This was his world and from what he could tell... his world was pissed. The storm came out of nowhere; its dark clouds raging as they spilled out their bellies with a fury that he hadn't seen in years. The ocean churned, trees snapped, and the winds slapped. It was madness, chaos, and something lurked within. It was here, within the raging fury, that the storm’s eye found a modest home tucked away in a sea of European Pine that could rival the Black Forest in splendor. A gravel driveway curved a snaking trail through those pines, weeds sprouting in sporadic patterns; Rorschach would be proud. The crushed rock of the gravel drive was hugging close to a large edifice which sat opposite the small house; a deep crimson glow pulsated and radiated from its windows and cracks in the foundation, a palace of secrets unknown to the world except to the man that resided within. A man’s secrets that would soon be revealed, secrets… not of this reality. The last reds and violets of twilight had long since disappeared. Night had fallen; something came with it. A burst of light; glowing particles, glass-like shards of fire exploding from out of the deep: swirling, forming, charged, coming together from all around, piecing together. A pentagram; an enigma of science and fiction, forming a hole, a break in time and space… it was a gateway. A build up, energy converging, burning white hot and then KABOOOOOOM! Particle explosion. Like sand against the screaming wind. The “HellGate” was open. And of only one thing was certain as it filled the darkness with crimson fire… Things were about to get much-much worse. *** The window’s pane of glass held the storm’s fury at bay, blocking out the madness with the comfort of “home.” The small outskirts house was warm, inviting. Filled with love, but lacking a woman’s touch. Pictures on the walls; frames housing goofy grins and a progression of family triumphs and accomplishments. School work and study books left unfinished and open on the kitchen table. A laundry room cluttered with discarded clothing; jarred hampers spewing their contents about. While toys and action figures from previous adventures of imagination and time remained childless and locked in combat. And there were books, many, many, books. Somewhere in the background the sound of a news anchor finishing her standard lead-in to the weather report, which told all within earshot more of what they already knew, could be heard through static bursts of transmission. A horrific storm came out of nowhere, actually believed to be in the early stages of becoming a class-5 hurricane. Board up the windows, tie down any and all breakables, and pray that if you have a sump pump… it’s working. Another strike of lightning. Close. Too close. The earth nearby shaken and singed. The television’s reception was claimed by the charged branches of that lightning, like demonic serpents from the skies licking at the earth with their forked tongues. Anyone watching, paying attention at the moment of impact would have seen the anchor’s beautiful face, covered in a copious amount of rouge (her favorite: Autumn Sunrise) stretch into bulbous distortions upon the screen. Her forehead, surrounded by a thick mane of stylized hair, elongated like some alien life form before returning to normal. And then… then that lurking something found its way into the house, slowly creeping along with shadowed form, the lightning strikes sending its rain-soaked visage against the walls. Down the hall it moved, a predator, hunting past the bathroom and bedrooms, in and out of the kitchen, studying layout, until it came upon the living room and the mid-to-late twenty-something sitting on the couch reading his novel. It was time. Studying was over, now the predator was waiting for that perfect moment. Waiting to see its prey’s mouth open in a silent scream. Waiting, just waiting for that perfect moment… to strike. *** Quinn Matthews had his Timberland boot covered feet kicked up onto the coffee table, his head back, and nose in the novel’s slightly yellowed pages. In his mother’s house that would have been a Cardinal sin: feet on the coffee table, are you mad? But in his father’s, well, his father would actually have to be around to even care. No, wait, his father would actually have to care to even be around. And his father certainly wasn’t around. Even when he was, he really wasn’t. Always lost in thought, in those… experiments of his. No, Quinn’s father was most likely out in the barn, again; a barn converted into some type of scientific lab, Quinn wasn’t really sure. He wasn’t allowed within ten feet of its doors. Plus there were guard dogs. Rottweilers, two of them; Sally and Sarah. Names could be deceiving, all the dead wildlife in front of their doghouses were anything but. All Quinn really knew about his father’s work, and it wasn’t much, was that his father was “relieved” of his position at some top secret government facility known only as: The Center. Quinn had heard rumors of this “Center.” The research, the testing and experiments, the lies told to the public. Rumors were just as good as lies to Quinn, after all, rumors ran just as rampant in his unit. If it wasn’t terrifying creatures feeding off the flesh of humanity, it was alien conspiracies and U.F.O. cover ups. Hell, if he put any stock in it he’d have to watch his own back; rumor was that half the United Kingdom’s Land Command were taking orders from the Royal Family who also just happened to be demonic sleeper agents from some outer dimension. He was a fan of the “X-Files,” but come on, his father a part of something like that. Please. Quinn Matthews was known as Marine 1st Class in the British Armed Forces Manoeuvre Brigade. A Royal Marine on leave in a home that felt very much like his barracks. Cold. Sterile. The only difference was his mates called him “Angel Face” and here at home he was only known as “hey you” and or “I’ll be in the barn.” For almost a full year Quinn often wondered, with a humorous chuckle each time, if his name was actually “hey you.” A sneak peak at his birth certificate proved otherwise, but it was still worth a look. Just in case. Clad in jeans, slightly frayed at the bottoms, a feather-grey zip-up hooded sweater under his military issued green jacket, and dog tags hanging loosely against his chest, Quinn was completely unaware not only of his father’s so called “work,” but also of the predator behind him. The hot breath soon to be against his throat. He was too engrossed in his novel; in the horror his imagination was giving life to upon the page. Just as he was unaware of the retro styled science fiction water gun with matching decals being lowered and pressed against his temple until it was too late. Oh yes, there it was, that hot breath. “Don’t do it.” It was all Quinn said; calm, never removing his eyes from the words upon the page. Absolutely, positively, without-a-doubt, certain that he was in total and complete contro-- SQUIRT! Quinn slowly placed the novel, still open to his page, onto the couch beside him and with a heavy sigh and a smirk he looked over his shoulder to his little brother Thomas and said, “Oh you better run.” Thomas was nine years old and… well, what can really be said but a smiling, laughing, and truly deceiving little innocent who was anything but innocent. Quinn chased Thomas all over the livingroom, laughing and banging into furniture and walls, being brothers and enjoying it. But like nature can often prove, nothing is certain, and sometimes the predator becomes the prey. “Remember when you were six?” Quinn said, as he pinned Thomas to the floor. “No!” Thomas was screaming with laughter, another Cardinal sin in their mother’s house, screaming, it might as well have been the devil, as Quinn’s fingers wiggled above his brother’s chubby little neck. “Say it, Thomas.” “Never!” “Then you leave me no choice.” And with it, those wiggling fingers lurched forward, attacking Thomas with relentless assault. It was the tickling kill-spot; that small area under Thomas’ chin. That small unprotected, porcelain-like piece of flesh that would make Thomas laugh so hard that he would beg for the mercy of a thousand mercies as tears would stream down his face; a very, very red face. They were both laughing like children again, this was the “home” Quinn remembered, as he ordered with a wide-toothy grin, “Say it!” “Okay! Okay! You’re the master!” “And?” Quinn questioned. “And I bow before you!” “And?” “And I don’t deserve to breathe the same air as you!” Quinn smiled, pleased with the results of his torture. Something only his childhood could teach. It certainly wasn’t the military, they had much higher standards. “Very goo--“ KABOOOOOOM! The lights flickered and the television sung of static for a split second. A heartbeat of darkness. A violent radiance of womb red light exploded into the night; flooding into the house from every window, crack, and keyhole possible. The sound devoured everything like it was getting ready to open its jaws and howl. Like it was getting ready to feed. “No worries, little brother. It’s just the storm.” And it wasn’t the storm. Brothers. Sure they could fight and argue, but for Thomas, Quinn was his protector, his hero. An idol he desperately looked up to. Thomas saw Quinn as a tireless champion; the strongest, bravest, and truest soul he had ever and would ever know. Quinn was the type of man Thomas strove to one day become. Why? Because Quinn was the protector against those childhood nightmares and the defender again those pesky closet monsters, because Quinn had always been there when Thomas needed him. And tonight was no different. “Hey Quinny?” “Hmmm?” Quinn looked out the livingroom window; high enough to see everything through the trees: lightning boiling the ocean waters, a cliff face dangerously close to the black depths below. Beautiful if the storm wasn’t so frightening. Thomas crawled up onto the couch beside his brother. “Daddy’s a hero right? Like you? I mean… I know he doesn’t wear a uniform like you, but… I mean he is a hero right?” Quinn smirked that trademark smirk. “You don’t need to wear a uniform in order to be a hero, kiddo. It’s about being brave enough to fight for those who can’t do so themselves. It’s not about uniforms or strength; it’s about caring enough to do the right thing when no one else will.” “Oh…” Thomas sat back down, staring off, a hint of sadness lurking behind those big baby blues. “What’s wrong, lil’ buddy?” Something quieted Thomas. What it was-was a burden, the weight of the world on his nine year old shoulders. True worry. “Mommy says Daddy used to be a hero, but now he’s…” Quinn’s features hardened. “He’s what?” It was concern mixed with anger. Why would she even say anything? “Thomas? He’s what?” Thomas didn’t meet Quinn’s gaze, not even with, “Now he’s something else…” Finally looking to Quinn, little Thomas Matthews continued with worry and sadness. “I heard Mommy talking to Aunt Lisa; she said that Daddy got bizarre like his experiments. I think that’s why Mommy left, because Daddy wasn’t a hero anymore… because I wasn’t a hero.” Quinn sat up like one of those lightning strikes wrapped its thin and jaggedly charged fingers around his heart and squeezed. “Hey, don’t you think like that. Mommy left because of Mommy. Not you, or Dad, or me. Mom left because that was the choice she made. Daddy and Mommy love you very much, never forget that.” “Okay…” Quinn sighed. It didn’t work. “Hey, you want to know what I fight for?” Quinn removed his wallet, flipping the fob open with a fluid twist of his wrist and handed a faded, slightly creased photograph to Thomas. “These, three lives, three loves. It’s not the whole world, Thomas. It’s three memories, three reasons... hopes. Mom and Dad… and you. You’re what I fight for. The world is too big, Thomas, so I fight for what I love most in this world. And that’s never going to cha--“ “GET OUT OF THE HOUSE!” Quinn and Thomas turned, fast. The voice was familiar yet hauntingly different. Like it was tainted, infected… infected with hate. Thomas, already up and off the couch, took an apprehensive step forward. “Daddy?” Fear dripped from each letter of the word. He began a slow stride of uncertainty, as his nerves desperately fought to calm themselves at the outburst. Thomas took another step toward the front door, but stopped instantly as soon as he saw the look on his brother’s face. A look he’ll never forget… it was a thing of horror. “Don’t move.” Quinn said low, terrified, looking at something beyond his little brother’s point-of-view. “Thomas, don’t move.” But when did children ever listen? Thomas turned around and that was when he saw it, that was when he shared in his big brother’s terror. “Close your eyes, Thomas.” Quinn whispered. “Close them tight.” Crouched before them was a nightmare born from some other “place” and “time,” born from one hell of a messed up existence. The creature was anthropomorphic in form, that much was certain, but almost lamprey like in features: jawless with a toothed, funnel-like sucking mouth. Clawed fingers attached to long gangly arms, and a short-stalk of legs and pad-like feet. Dimensions, realities, planets, whatever it was, wherever it came from, only one thing was certain this night: it was hungry. “RUN, BOY!” It was that same hauntingly familiar voice and Quinn didn’t need to be told twice. Quinn fought against every fear and uncertainty that wrapped itself around his spine and gnawed at his sanity, as he scooped up his little brother in his arms and ran. He ran like the devil himself was giving chase. Who knows, maybe he was. Quinn was fast, but the creature was faster. Quinn kicked at the beast, turning the far corner in a maze of hallways. Everything was moving fast, too fast, too hard to process and comprehend between look, form, and thing. This wasn’t a hunt, this was a cat and mouse game, and Thomas was screaming to the point of making himself sick; afraid to look back, yet unable to resist. The hunter, the hunted, it didn’t matter; it wasn’t even a factor in this nightmare. No, this was becoming a mindless foot chase; immediate, frantic, frightening and beyond anything born of Quinn’s active imagination. One moment it was Quinn and Thomas, then just as suddenly a funnel of razor sharp teeth snapping, legs pumping, running all out, down one hall, through the kitchen, and into another before backtracking into the living room again. Everyone, everything was breathing hard, each in overdrive. Quinn never, not once, looked back. No, no this was Hell. Not the word nor the essence, this was true Hell. Home of the damned. Home of Quinn and Thomas Matthews. Quinn was already through the living room and passing the laundry room, a blur of piles separated by colors and whites, when he felt the creature on his back and the claws tearing into flesh. And that’s when Quinn thought he heard rain coming down heavy on hardwood. But it wasn’t… No, it was just blood. His blood. This was Quinn’s prison, a mangled mess of sinew and gore, a prison of bone and flesh. He could still feel the claws at his skin, like an amputee and a phantom limb, and shivered at the thought of them at his throat or face, his abdomen or… or lower. But that wasn’t going to happen. Not yet. Quinn would make the demonic hell-beast work for its food. Quinn propelled himself forward with all of his might, tightening his hold on his little brother, breaking once more into violent motion. Already lightheaded and pale from the loss of the coppery life which stung at his nostrils and flowed like cascading rivers down a mountain of flesh and hair. The blood didn’t bother him. The fact that it was his blood did. But the thought didn’t last long as Quinn cried out in pain. Razor teeth joined those claws at his flesh, as he tossed Thomas into a large pile of clothing and fought against the creature that had begun climbing upon his shoulders. But it wasn’t Quinn it wanted. Dessert came first. The creature shoved Quinn aside, eyes fixated on the tasty prize, and it was then and only then when Quinn suddenly realizes what dessert looked like. “Thomas!” The creature, the demon, beast, monster, whatever it was bolted, but with the exception of its gangly arms waving frantically towards Thomas, it wasn’t going anywhere. It turned its head back to see Quinn, its slit eyes gleaming malevolently at him as he held its legs, straining and fighting against supernatural strength, but that strength was too much… And Quinn’s fingers slipped, his hold failed. The creature was in the air a heartbeat-second later; a snarling ferocity coming down upon Thomas; dessert, as he shielded himself in mind-numbing fright and then-- An exploding surge of energy, a concentrated point of light discharged a particle stream which quaked the heavens and trembled the earth as the world went white hot. It was more than a flash, more than a beacon, more than explosion. It was an unnatural power harnessed, from a man. Thunder cracked, lightning exploded, and the creature was vaporized in a POOF. All that remained was vapor. All that was left, was steam. Quinn was by his little brother’s side before the smoke cleared; Thomas hugging him tightly, eyes wild with fright. Madness whispering his name. And standing before them, at the entrance of the laundry room, a disheveled man sneezed. A nose twitching, heroic-moment killing sneeze, the device in hand that vaporized the creature powering down as he cleaned his nose with the back of his sleeve. Before Quinn and Thomas could take it all in, before they could stand on their own, before they could even digest it all, understand, his voice called out to them. His voice… spoke. “Boys, I think it’s about time you two go live with your mother.” And the disheveled man smiled. It was the smile of success. “DAD?” Matthew Ewald has come from a number of movies ranging from theatrical releases to made-for-cable dramas and thrillers. He was fortunate enough to star in a science fiction adventure television series on FOX, which ran for two years and spawned action figures, apparel, video games, comic books and more. Matthew has become a member of the Horror Writers Association and now has multiple short stories published. He has never been afraid to chase his stars and even more so, he has never been afraid to dream.

Current Issue***Home

Copyright © 2009 Sonar4 Publications