Free Charnel House by Fred Anderson Page B

longer confined under the porch. Monsters never seemed as real when you were out of the place that gave them their power. Probably by the time he got to the trailer this would seem like a bad dream. And if it didn’t, well, he had a whole case of something to help dull his memories of tonight.
    He started along the side of the house toward the opening in the growth where he’d come in with the dead boy. The circle of yellow bounced in front of him as he walked, showing him the way to avoid the jutting roots and clutching brambles. As he passed the window he’d looked through a lifetime ago he thought of the sounds he’d heard from the room above when he was in the crawlspace. Thump, scrape. Thump, scrape. Something hobbling across the floor, then lying down on the floor just inches over him. An icy finger drifted down his spine, and the little part of him that had never forgotten the story of Jeremiah Barlowe and the three dead children awakened. He’s still in his charnel house , it told him in a singsong voice. Gonna come for you!
    Garraty brought the light up and pointed it through the window frame. The room was as empty as it had been before. Nothing lay on the floor, one pale ear pressed to the pine planks, and nothing crouched beneath the sill, waiting to spring out at him. The little voice in his head could go fuck itself, he decided, and turned away from the window.
    From the direction of the front porch he heard the warbling clatter of sheet metal on brick as the section of tin roofing fell away from the entrance to the crawlspace.
    As something knocked it away, his mind insisted.
    Garraty spun and plunged into the thicket, the gap down the way all but forgotten. The gap would take him further from the car, and he’d be fucked if he was going to do that . Briars plucked at his clothes as he fought his way forward mindlessly, and thin branches clutched at him. Swinging the tire iron like a machete, he beat at the growth, forging a path through it. A thorn raked across his face, setting it alight in a thin burning strip. Still he drove forward, thinking about nothing but escaping whatever horror must surely be breathing down his neck by now, reaching for him with a desiccated gray—
    He broke through the growth and went sprawling in the weedy yard. His knee came down hard on a rock hidden in the tall grass and he screamed. Jesus, it felt like a knife had been slipped in under his kneecap. Garraty struggled to his feet and staggered toward the car. Some dim part of his mind registered silence from the direction of the house. Nothing was coming through the thicket, but that didn’t mean nothing was coming at all. He lurched through the weeds, holding the tire iron in a white-knuckled grip, ready to fight for his life but not willing to wait around for whatever the house had vomited up to catch him. When he finally rounded the end of the house and saw the Prius gleaming in the moonlight, so perfectly ordinary , he almost wept.
    He jammed the Mag into his pocket and pulled out his keys as he limped to the car. Fresh blood soaked the sock tied around his left hand. The cut must have reopened when he fell. With the pain in his knee, he probably wouldn’t have noticed if he’d cut a finger off. Garraty yanked the door open and fell into the seat. The solid thunk as he pulled the door closed behind him as beautiful a sound as the first time he heard one of the twins say da da . He jammed the key into the ignition and started the Prius so he could get the windows up. As they rose, sealing him in, he thumbed the button to lock the doors. Only then did he allow himself to relax a little.
    The headlights speared the old house when he started the car. Nothing was coming for him. Garraty leaned forward and peered up at the two windows that flanked the old chimney, half-expecting to see a ghostly Jeremiah Barlowe looking down at him through dark hollows of eyes, a malicious grin showing his black teeth, one ashen hand raised