This is part three of the Chuck Wendig, http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2014/09/19/flash-fiction-challenge-conclude-the-tale-part-iii/, challenge to write the 1st third of a story then leave it for another writer to finish the next part. This week, we do the end of the story. I chose a story titled Shrine with Part 1 by DarkVirtue1974, http://darkvirtue1974.wordpress.com/2014/09/11/my-return-to-blogging-and-a-flash-fiction-challenge/, and Part 2 by Anthony Armstrong http://almosthuman1blog.wordpress.com/2014/09/12/flash-fiction-challenge-week-2-the-shrine/. The second part of the story turned it paranormal. Let’s see what I can do to end it as well as these two guys started it.
No one has picked up my first half from the first yet. I’ll let it go this week to see if anyone decides to do a middle or an end. But I promise I’ll finish it if no one else does.
I pick up the story at the second dividing line.
I don’t know why I have come back to this place. The old two-story building before me has never been a home in any sense of the word. It was more of a monument of suffering; a temple of affliction with my father as the high priest. There isn’t a room in this place that hasn’t been decorated with my blood at one point or another.
Now, he’s gone and this house stands as the last testament to his brutality. So, why am I here? To find any shred of decency and happiness within and rescue it? Not likely. That all died with my mother when I was still an infant. What, then? Maybe to get one last look around before I sell it off? Or maybe, just maybe…to destroy this place.
I push the thoughts of setting the house ablaze aside and make my way up the steps to the porch. My hand grows ice cold with dread as I reach for the doorknob. It turns with a metallic grind and I push the door open. The smell of age and dust and stale cigarette smoke hits me in the face. My stomach lurches a bit with childhood panic. My skin prickles in rememberance of each and every cigarette burn mark given to me.
I slowly walk in and look around. Other than a thin layer of dust, nothing has changed in this place in 15 years. Every piece of furniture, every picture, every memento is exactly where it was when I was a child. Even the bloodstain on the rug in front of the fireplace is still where I last left it; black with age. I couldn’t say what I supposedly did or didn’t do to ‘earn’ that particular beating. They all ran together like a flipbook of pain. Each beating was partnered with the threat of much, much worse if I ever told anyone.
No, I still don’t know why I have come back to this place. It’s serving as nothing but a bruising reminder of my past. This place was filled with nothing but rage and fear and, in all the years, I never knew why.
Perhaps it’s best that this place and the past it harbors should be brought to the ground and removed from the world. Just blow out the pilot lights on the stove and let the place fill with gas. One spark and this place is consigned to Hell.
My footsteps carry me through the rest of the living room and into the dining room. Like the living room, nothing has changed here. The familiar setting brings forth the past in my mind once more. I shove aside the fresh wave of memories and continue to the door that leads to the kitchen.
Pushing it open, I stop short. Within the center of an otherwise unchanged kitchen is a large, round hole. Cautiously, I approach the edge and look down into the void.
The rhythm of ragged breath stutters as the sides of the hole undulate before me. Heat oozes over the jagged edges and pool around my feet, grasp at my knees. The kitchen swims around me and I begin to lose my balance. A hand grips my shoulder, pulls me from the edge. I am too frightened to turn. I slide to my knees, hands grasping the edge of the pit. I almost allow myself to topple forward into the gaping hole, but I pause. Anger grows inside me and I stand, the hand still pulling at my shoulder, and I allow myself to turn.
“Jacob.” It was him. My father, long and thankfully dead, stands before me, hand on my shoulder, smiling in my face as though nothing but love had ever passed between the two of us. “It’s been a long time, my son. Too long.”
“Father.” My tone is curt, cut short intentionally for fear if I allow myself to speak freely, I would unleash years of anguish, terror and pain in a single gasp and our conversation would end. Despite this man’s horrific actions toward me in the past, I want to hear what he has to say. I need it. I crave it.
“I was wondering when you would come back here, Jacob.” I allow myself to be led to the dining room where my father pulls out a chair for me. “Please,” he says. “Sit.” I, as always, do as I am told. Now the old man places both his hands upon my shoulders, squeezing, patting as if he were making sure I am real. He exhales and mumbles something about how good it is to see me here. The room begins to smell of death and the heat from that hole in the kitchen roils its way into the dining room. “I suppose you have some things you would like to discuss. About the past?”
“Yes,” I say forcefully, surprising myself. “I do.” I feel the floor rumble. Hear floor boards crack. I turn to face the old man, but he turns away too quickly for me to catch his eyes. It seems his flesh leaves a smear in the air as he steps away from me.
“Your mother and I missed you. You realize that, don’t you? She was always so fond of you. She got so angry when you left.”
My skin begins to flush. Sweat pops up in beads on the backs of my hands. Whether it was anger or the rapidly increasing temperature in the room, I couldn’t tell. “My mother died,” I shake my head, sweat dribbling into my eyes. “I had to leave. I had to make your abuse stop. I had to protect myself. I had to leave.” I begin to feel sick. Father whips around and slams his open palms down on the table before me. His eyes burn red and his flesh drips from his face.
“What if I told you your mother never died?”
It felt as though my heart stopped. Sweat ran down the side of my face. “What?”
“You heard me.” He stuck his face into mine, those red eyes locked with me. “You’re just as stupid now as you were then.”
I thought he was going to crack me across the head just like the old days but he turned and stomped away from the table, muttering. “What do you mean she never died?”
“She was always here, Jacob. I made a special place for her, under the kitchen floor.”
His face had somehow crawled back into place. I tried to swallow, to wet my dry mouth enough to spit the words out. “You kept her under the floor? In a room?”
He jammed hands into pants pockets. Those same saggy-assed work pants he always wore. “You could say it was a room.”
I stood so fast the chair fell over behind me with a crash on the worn oriental carpet. I ran to the kitchen. The hole in the floor gaped in front of me, the heat still rising, edges still undulating. “Mom!” I yelled into the hole, God help me I don’t know why. Tears of fear and frustration ran down my cheeks. “MOM!” I screamed.
The heavy hand grabbed my shoulder. I dug deep and flung it away from me. “What did you do, you bastard!” He backed up a step. For the first time in my life my fear was gone. I went after him, hands outstretched for his throat. “Where is she?”
The smug look fell from his face. It occurred to me, in the tiny part of my mind that was still lucid, that I was bigger than he was. I grabbed the front of his shirt and dragged him over to the pit. He danced on the edge, his hands gripping my wrists. “You’ll tell me right now, you sonofabitch.”
A grin spread across the red-eyed demon’s features. “Do it, just do it. You know you want to.” He let go of my hands, balanced precariously on the edge of the hole.
“What did you do?” I spit between gritted teeth.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” His teeth flashed at me, they were pointed. Father spread his arms wide. “Go ahead, do it.”
I let go. Just opened my hands and watched as he slowly fell soundlessly backward into the pit. Heat washed up around me as he fell, the grin never leaving his face. I took a step back. A mix of fear, relief, loss, and grief crashed over me like the waves of the ocean against the shore. I closed my eyes and tried to breathe.
When I opened them, the floor was simple cracked linoleum. The heat and stench was gone. Blinking, I tried to get my emotions under control. I pulled my phone from my pocket and dialed 911. I wasn’t sure how I was going to ask but I needed the floor under the kitchen dug up.
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