NOTE: This is my first story on fiction . This is also the result of my sophomore English class assignment of, “Write a gothic horror story.” Hopefully it’s decent.

ELAINE, by Angie Crawford

Rain pounded the windshield of 26-year-old Pete Thompson’s rusty Toyota as he sat outside the local Stop N’ Go, scanning his receipt with a cigarette between his lips. Lately the kid working the night shift had developed an annoying habit of ripping him off, and since Pete was currently in between jobs and under far too much stress to quit smoking, he couldn’t afford to lose a penny. After a moment more he smirked, satisfied that at least tonight his money had been spent on what he could use, not donated to another man’s wallet.

Pete turned his key in the ignition and his windshield wipers screamed to life, furiously beating back the torrential downpour as he switched gears and pulled into the street. Lightning flashed just ahead of him, followed almost instantaneously by a clap of thunder that rattled his body. Pete flinched, deeply inhaling the tar-laden fumes of his cigarette to calm himself. It was a long ride back to his apartment, and if there was one thing he truly hated, it was driving during a storm.

His fingers tightened unconsciously around the steering wheel as he squinted ahead, slowing down to avoid swerving off the road. Nervously, Pete glanced over at the ditches lining the two-way Saint Street, noting how quickly they were filling with water. He swallowed hard, smashing what was left of the cigarette into the ashtray. Turning his eyes back to the road, he attempted to find Cliff Avenue. He needed to make a left turn, but through the rain and the foreboding blackness that could only be found on a country road, he knew he wouldn’t be able to see it until he had driven by.

Suddenly, caught by his high beams, a lightly dressed figure appeared, firmly standing in his lane. Startled, Pete honked his horn and veered quickly to the left. “Moron,” he mumbled to himself. “Must have a death wish.” As the words were escaping his lips, the figure turned, moving in a swift and determined stride. Through the furious pounding of his windshield wipers Pete watched, helpless as the figure dove in front of his wheels. He swore loudly, and by reflex he spun the steering wheel as hard as he could, slamming on his brakes. Shrieking, Pete’s tires slid across the slick pavement as though on ice. The Toyota fishtailed, narrowly avoiding the person spread-eagled in the street before careening off the road and into the ditch. The sickening crunch of metal reached Pete’s ears, and in response his head smashed sharply against the steering wheel, sending a white hot flash of pain across his skull. Darkness consumed him.

Not twenty feet away, the figure in the road rolled over and pushed itself up, briskly brushing off a few streaks of mud from its yellow jacket and tugging the hood farther over its eyes. A gloved hand felt the contents of the jacket’s inside pocket carefully and then, satisfied, reached into a different pocket and produced a small flashlight. Like a tiny beacon, the flashlight’s orange-yellow glow pierced the stormy night, and through the torrents of rain allowed the figure to view the crumpled piece of metal once Pete Thompson’s loyal Toyota.

There was no moment of hesitation. The figure approached Pete’s vehicle with caution, wading down into the muddy ditch in work boots and sloshing up to his side. The gloved hand opened the door of the Toyota surprisingly easily, allowing a wisp of stale cigarette smoke to escape and momentarily fill the air. The hand lifted Pete’s head. His face was ashen from shock, eyelids pressed firmly together, and softly he moaned, hesitantly reaching up to trace the bit of the sticky liquid flowing from his scalp. His lips, blood red and chafed, attempted to thank his rescuer, but no words would come. Pete’s head throbbed furiously, and through the haze he was sure he could hear his heartbeat pounding in his eardrums. Reluctantly, his eyes allowed themselves to be slightly opened, a fuzzy image of the dashboard dancing through his mind before he leaned back against the seat. Exhausted, his eyes fell closed once more.

The figure clicked its tongue ever so softly, sympathetically brushing the stringy brown hair from Pete’s eyes. A long gash ran horizontally across his forehead, a souvenir of his encounter with the steering wheel. The gloved hand traced the injury, gently wiping away some of the blood that had begun to run down his nose. This injury, the figure knew, was minor. Another click of the tongue.

The hand slipped into the jacket’s inner pocket, pulling out a small knife that gleamed in the dim light from the inside of the car. A glance at Pete’s closed eyes and slight grimace reassured the figure that the man was indeed conscious, however much he was in pain. The gloved hand ran over the cold blade of the knife, stroking it affectionately. A smile twitched at the corner of the figure’s mouth as, finally, the knife was raised, hovering inches above Pete’s heart. Several excruciating seconds passed in which the stale, smoky air of the car was filled with the slightly raspy noise of Pete’s breathing, a steady, unwavering sound. Then, without sign of remorse, the knife was plunged deep into the young man’s chest. His eyes shot open, a dull gasp of surprise escaping his lips. Dilating, his nostrils inhaled the metallic scent of blood, and numbly he realized it was his blood, his own blood, that was pooling on the floor of his Toyota. For a moment he was afraid. But as the rain outside poured steadily on, a strange tribal drumbeat on the roof of his car, he ceased to care, and slowly the blackness overcame him as the figure confidently climbed back up the ditch and vanished into the stormy night.

Elaine Lewis, psychology student at the local university, slammed her car door shut with a dull thud and made a dash for her house, attempting to avoid becoming even further soaked by the downpour. It had been murder getting home that night after her class, crawling along the road at ten miles an hour and happily noting, once she got there, that the bridge along Front Street hadn’t washed out. Sighing, she hastily set her keys down on the kitchen counter and threw off her jacket. Ambling over to the sink, she peeled off her wet gloves and tossed them aside, revealing pale young hands covered in large patches of crimson. She shook her head slightly, mouth set in a grim line. The water she drew was warm, and methodically she scrubbed her palms clean.

Grabbing an elastic band from beside the faucet, she hastily pulled her damp orange curls into a ponytail before disappearing into the living room and retrieving the phone from its cradle. After punching in a number, she brought the receiver to her lips.

“Hope Police Department,” a woman chimed over the wire.

“Hello, is Officer Davis available?” Elaine inquired, and was immediately put on hold. Gazing absentmindedly out her window, she watched the dreary patterns the rain created as it streamed down. For her, rain was normally artwork, an ever-changing masterpiece. But tonight--

“Go on with it.” The harsh rasp of Officer Matthew Davis pierced her bubble of thought, sending her crashing down to reality once more.

“It’s Elaine Lewis,” she replied quickly. “Something’s happened. There’s been an accident.”

Ironically, the morning after Pete Thompson’s murder dawned clear and bright, the sun sprinkling its dazzling rays into Elaine’s bedroom window and splashing them across her face as she wearily allowed herself to be awakened by the comforting light. For a moment she frowned, vaguely recalling the broken thunderstorms of the previous night and questioning the feeling of unease that seemed to have embedded itself in her heart. She lay there a bit, puzzling her sudden anxiety, but soon she was up, padding downstairs to start the day. The coffee seemed to fix itself as she scuffled about the kitchen, pouring the last of the Cheerios into her favorite bowl and plopping unceremoniously into the nearest chair. With a small sigh she unfolded the Hope Herald, the local newspaper, expecting to see the usual Illinois drabble about corn crops and, if it was a slow news day, a drug bust in Chicago. Instead, Elaine was greeted with a leering black headline that stared accusingly at her from its place on the paper. “LOCAL MAN FOUND MURDERED,” it proclaimed. Her last sip of orange juice nearly spilled out her mouth as she let slip a small shriek of surprise. Her eyes darted back and read the line again, this time evaluating each black letter as though decoding a message from the enemy. She blinked once, twice, and with an intent gaze and a gaping mouth, she allowed herself to read the article.

That afternoon Elaine arrived at Clemson’s Liquor, Gas, and Grocery just in time to begin her shift as cashier, although she felt she was conspicuously early. Elaine disliked her job immensely, hating to stand for hours with a false smile pasted to her face while she rang up food and called for price checks. She disliked even more working for a senile old man who had appointed his own grandson manager. Now, stalking into the store, she ignored the friendly greetings she received from several other employees, offering them only the hint of a smile before she busied herself by setting up her usual register.

As she was pulling out some extra plastic grocery bags from underneath the counter, the grandson-turned-manager Travis Madison made his way over to her. He was a fairly young man of twenty seven, with pudgy red cheeks and a visible layer of fat around his middle that probably came from his connoisseurship of fast foods. Understandably, age had not taken to him kindly, and more often than not he reminded Elaine of a young Santa Claus, a thought that had always brought a grin to her face. At her side, however, the man waited patiently for her to finish her task before speaking in a low, solemn voice. “Elaine?” he queried.

It took her a moment to raise her eyes and toss him an uncertain smile. “What’s up?” she asked.

“My God,” he sighed, his dark eyebrows knitting together as he roughly ran a hand through his thinning hair. “My dear God.” Elaine felt her smile falter in confusion. He avoided her eyes, staring instead at the countertop. A soft mumble, almost impossible for her to hear. “You haven’t heard, have you?”

She swallowed nervously, shaking her head. “Did Davis come in and try to shut us down again?” she guessed, uncertain, before her voice rose in protest. “But you know we’ve been really good about those liquor laws lately!”

For a second Travis squeezed his eyes shut as if in pain, and she noted the lines that were forming in his features, tiny creases that darkened his usually cheerful face. He was quiet, breathing deeply. “No,” he finally replied, pausing. “Elaine, it’s about Pete.”

The trauma in his eyes told her the rest, and she felt herself inhale sharply. Pete. Lightning flashed in her mind as she remembered the rain the previous night, and for the second time she saw Pete’s trusty old Toyota, crumpled like an unwanted piece of paper, headfirst in the ditch next to Saint Street. How could she have forgotten?

She attempted to speak, breathing in carefully, slowly. “This morning. That article in the paper,” she started, slowly beginning to piece things together. “Was it about him?”

Travis nodded, his shoulders hunched, looking defeated. Pete had been his best friend since grade school, through good times and bad, and his death had already begun to take its toll. “I guess they didn’t release his name yet,” he offered quietly. He paused once more, choosing his next words carefully. “I know how you were trying to help him, with the money and all.” An awkward silence came between them, and Elaine looked away.

“It was nothing.”

“To him, Elaine, it meant a lot. I don’t think he got the chance to thank you--” Travis trailed off, letting out a breath that seemed to echo in the quiet darkness of Elaine’s mind. They were both silent a moment before he spoke again. “I suppose I’d better let you get back to work,” he said, attempting to sound cheerful, although his voice was unnaturally loud.

Elaine nodded carefully, fiddling with the bracelet around her wrist. He had gone several feet before she stopped him. “I’m sorry to hear about Pete.” she called, her voice hitching slightly.

Travis halted, looking down at the tiled pattern on the floor for a moment. He nodded, and his voice was choked when he replied. “Me too.”

Alone, Elaine turned to her register. Pete had died with a debt guaranteed to stop the hearts of most bank employees, but that was no longer her concern. All the ties she had once had to him had been cut with his sudden death, and Elaine silently chided herself for fretting about his lack of income, especially when there was work to be done.

Her hand reached halfheartedly for the money drawer, wondering if there was enough loose change to begin the day. Instead of the metal handle, however, her fingers grazed a small lumpy mass stuck to the counter. Appalled, Elaine glanced down, noting with disgust a hardened wad of pink gum next to where her hand had been resting. She cringed at the thought of the gum’s formally gooey sweetness being pulled wet from another employee’s mouth and placed there for safekeeping. Sickening, she thought. Absolutely sickening. From the pocket of her Levi’s she withdrew a small hunting knife with an ivory handle, a knife that easily reflected the overhead lights of the supermarket. Using the edge of her t-shirt, she swiftly wiped it clean of dry crimson, and then in one smooth stroke she cut the gum cleanly from the linoleum surface and swept it onto the floor. With a tiny smile of satisfaction, she slipped the knife back into her pocket and turned to greet her first customer of the day.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Crosby,” she offered cheerfully, reaching over to scan a six-pack of Pepsi. “Is that all for you today?”

He felt as if he had been curled in this stuffy, vermin-infested trunk for decades. Perhaps he had. He had long ago lost all sense of time, and could no longer recall his name or any other personal facts, except that once he had a young daughter, with bright shining green eyes. But, he harshly reminded himself, those days were gone. She was much older now.

A slight creaking of the floorboards beneath him made what was left of his mind race, and with the keen sense of perception that only comes with the passage of time, he knew his beloved daughter was climbing the stairs once again. Beside him, a rat scurried across his skull and nibbled at his neck, grinding its tiny teeth into cold gray flesh. He let it be, staring unaffected at the top of the trunk, dimly recognizing as his own the deep scratch marks and dried blood that bit into the wood.

There had been a time, a few years back, in which this place had housed nothing but horror. The trunk he had been forced into had only served to muffle his bloodcurdling screams, to trap his soul in life and, later, in death. How he had come to be locked inside, in an ancient trunk in the attic, he did not care to remember. Sometimes, however, he could hear the echo of his former self in his mind, begging and pleading for help, and then, without fanfare, dying the slow death of starvation. After his passing, it had only been a few lonely weeks before the rats had at last managed to eat their way through the wood, tasting his flesh and claiming him as their own. Unable to protest, he had been left no choice but to accept them.

A cough. He knew she was stirring up years of dust by coming up here, but he didn’t mind. The single rat feasting on his neck had just been joined by another, tearing off a bit of his thigh. Patiently, he ignored them.

His daughter was humming now, talking a bit to herself as she weaved her way around the stacks of boxes. He listened, curious. From nowhere came a loud thump, followed immediately by a string of obnoxious curses. His daughter, he recalled faintly, had never been one to watch her tongue. As a final aggravated yell broke through the dusty atmosphere, the steady squeaking of the floor resumed, slightly out of rhythm. She was limping in his direction.

Ten seconds passed as she reached his resting place and fumbled with the rusted latches, her clumsy fingers scraping the sides of his trunk. Then, creaking, the lid was thrown back, and the musty half-darkness of the attic cascaded down upon him. The rats, still feeding, hissed in protest. Startled, his daughter leaned over him, letting the smell of decay linger in her nose. “Hey there,” she cooed, wiggling her index finger at the rodents. Her father stared at her, his milky white eyes unblinking, as she plucked the rat from his neck and smoothed its matted fur, murmuring softly. The rodent, a bit of dead flesh lingering on its whiskers, perched easily on her shoulder and burrowed gently into her mass of hair.

Silently, she regarded the corpse in front of her, her emerald eyes cold and glittering. When finally she spoke, her voice was even. “There was a murder last night,” she informed him coolly. “Someone we know, actually.” A pause, the stillness only broken by the low chattering of the rats. She smirked. “Pete Thompson.”

The rat on his thigh had begun to burrow deeper into his leg, gnawing through his remaining tissue, and he found he could hardly concentrate on his daughter’s words.

“You remember Pete, right? He was always asking my opinion on his finances.” She rolled her eyes, shaking her head in disbelief as she reached to her shoulder and scratched the rat affectionately behind the ears. “Insane,” she commented. “Absolutely psycho. The guy had more phobias than my psychology books! He was such a pain, Dad.” Her innocent face contorted unpleasantly, an ugly smirk dancing across her lips. “But I must admit, Dad, his little fear of storms did give him a much more exciting death than you had.”

Her words were met with a blank, ghostly stare. She smiled, leaning down and ruffling what was left of her father’s rotting hair. “Honestly, claustrophobic? Everybody says they’re claustrophobic!” A second passed before she cheerfully added, “At least it wasn’t heights, like that annoying little neighbor kid. His death was boring for me, too.”

She gazed lovingly at her father, a placid look now on her features, observing the bone jutting out from beneath his gray skin. She plucked the rodent from her shoulder. “Eat up, little guy,” she whispered, placing the rat back on her father’s neck and shaking her head just enough to make her orange curls bounce. “You and your friends will starve soon if you can’t break through that other trunk.”

Her casual comment seemed to remind her of something, and abruptly she sat up, craning her neck around a stack of boxes to see a large red trunk at the far end of the attic. A small clump of brown hair protruded from the side, a pendulum swinging frantically in the air. From where she sat, a dull scratching noise reached her ears, punctuated every few seconds by low whimpers. “Elaine!” A woman’s defiant shriek came screeching into her eardrums, shattering the quiet atmosphere of the attic. The scratching inside the trunk grew louder, more desperate. “Elaine!” the woman cried again. “Get me out of here!” Muffled sobs came suddenly, accompanied by the sharp pounding of flesh on wood.The trunk, creaking ominously, lurched a precious few inches in the direction of the staircase, leaving behind a bare spot in the layers of grime that had accumulated on the floorboards.

Sitting cross-legged beside her father, Elaine Lewis rolled her eyes. “Claustrophobics,” she muttered. “They’re all the same.” Then, with purpose, she turned her attention back to the corpse, a grin tugging at the corners of her young mouth, revealing disturbingly sharp white teeth. “Mom sends her love,” she remarked. Elaine cackled, and her rats hissed with glee.