There Will Be More
By: S. Scott Bullock
You’re going to think that I have totally lost my mind, and come to think of it, you may be totally correct. I truly don’t know if all the things that have happened in the last forty-eight hours are simple flights of deranged fancy or rock-hard reality. The only thing I am certain of, as I sit here in a candlelit attic writing these words down on the backsides of old, yellowed photographs with the nub of a red-colored pencil I found among the floor-strewn detritus, is that I am afraid. I am, in fact, more terrified than I have ever been in my life. More terrified than I thought possible.
My hand is cramping as I clutch the pencil nub and write. I hope this will be legible. But, whether it is or isn’t, I must keep writing. I must. It is the only thing keeping me sane at the moment. The only thing keeping my mind off of what is downstairs. If I write, I’m safe.
My name is Derrick Delroy. Derrick Dorian Delroy. My parents were fond of the letter ‘D’. I am not. I was born twenty-four years ago in a town called Tedesco. It’s in New Mexico. My family moved here, to Arlington, Maine, when I was ten. Dad’s work. Two years after we moved here my parents were coming home from an anniversary night-out when a teenager, who had stolen his father’s vintage, wood-paneled pick-up truck, t-boned them at a rural four-way stop. Mom and Dad were killed on the spot, the teenager bruised his upper left thigh. I was twelve, so Mom and Dad had left me home alone to fend for myself that night. I was too old for a babysitter. Or so I had loudly proclaimed. When the police came to the door at 5 the following morning I realized how wrong I had been. I needed a babysitter then, and so much more.
It’s moving downstairs now. I can hear it. A sloshing, slithering sound. And breathing. Heavy, labored breathing. It sounds like jello being sucked in and out of garden hose. I can smell it now too. Jasmine flower and coffee grounds mixed with burned hair. I don’t know if it knows I’m up here. The only movement I am making is my hand, writing this, and I’m pretty sure it can’t hear that. The candle is burning low now and the flame is flicking wildly. Must be an open door or window downstairs causing the draft up here. The flame is creating terrifying shadows out of the stacked boxes and discarded furnishings. Dancing demons are all around me. But they pale when compared with what waits downstairs. The sun will be up in a couple of hours. Hopefully the candle lasts that long. Hearing those sounds in complete darkness would well and truly push me over the edge of sanity and into the abyss of total madness.
I first heard the Thing two days ago. I was waking up from a particularly bad drunk. The night before had been the office party to end all office parties, but the night and the party hadn’t ended at the office. Five of us closed down three different bars and one fast-food joint by the time the sun came up. I was lying in bed around noon and I heard, what I thought was, my landlord downstairs. It sounded like he was using a giant plunger on my office toilet. I had told him two weeks before that it wouldn’t stop running and I figured he finally got around to fixing it. I found it weird that he had let himself in to do it though. He was always very respectful of my privacy and never let himself in with his pass key. I dismissed it all and got out of bed to go get some aspirin. As my feet thudded on the hardwood floor the noise from below ceased. I took three Excedrin from the bottle in my medicine cabinet and chewed them dry as I shuffled back to bed. I slept soundly till around four that afternoon.
When I finally hauled my hungover ass out of bed, I made it downstairs to the kitchen before feeling a very strong urge to vomit. It wasn’t the hangover making me nauseous though, it was the smell. Jasmine flower mixed with coffee grounds and burned hair. It was a god-awful combination of odors and it took all of my emotional moxie to quiet the feeling of fear-filled revulsion it evoked. I opened the kitchen windows and turned on the cook-top fan. The stench clung to the walls and ceiling like baked-on cooking oil. There was a trail of slimy, mucousy, goo that wove a pattern of confused movement along the floor of the kitchen. The repulsive trail led to the living room and out the open front door.
What was this stuff and why the hell was my door open? Fred, my landlord, wouldn’t have left it open. Unless he wasn’t done working on the toilet. I went to the open door and looked out on the deserted country road my house sat on. The sun was getting low and the shadows were long and ominous. They played across my dirt driveway swaying and changing shape with the soft, pine and lavender scented breeze. My drive was empty but for my Corvette and the long trail of goo that wove its way around the corner and out of sight. Fred’s truck was long gone, as was Fred it seemed. So why did he leave the door open, and what was all this gunk everywhere? I turned, pulling my door closed, and slipped in the muck. I landed on my ass and left hand. My wrist hurt like a son-of-a-bitch, but I didn’t notice the pain as much as I noticed how the muck that my hand landed in was pushing up between my fingers and covering the back of my hand. My revulsion reached a new high. This stuff seemed alive. It covered the back of my hand and started creeping up my wrist. It was ‘The Blob’ only REAL. One difference between this science-fact and that science-fiction was that MY blob didn’t burn or hurt. It just moved. Also different from the Steve McQueen Sci-Fi epic, was that this blob was easy to pull off. It came away from my skin like a sweat-soaked bed sheet. I jumped up and made sure that none of it had gotten on me anywhere else. I noticed that the stench was stronger and without thinking sniffed the back of my hand where the blob had been crawling. The odor was so intense and so noxious that I gagged and wretched. I vomited on the hall floor, and I swear to you this next is true. The goo moved toward my puke, surrounded and swallowed it. Pulled it inside itself somehow. The stuff was clear, like see-through silly putty, but when it… for lack of a better term… when it ate my vomit… it turned a deep purple then went back to transparent. I pulled my hand away from my nose and headed for the toilet and nearest bar of soap.
This could NOT be happening. Living goo? There had to be some kind of reasonable explanation to this unexplainable experience.
When I reached my office bathroom I heard the toilet running and realized that Fred hadn’t been here after all. The sounds I was hearing that morning were not coming from my perpetually-showing-his-butt crack, happy landlord. Then what the hell HAD they come from. As I scrubbed my hands in scalding water I was happy to realize that my nausea had passed. I wasn’t going to need the toilet after all, but I started to think very seriously about needing to consult a shrink. I walked out of the bathroom and found, to my shocked pleasure, that the goo was gone. Everywhere it had been was now only pristine hardwood flooring. I walked the former trail of muck and found it had all disappeared. I went into the kitchen and examined the floor. Nothing. The smell was completely gone as well. I made my way to the wall phone and picked up the receiver. Who was I calling? I didn’t know. The police? They’d call me crazy. Disappearing, living goo was not a very sane cause for requesting law enforcement assistance over the phone lines.
I put the phone back on the hook and saw movement out of the corner of my eye. Out the kitchen window, about a hundred feet away in the back field, I saw, what I can only describe now as, a foliage-covered Bigfoot. A great hulking humanoid figure, eight or nine feet tall,covered, literally COVERED from the top of its ape-like head to the bottoms of its size 20 feet, in a green mossy carpet. It was walking back and forth among the pines, crushing the foot tall reeds. Every step it took left a trail of the same stinking goo that had profaned my floors earlier. I watched the stuff hang from the Thing’s green covered toes like snot running from a kindergartener’s rhino-virus’d nose. I had a sudden sense-memory of the smell of that slime and felt nausea rise up and make a valiant attempt to crawl out of my stomach. I tried to turn away, but couldn’t. What I was seeing was too compelling. It was a living creature. A living horror movie.
It was shortly after that moment that I saw with my own eyes what danger I was in.
It’s moving more downstairs now. Banging against things in the kitchen. Pots and pans and dishes. As if it were looking for something. I pray it isn’t looking for me. After I saw what it did to the deer, I know what it will do to me.
As I was looking out the kitchen window earlier and watching with stunned disbelief, the Thing ambling back and forth among the pines, leaving trail after trail of that vile slime, I saw a very normal yet now surreal site. Deer are frequent visitors to my back field and marsh. It’s not unusual for me to see ten or more a day. So seeing the twelve-point buck wandering down the slope toward my grassland was not startling at all. But for this. The innocent creature was heading directly toward the Thing. I had an overwhelming urge to open the window and shout at it. To get it to run away before the Thing saw it. But I couldn’t. If I yelled, I’d call attention to myself. The last thing in this world I wanted was for that Thing and its slime producing feet to come back into my house or anywhere near me. As the buck came closer the Thing seemed to sense its presence. It stopped moving and froze in its ambling tracks. The damn buck just kept coming. But then, about fifteen feet from the Thing, the buck stopped. It raised its head and sniffed the air. He shook his great antlers back and forth and snorted. As it began to turn away, I saw something that I will never be able to un-see or forget. The trails of slime that the Thing had left all over the green carpet of my back field, shot hundreds of glistening tendrils toward the buck. In an instant the poor animal was covered in slime. The muck was pulling at him, dragging him toward the ground. The animal was struggling, desperately trying to extricate itself. Then I heard a sound. Like snapping stalks of celery. Only much, much louder. I began to weep, then. Desperate sorrow mixed with my terror as I realized what I was hearing. The slime was pulling the beautiful stag down with such force, and he was fighting against it so valiantly, that his bones were cracking. He made no sound because the muck had filled and covered his mouth and nose. His shattering legs snapped a final time and gave way. He collapsed to the slime covered ground.
The Thing, who up until that point was motionless, turned to face the lifeless buck. It lumbered toward the fallen animal. The slime parted, pulling away and moving off the buck and into the surrounding tall reeds. The Thing bent and picked up the huge animal effortlessly. It held it up to its enormous chest. And then, in a truly unfathomable turn of events, among the day’s many truly unfathomable events, the Thing’s chest cracked open. It opened vertically, becoming a huge, lip-less, sideways mouth with row after row of shark-like teeth. I wept and chocked back vomit as I watched the Thing devour the buck. An immense twelve-point stag disappeared in five bites into that massive razor-rimmed maw.
I stumbled backward and fell over a step stool. I grabbed for purchase and pulled a drying rack full of dishes and pans on top of me and crashing to the floor. I leapt up and looked out the window, dreading what I might see. And indeed I saw what I was dreading. The Thing was facing my house now. Its maw had closed and it was looking, or as far as I could tell, not being to see its eyes, looking at me. It took a step forward. I reflexively stepped back and once again fell over the same damn stool. I got up and looked out the window. The Thing was gone. The slime was gone. The only evidence of its trespass was the crushed and flattened reeds and glistening, blood covered grass.
I moved to the phone again. I picked it up and dialed ‘0’. It rang. And rang. And rang. I counted twenty-eight rings before I hung up. I picked it up again and dialed again. Thirty-five rings. No answer. How was this possible? No answer from the operator? I needed help. I needed the police. I suddenly felt twelve years old again. Just like the morning the police came to my childhood front door. I felt terrified and so very, very alone.
There was a splintering crash at the front door. It sounded like a giant pine breaking and crashing to the ground. I knew instantly what it was. The Thing was back, and on its way in to devour me like it had the buck. I didn’t hesitate. I ran with everything I had in me. I ran to the back door. I threw it open and saw that my house, or as much as I could see of my house, was surrounded by a foot deep, six foot wide, river of the Thing’s slime. Tendrils of it rose toward me and as I slammed the door shut I heard the sickening liquid impacts they made against the wood. I heard more crashing and things breaking in the entry way of my house. The smell of the slime filled my nostrils and I once again chocked back my bile. I looked around panicked and realized I had only one route of escape; the back stairs leading up to the second floor and up further to the attic. I made for the stairs and heard what sounded like my antique double highboy being hurled across the dining room and disintegrating against the opposite wall. I took three stairs at a time and made it to the attic door. I turned just for a second to make sure it hadn’t followed me and saw that the stairway was empty. I opened the attic door as quietly as I could, stepped inside and closed the door with a click that to my ears sounded like a sonic boom. I pushed boxes and old chairs and an antique desk against the door. I crept to the opposite end of the attic and sat down on a bundled and tied pile of Life Magazines. My heartbeat was moving the front of my shirt. The top buttons moved in and out in crazy rapid succession. My breath came and went so quickly that I felt lightheaded and faint. I was shaking so violently that I had to press down on both my knees with all my might to keep my feet from tapping out a betraying Morse Code to the Thing. For two hours I sat like that. Terror is such a weak word in expressing what I felt. The Thing crashed and banged and slammed and pounded below me. Then suddenly, silence.
I have been up here since then. Cowering. Too afraid to check and see if I could go downstairs and escape. I haven’t had a thing to eat or drink and I have been peeing into a collection of vases that I inherited from my Great-Aunt Madge. About five or six hours ago I had pulled myself together enough to at least consider going downstairs. And just at that moment, I heard it again. Banging things. Breathing like jello through a garden house. And I keep getting wafts of that puke-inducing smell. It’s looking for something. It’s looking for me.
I can hear it closer now. Oh, dear God. It’s climbing the stairs. I hear it climbing the stairs. It’s coming closer and closer. I can hear grunts now. Oh God. Oh dear, dear God. It’s at the door. It’s at the door. The door is crashing open. It’s standing in the doorway staring at me!
“Stephen King! I told you an hour ago to put your damn writing away and get ready for school! Your brother and I are downstairs waiting on you for breakfast and your bus will be here in twenty minutes. And, young man, you are NOT going to be late on your first day of Junior High School! Now MOVE!”
I have to stop writing now. The Thing is making me stop. But there will be more written. I promise you… there will be more.