, but he’s not sure what. He knows he remembers it, but he can’t put his finger on the memory itself.
    “Go up and knock,” Frank says.
    “Whose house is this?”
    “I said go up and go knock. Unless you want me to knock you on the head with the butt of this .45, pal.”
    “I’d like to see you try.”
    “ I’d like to see you try ,” Frank mimics, his voice a nasally, raspy whine. “You want in on this adventure, then you gotta knock to be let in.”
    Cason hesitates, but finally walks up on the wobbly two-by-fours across the cinderblocks and steps up to the porch. Beneath the creaking wood, he hears the animals shuffle and skitter. Again that smell hits him: musky, earthy, wild.
    It’s then he realizes what it reminds him of.
    The primate house. At the zoo.
    Sweat and fur and piss and shit. All wrapped up in a blanket of animal musk.
    Cason walks up. Sees a mailbox stuffed with mail. Number on the box and a name: ARTHUR MESSING. The mail is piled up and tumbling over the edge. Junk, mostly—coupons and menus and other mailers. Some bills, by the look of it. All cascading from the box to the porch floor like a paper waterfall interrupted.
    “Knock.”
    Cason sighs. Lifts his hand, raps on the door.
    The house shudders with approaching footsteps.
    foom
    foom
    foom
    FOOM
    FOOM
    The door opens.
    That heady monkey smell really hits Cason now, a punch to the nose as a massive dude answers the door—giant, not like Tundu, who’s big all around, but giant in the way a cave troll is giant. Long legs, long arms, but a short torso and a head the size and shape of a small watermelon. The man’s hair is a wild thatch of brown and gray, his mouth a mess of crooked teeth, the nose a smushed piggy snout. Dirt on his cheeks, under his nails, across his yellow chompers.
    The guy starts to ask “Who the hell are—”
    But he doesn’t get to finish the question.
    Cason’s head explodes—or at least that’s how it feels. Frank sticks the gun up over Cason’s shoulder