Written by Felipe Brenny
Content Warning : body horror, violence, gore
The rotting door creaks open as I take my first steps into the abandoned apartment block. It’s stood abandoned for almost a decade now, serving the homeless as it waits to be torn down. But now nobody’s here, and yet this place is still inhabited. The bright lights of my car illuminate me as I extinguish my cigarette and step past the lobby into an open elevator to see if the buttons work. Nothing.
Heading towards the fire escape door, I push against it with my shoulder; it budges but doesn’t open. Not locked, but something is definitely blocking it from opening. I leave it and start checking every door. Most are closed as expected, but one is open. The handle turns to reveal a stairway down. Cables run from the ceiling down there too, meaning that there is a potential for power. How curious that it’s exactly what I need.
The darkness is suffocating, even with the lantern in my hand. There’s a gentle gust of wind. As I reach the landing, it makes sense. A large pile of rubble from a collapsed ceiling sits there; gentle moonlight makes the maintenance room glow, guiding me towards the fuse box. I turn off my lantern to preserve its battery, then open the box and am surprised to see that everything is in order. Nothing damaged, maybe a little rusty, but someone purposefully turned off the power. I flip all the breakers on, but as I reach for the main lever, a large claw appears to my right, leaning on the wall. Its nails slowly begin to carve furrows into the concrete. I stay perfectly still save for my left hand, which trembles—hidden by my trench coat. I slowly move it to a sling holding a sawed-off shotgun. My left hand clutches at the grip, with a finger on the trigger. I take a deep breath. It’s uncomfortable, but I can’t use my right hand. Repugnant air whispers past my ears, but as saliva drools onto my hair, I forgo caution and flip the lever; as a loud clunk rings out and the lights come on, the claw pushes off the wall in a hurry. Light footfalls echo, and after a minute of staring at the fuse box, I turn to an empty room. I switch my hands around on the shotgun as I make my way back up and to the elevator. There are still no lights on, with every bulb either being broken or missing.
Inside the elevator, most of the buttons are still unlit and useless. One button still works: the third-floor button. I carry on while pushing my back against the wall opposite the door.
The elevator slowly tumbles and shakes to life as it begins to drag itself up. Metal screeches against metal. The taut cables slowly drill holes in my ears with their ever-tightening sound. The elevator drops slightly, then stops just as half of it reaches the second-floor door. The contents inside my backpack slosh, but I stay silent as a panel drops from the ceiling.
A slimy hand with long fingernails reaches down.
It’s long enough to touch the floor, and when it does, it starts searching. The flesh beneath the clear slime is white and pale; several needle marks are visible across it as it brushes the walls. The worst, though, is the sound, as its multiple elbows let it search every corner of the cramped space effortlessly, yet slowly. As it reaches near me, I take a cautious step to the side into a corner it’s already searched. My hands are still on the gun as it withdraws upwards. Eventually the weight on the elevator disappears, and it continues to rise until I arrive at the third-floor door, which has been pried open with claw marks on it.
Stepping out, I look left and see nothing, but on my right, a light glows beneath a door at the far end of the apartment. There is nothing else here. I turn and begin to walk the hallway, which seems to grow longer and longer with every step. A mist leaves my mouth as I slowly exhale past the feeling of being watched by a thousand eyes. I need to leave, and my legs shake with the urge to run. But I can’t leave. Not yet. Eventually the distance closes, little by little, until I am at the door. The warm yellow light bleeds onto my boots as my hand wraps around the doorknob.
Stepping inside, there’s just a normal living room. No mould, no decay. It’s preserved like it’s never been opened. I close the front door and lock it. There’s an open door to the bedroom, so I go inside, ignoring the dried blood in the kitchen. In the bedroom, I find a school yearbook. Opening it reveals that every single page has been torn out except for one. On that one page are countless scrambled words of betrayal and love. On every single photo except for two.
It doesn’t matter who they are.
I step out and hold my breath as I go into the kitchen; rotting meat sits in a pot filled with blood. The fire has been slowly bringing it to a boil. I throw my backpack onto the kitchen table in the centre and open it. Inside there’s a can of gasoline. Grabbing it, I—
The front door handle turns.
I open the can and dump its contents onto the floor. Scurrying to get it all out. The front door slams against its hinges, and it’s not long before it bursts open. The door flies into a wall and falls over, and then there’s nothing but the stove fire and heavy thuds. One clawed hand grabs the kitchen doorframe, then another; black fur stands up as a head peeks in. Like some poor rendition of a werewolf, the face has multiple uneven pairs of eyes. A vertical slice runs from its belly to its throat, as if someone had pried it open and stuck dozens upon dozens of human teeth and fangs inside. I catch a glimpse of pulsing meat inside before it begins to open its real mouth. That slimy hand protrudes from inside, slowly uncurling every elbow with sickening crunches of bone.
It takes one step towards me, and another, and another. I keep the table between us. It tries to swipe at me with its claws while the slimy hand keeps uncurling. It won’t be long before it can reach me over the table. But by the time it gets to the corner I was once stuck in, I grab my lighter with my left hand and ignite it. The flame enraptures the creature for a moment, before I chuck it onto the kitchen floor and run. A deep and guttural scream erupts as I slam the door shut behind me and keep moving. There’s no point checking the elevator.
I reach the fire escape and push it open. Closing the door and turning on my lantern, I push some bones down the stairwell that echo back. I’m jumping down multiple steps until I reach the ground-level floor and see a large pile of bones blocking the door. I’m grabbing heaps at a time, and that’s when the third-floor fire exit door opens. I don’t slow down; I keep going, even as the heavy thuds keep getting louder and louder and louder until I finally make enough space to pull the door and squeeze past.
It grabs onto my trench coat, but I pull free and turn around. Its hands keep reaching for me while it opens its mouth, letting its pale hand begin to approach me, but I have had enough. I grab the shotgun from its sling and aim it.
One… good… shot…
A bright flash overtakes the darkness, and an endless ringing reverberates in my ears as it reels in pain. Chunks of flesh fly off as it begins to stampede away; it roars and weeps as I reload before making the difficult decision to follow it. Back up the stairs it chased me down. Rotten blood overtakes the concrete walls, and I continue after it all the way back to the fire.
It kneels as its home burns to ash. Its scorched flesh releases a revolting smell into the air. Its face is in shambles. Its claws scratch at my trench coat as it continues to writhe, and it releases this terrible whine that begs me to leave. Leave? After everything it’s done? The countless bones, with how many people this thing has killed, it asks me for mercy? I aim the shotgun at it, and it lunges. The blast catches it in midair as it gets pushed back into the fire, where it finally stands still. I pull my ruined coat around me and leave the monster right where it belongs.
Author Bio:
Hi, my name is Felipe Brenny (He/Him), and I am a third-year student at QUT studying creative writing. I love writing fiction, but especially fantasy with non-human characters, and I’m currently working on an urban fantasy story in my personal time.