Glitch. Part 32

Without thinking, I pushed at the screen door.

It swung open. A long creak whined out the rusted joints, ending in a deep, long groan.

Well that was creepy.

"Haze?" I called again.

It was too dark to see inside. I went to use the flashlight app on my cell phone, but remembered I didn't own a phone anymore. That f.u.c.king Santa.

I took a careful step inside. The wood creaked under my foot.

Nothing stepped out to eat me. I took another step inside. I held my hands to the wall for balance and took yet another step. Dust came off on my fingers.

The darkness swelled like a physical presence. I edged forward. I hoped that Haze didn't fill his house with bear-traps or something.

This house smelled odd; not bad, but not normal. It didn't smell like indoors, or all the domestic hallmarks that made a s.p.a.ce livable. No Febreeze, no fading odour of food, no vacuum-cleaned carpet. For the most part it smelled like the air outside, except with an acrid undercurrent, like rot.

Why did Haze keep his house like this?

My fingers found a light switch. I flicked it on. A bare bulb flashed above me. Light burst into the hallway, illuminating the entire thing.

The light stuttered. It flickered over flaking paint, sagging plaster, and cracked drywall.

My stomach tightened. This wasn't normal.

This house was a ruin.

I took my hand away from the wall. I saw graffiti over it in black magic-marker. The graffiti said something about Donnie P being awesome and Brittney J being a s.l.u.t. A lot more of it was just drawings of symbols and stick-figures, like paleographs.

The entire hallway was wrecked: a long fissure ran up one wall, revealing the junctures in the drywall. The wooden floor was flecked with dirt and chipped. Dust and c.r.a.p lined the walls and a torn table leg jutted out the nearest doorway.

Who'd put a house like this on a business card?

Homeless guy. Eccentric guy. Crazy guy. My head reeled through a string of words. It finally settled on one that left a sour taste in my mouth.

Liar.

I was about to go ahead when I stopped. There was something just ahead of me.

I bent down to look. Buried beneath the dust was a line of debris, running from one side of the hallway to the other. I brushed away the dust. The stuff beneath glimmered.

Broken gla.s.s.

I s.h.i.+vered. The trap was obvious, but its presence unnerved me. Was it to keep out dogs and racc.o.o.ns? Or was it a warning?

I stepped over the line of gla.s.s. The hallway branched off here into a kitchen and a living room.

The kitchen was smashed up: broken cupboards, cracked island, and a black stain that looked like ash. Against all reason someone had lit a campfire here long ago. The living room was empty: pilfered of anything useful. The window in the living room was cracked open. Warm air wafted through it.

I saw a door in the living room. Wary for broken gla.s.s, exposed nails, or bare wiring, I stalked across the carpet.

The carpet beneath the door had an arc drawn across it in dust. Someone had been here recently.

I turned the doork.n.o.b slowly. There wasn't any dust on it. The bolt unlocked inside, and I tugged the door open.

It revealed a narrow stairwell leading down After the third step, the stairway vanished into darkness.

Cold air floated from up the stairs.

I felt for a switch on the walls but couldn't find anything. I gave up and descended into the dark.

The air smelled cold and dank here, as if it was the source of some rot. After the heat from outside, the temperature felt unnatural.

There was a light down there...

I eased my way down the stairs. Nothing came after me; Haze didn't jump out with a gun like a B-Movie villain. I got the feeling that if anything came to scare me here, it'd be the more subtle kind of scary.

Just a feeling.

I came to the end of the staircase. I felt at the bottom, and broken gla.s.s tinkled. So, there was more. I swept it away with my foot, creating more noise than I wanted to make in this quiet place.

And stepped onto the floor.

The floor felt like rock. My fingers brushed the walls and they felt like unfinished drywall. I finally found a switch and flicked it on.

The lights came on.

I remembered this room.

I stepped forward. Gra.s.s crunched beneath my feet.

This bas.e.m.e.nt was small, dirty and unfinished. Orange spray-paint marked the walls, and a yellow futon with the stuffing coming out extended from the wall. Cobwebs waved from the wooden rafters.

There was a stained coffee table with a lime-green Gameboy Colour. A pile of magazines sprawled underneath the table.

Red light flared from the wall, near the head of the futon. I blinked, but wasn't really surprised.

The red gate.

I'd been here two days ago, after awakening from the stalker man's bad dream.

What did this mean?

I sat on the sofa, surveying the gate for any changes or irregularities. I didn't notice any. I was probably too stupid to tell.

The red gate broke several rules: it appeared by itself, without a knife imbued with the alpha-gate's awesome sauce. It didn't flicker off, like other gates did. It didn't hum, like other gates did.

A gust blew through the house upstairs. Wood creaked. Something crashed to the floor. Maybe some racc.o.o.ns had snuck inside. I didn't pay attention.

The colour of the gate was the most disturbing thing of all. The carmine glow was tuned too close to blood. The regular gates and their sterile blue were comforting compared to this.

What was wrong with these gates that they'd turned red?

I bunched my s.h.i.+rt for warmth and wished I'd brought a sweater.

Maybe the problem wasn't the gate.

Maybe, since the stalker man had sent me to Level Zero, I was just seeing things differently.

Another porcelain crack came from upstairs. But there wasn't any wind now.

I wondered suddenly why the front door had been unlocked.

"Thought you'd come back here."

Haze.

He stood at the edge of the light. His right hand held a flashlight. His left hand grasped a f.u.c.king b.u.t.terfly knife.

A b.u.t.terfly knife is a type of folding knife native to the Philippines. The blade is normally lodged between two pieces of wood that can be pulled apart. The wood becomes the handle and the blade becomes the thing you kill things with. b.u.t.terfly knives aren't made to be concealed like pocket knives or switchblades. They're full-on combat gear.

Haze's weapon was the length of a steak-knife. The grey steel was flecked with brown rust. But even though it didn't look well-kept, it looked sharp enough to kill something.

The old man looked tired now. His beard was dirtier. His flat-ironed hair ran into knots. He'd lost weight; sharp edges protruded out of his pudgy face. He looked like he hadn't eaten since I saw him two weeks ago.

"Daniel," I said. My voice came out smooth and level. Fear was taking over. It was leaching out my feelings, turning the world into smooth angles and trajectories. I started gauging Haze's reach, the force it would take to pierce my skin and whether or not an a.s.sociate philosophy professor could generate that force.

"Shut up," Haze said. He waved the b.u.t.terfly knife. It was a stupid gesture but the knife was sharp enough to make it scary.

"What are you doing?" I asked. "I came to talk to you. Where is everyone?"

Haze curled his lips. The knife trembled in his hand.

"What's with these red gates?" I asked.

Haze turned on the flashlight. Bright yellow light blasted out of it. He held the flashlight level at the red gate.

"It looks blue to me," Haze announced. "So do your eyes."

"What?"

"They're glowing like Christmas lights," he observed.

That wasn't true.

Haze entered the light. The flashlight stayed level with the gate. What was he doing with that?

"You killed Josh," Haze said.

"Not my choice," I said.

"I know," Haze said. His fingers whitened on the knife handle.

Needed a weapon. Needed a way to block the knife, hurt Haze, and get out. If he swung I smack it aside and smash his knees.

"I." Haze tensed. His knees locked into a sprinter's bent. His shoulders stiffened. "Know!"

Haze darted past me. The knife went up and I thought he'd stab me. He tackled me instead. His shoulder caught me in the solar plexus and drove the air out of my chest. Something crunched inside me.

I flew back onto the sofa. The edge of it dug into my kidneys. My head flew back.

Haze charged at the gate. He vanished through it.

I rolled onto the floor, doubled over. I choked on the pain. I closed my eyes and stars wheeled beneath my eyelids.

Pain roiled through my gut. My heart felt full to bursting. My stomach heaved and I gulped down. I got shakily to my feet.

Whatever Haze was doing, I needed to find out.

I lurched into the gate.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: STALKER MAN.