Digger - The Doctor Will See You Now by Clifford Beck - HTML preview

Chapter 28

Ryan rose late the next morning. Sleep had not been so much a pleasant event as a means of recovery. Opening his eyes, he woke, startled by what he clearly recalled of the previous day, wondering if it had all been a dream—some cruel trick played on him by Morpheus, bringer of sleep. The idea of dressing escaped him as he leaped out of bed and flew down the stairs. He clumsily fumbled with the door locks and launched himself off the steps, landing his feet on the cool morning earth. They had come back, having returned sometime during the night. A single trail of footprints crossed the field of flour Ryan had laid down the day before, and although the prints were close together, they were of a size that indicated the presence of an adult. But something was different. Ryan expected the flour to rub off onto the uncovered ground and disappear. But the tracks were made visible by the adherence of flour to the feet of whoever made them. Ryan was unable to explain how this could be, but followed them anyway. He was surprised to find them circling the cabin, but as he rounded the side where his bedroom looked out onto the woods, what he saw terrified him. The footprints broke away from their circular course and went up the side of the house. Even more frightening was the fact that they stopped at the open bedroom window. He stood staring in horror as he realized that his home had been invaded by something truly out of the ordinary, and panicked at the possibility that this intruder could still be inside. Ryan ran up the steps and through the door, his mind flying in a million different directions as he tried to decide where to search first. Instinct demanded he begin with the bedroom.

He flew through the house as though it was fully ablaze and, reaching the bedroom, ran to the window, where he discovered a small amount of flour had been scraped off onto the edge of the sill. Ryan's mind was suddenly swallowed up by profound fear and confusion. How was this possible? His mind searched for an explanation but found none. The most fantastic work of fiction couldn't begin to compare to the frenzied flight of fear Ryan was experiencing. Fearing for his life, he ran into the kitchen and retrieved a steak knife. He'd fumbled for it so quickly that its blade left an open gash across his fingers. But the need to survive had overridden his sense of pain. Now he stalked the cabin, room by room, believing that he was being hunted by something that could somehow crawl fifteen feet up the side of the house. And by the appearance of the prints, it was human.

There was only so much house to search, but Ryan obsessively combed through its rooms several times, looking in every corner, cabinet, and closet. "I know you're here, motherfucker!" he yelled. "God fucking help you if I find you, asshole!" He found himself in a state of frenzy, looking under the bed and behind the furniture. Lastly, he started toward the basement door. Holding the steak knife tightly in his hand, he left a trail of blood through the cabin as it ran from the deep wound across his fingers and trickled off the blade's edge. He moved slowly down the stairs, expecting to be attacked at any moment, while unconsciously holding his breath as he placed a quiet foot on the basement's concrete floor. Standing still for only a moment he listening to the air. The morning had brought it down to a comfortable coolness. Yet, the air was still heavy with the smell of bleach, tinged with more than a hint of decay. Ryan had spent so much time in the basement that everything in it was mapped out in his mind. He raised the knife and waved an arm through the air, looking for the string that turned on the light. As soon as the light came to life, he would be ready. He would strike with the ferociousness of a caged animal. It didn't matter what it was or who. Ryan was determined to kill it, refusing to allow himself to become the hunted prey to whatever it was that made its way past him as he slept during the night.

Ryan wielded the knife in every direction as the light illuminated the basement. Everything was as it had been, and looking under the stairs, he found nothing. He searched the cabin again and, again, found nothing. Returning to the living room, Ryan stood in the middle of the floor, dressed only in his underwear, still clutching the steak knife. The blood covering the stainless steel blade had thickened, leaving long clot trailing off the tip. "What the fuck do you want?!" he ranted. His question was met by a clamor of silence that left him profoundly disturbed. It could be said that some of the quietest places possess the greatest possibility for mental torment and confusion. That room, at that very moment, may well have been one of the quietest places on earth.

Ryan fell back, landing in a sitting position on the couch, and, bringing his hands up to his face, began weeping as he dropped the knife to the floor. As he cried into his hands, the mix of tears and blood left heavy smears down his face. He had been broken and was quickly becoming uncertain as to what was real and what his mind might be producing. But it was in this deep pit of despair that Ryan happened upon an idea—something given to him during his greatest time of need -- a plan. If he couldn't catch whatever had entered and escaped, perhaps he might trap it. Killing it could then be done with a minimum of effort.