THERIOPHOBIA: FEAR THE BEAST Part 22
Hank hammered the nail into the board, through the board and into the door frame, up to the head, driving it in deep. He picked up another board, pre-cut pine, the set of shelves he’d intended to build but had never found the time to start. He took up another nail from the box, held it in place with his left hand, swung the hammer in his right. Already three boards crossed the door, nailed into the frame. Hank had three boards to go, and plenty of nails.
Solid oak. The door and the frame, heavy, strong. It should hold. Nailed up like this, it should hold. Bang. Bang. Bang. Another board in place.
Walls are solid masonry. No windows.
Bang. Bang. Hank wheezed, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist. He picked up another nail.
Ceiling, too. Solid oak.
Bang. Bang. Bang. Hank added another board, leaned against it to hold it in place, held the nail stiff. Bang. Bang. Bang.
He’s tied up. He’s drugged.
Hank bent one of the nails, had to pull it out and start with a new one. Bang. Bang.
He won’t get out.
Hank paused. He listened. Yes, he had heard something. The phone ringing upstairs. The ringing stopped and the answering machine picked up. Hank heard his own voice, distant and distorted. He waited.
“. . . Frye, this . . . Brewster with . . . Police Department . . . afraid we’re . . . come back . . . station . . . more questions . . . urgent . . . was going . . . send a car . . . expecting to see . . . right away . . . appreciate . . . cooperation on . . . Frye.”
Hank held the hammer at his side. His arm felt heavy, swollen from the unaccustomed effort.
Oh, no. The police. They couldn’t help. They would just get in the way.
There’s no time for this!
Hank picked up the last board and a handful of nails. Bang. Bang.
But you can’t make them suspicious. You can’t have them come here!
Hank finished. He put his ear to the door and listened. He couldn’t hear anything from inside.
“Lucas? I’m going to get help now, Lucas. I’ll be right back, okay? I have to stop by the police station, just for a little while, but I won’t let them keep me long. Then I’ll be right back with help. Okay?”
No answer. Hank dropped the hammer into his toolbox on the floor. He turned towards the stairs, then halted. He looked back, hesitated.
Hank went back to the door. He stooped and took out a nail from the box at his feet. Hank used the nail to scratch a vertical line in the door, between two of the boards he’d nailed into place. He gouged deep, then added another line, horizontal, just above the center of the first line.
Hank used the tip of the nail to carve a cross in the door.
He stepped back, looking at it. After a minute he turned and started up the stairs.
He won’t get out, Hank told himself again, promised himself. He won’t get out.
* * *
WAYNE MILLER is the owner and creative director of EVIL CHEEZ PRODUCTIONS (www.evilcheezproductions.blogspot.com, www.facebook.com/evilcheezproductions), specializing in theatrical performances and haunted attractions. He has written, produced and directed (and occasionally acted in) over a dozen plays, most of them in the Horror and Crime genres. His first novel, THE CONFESSIONS OF SAINT CHRISTOPHER: WEREWOLF, is available for purchase at https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/734763
MORTUI VELOCES SUNT!