If you missed Part One, read it here first.
And for more fabulous writing from Jeremy, head over to TheWhacko.Com
sound that could only be coming from the piles of dust that his feet appear to be making footprints in.
The eerie acknowledgement that no other footprints aside from the one he and his parents are making
makes his stomach a bit queasy. “Don’t think,” he whispers under his breath and his mother seems to
wonder aloud what he just said. The boy was done speaking and concentrating on things other than the
noises under his feet, which for all he knows could be the floor boards ready to collapse. Yeah stop
Of course you can see the kitchen through the lack of walls but the boy still doesn’t want to go in there.
It’s got to be worse once you get in there, and thinking about this brings the odor from out of there, as
his mother’s firm grasp drags him closer to the kitchen. Secretly the boy is already wishing that there
isn’t a bathroom down here, despite the fact that he suddenly feels the need to use one. The doorway,
we suppose, as there really isn’t much distinction between doorways and missing walls, to the kitchen
brings that odor sweeping into him, and now he could actually be sick. His eyes are watering.
The stove is a nightmare, the refrigerator looks like something out of a black and white movie, but
unfortunately the rust and grime on both bring the only color to them both. Inwardly the boy is begging
his mother not to open the refrigerator door, but she keeps firm her grasp as she walks towards it. What
could she be thinking? There couldn’t be anything worth looking at in there, and even a small child who
knows nothing about home ownership can tell that the thing needs to be removed unopened, and
replaced, by whatever insane hermits own this home. Her hand is on the handle and the child cannot
free himself from the grasp in her other hand. The door swings open.
The relief washed over the child as apparently whoever had left this home to die had taken everything
out of the refrigerator, and even the musty smell that came from it wasn’t as horrifying as the child’s
mind had taken him. He still can’t pry his hand from her grasp as she looks over at the nasty stove,
covered in paint from the ceiling and grease from eons of use. Why does she feel the need to walk
anywhere near that stove? The pleasant surprise of an empty refrigerator, is waning as the lure of a
disgusting oven drags his mother and in turn, him over in that direction. How long have we been here
now, an hour, two, perhaps four?
Sweat literally trickled down the little boy’s nose as he watched his once proud and tidy mother wipe
her index finger across the top of the stove leaving a trail of grease and the ridges of it sliming away
from the sides of her fingers. She held it up to her nose and took a deep sniff of whatever odor must
have been emanating from that disgusting smudge of goo on the end of her finger. The boy knows that
he will finally lose the remnants of the pizza he ate for lunch should she put that finger anywhere near
his nose. His heart starts hammering as she reaches for the door to the oven and starts to pull it open.
He can’t help but think that something evil had been burned in that oven and she was willing to let it
escape. Her hand takes hold and swings the door downward.
A deep exhale left the boy’s mouth as another tragedy is averted. The oven needed a good cleaning, but
aside from that there was nothing inside of it, and it could even be said that it was a lot cleaner than the
rest of this catastrophe in the middle of nowhere. Now the fear of all fears comes across the young boy
as his mother looks towards the corner of the room where, the only door left standing in the entire
house blocks, something. Realizing that they aren’t actually moving now, the boy practically jumps when
he hears that strange crunching noise under his feet but not actually from his feet. His feet haven’t
moved. Now a squeak, then a bang, and it is all coming from underneath them. Is the house about to
collapse? Where is his father? He hasn’t heard anything from his father in what, an hour, two, maybe
No more is the boy leaving footprints, the trail behind him is solid drag marks, because that is what his
mother is doing to him now, dragging him by his weak hand grasped tight in her much stronger one. He
even tried to give a pull out of her hand and she paid him no notice, no firmer, no softer the grasp that
she has on his little fingers. She drags him, less willingly by the foot along to the door, which the boy has
decided must go down to the basement, the basement where all that noise is coming from. The fear and
now the anger, that his mother has lost all common sense as she drags him along to that door, that
probably could be kicked in as easily as it could be opened. Her hand is now around the handle, and the
boy is tugging on her other hand as hard as he can, but it won’t free him. The door swings out towards