A Story by Curtis Graham III
There was no real reason for the Walk; it was just something you had to do, I suppose. I can't remember how or why I came to be in the dark. I was just there.
The last thing I clearly remember before my trip down the Walk: going to bed--the radio turned to the lowest-possible volume before the fear of hearing voices instead of a nightly station entered my brain--with the shades drawn down, the curtains closed. No light was eminent in that room--like being in the morgue. The smell that drifted up from the vent--that mixture of lint, cold metal, and forgotten copper (with the possibility of a former resident's used condom)--was like that of a body bag. That vinyl smell: death, sex, fear, and rubber.
The Walk (the name seemed only appropriate) possessed this smell, and continuing on did not bring me to safety from that horrid stench. Only by the fading lamp-lights that hung from the ceiling every twenty yards or so allowed me to understand that the walls on either side of me were about three feet from touching my broad, stuff, naked shoulders. The stench recoiled off the ever-so-close walls and entered my empty nostrils like cheap perfume.
And yet, the stench one could become acquainted to after a while. One could become au fait. It really was the only other presence that I felt in that damp, dimly lit corridor. It wasn't the shadows that frightened me; the feeling of being alone and naked, exposed, is what got to me…that, and the continuous forward motion that my feet seemed to be doing.
Why can't I stop? Why can't I control my muscles from the pelvis, down? Why must I feel alone, naked, and useless in this hell-hall?
I tried to tell my feet to stop, but, like a stubborn spouse, they didn't seem to hear nor understand my plea. It was time to try a different approach, to execute "Plan B."
I commanded them to stop. Their reaction was the same as before. Just then, another thought occurred to me: why am I unable to gaze down upon my feet?
My spine was stiff and rigid; my eyes locked forward, which only allowed me to stare straight down the corridor, wondering what dreadful surprise waited in the dark for me. My heart began to pound in my chest like a base drum. It felt as if it would, could, burst right out of my chest, leaving nothing but severed arteries, demolished muscles, and sinew on the ribcage--all of which are contained within a bloody hole.
Time passed, as it always does. How much? I couldn't possibly tell you. I only knew that my body did not obey my brain. Every time I planted a foot down on that stone floor, a cold snake seemed to race up my legs, loins, spine, and neck.
That elongated journey to nowhere seemed to awaken my senses, more than ever before. When I came upon an area with light, I could see yards ahead of me to the next one. My sense of smell became more acute with every step I took. I could hear and feel the creaking agony of the tendons in my neck, back, and thighs. The inside of my mouth tasted like copper. Could it be blood?
I tried to lick the roof of my mouth--perhaps because of the coppery taste, perhaps because of the sudden drought my throat seemed to accumulate--but my tongue laid to rest in my mandible like a stunned rodent.
The back of my eyes suddenly had this painful and irritating burning sensation. I tried to blink. Nothing happened. A new feeling seemed to wash over me: the loss of power--I couldn't even force myself to blink.
What's wrong with me?
After an assumed eternity of walking away cramps and pulled muscles, this living nightmare known as the Walk began to become somewhat brighter. The walls' cracks and crevices became more illuminating.
As I looked on ahead (where else was there to look?), I began to sense where the light was coming from; I was able to see, hear, and understand where the light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel was coming from: journey's end was near.
After a few more (seconds? Minutes? Hours?) of non-stop walking, I arrived at the source of light.
I stepped into a well-lit room with four walls, all perfect squares, set evenly apart from each other. From a side-glance, the two walls at my sides appeared to be made out of glass. The wall straight ahead--and the one I was looking at--seemed to be made of stone. The entire room--about one hundred feet in diameter--was bare; and yet, there was something in here, something that aroused my curiosity.
I was now nearing the object; the cold nails driving up (and in) my thighs and spine were worse than ever. My ankles had gone numb long ago, in the hall. For the first time in (what seemed like) ages, I stopped walking. I stood there until the pins and needles left my body.
I couldn't see the lone object clearly. As if reading my thoughts, my feet once again began to carry me forward until, at last, the object, which had caught my fancy, came into focus. The rapid beating of my heart eased down to almost a complete stop; it skipped a beat.
A large meat hook hung from the ceiling, the chain swinging from left to right, left to right, bringing forth in my mind the torture device used in Edgar Allan Poe's "The Pit and the Pendulum." Impaled upon the monstrous hook was the epitome of a human skin. Its features were stretched to such proportions that identification was nearly impossible. The thing's limbs, cheeks, fingers, toes, penis, chest, neck…its every feature was hung and stretched, giving it the appearance of a giant foreskin.
I began to back away, my heart, soul, and conscience filled with pure horror. My heels slammed into something coagulating. I began to turn around to see what I could have possibly stepped in, thinking: What now? All of a sudden I was staring at my own grotesque body. I was flipped inside out. My skin was peeled off of me. The muscles I was made up of were alive and pulsating; they twisted and turned in ropy knots too complex for the naked eye to distinguish. The tendons in my neck creaked and screamed with ever movement I made. My bones poked through in spots, horribly bright. Organs were exposed to the world--this world. I watched my blood and adrenaline flow through my veins and arteries. My brain throbbed inside the thick, protective layer of my skull. My eyes rolled in their loose sockets, blurring together images; the tissue that had once been my eyelids was no longer there.
I turned to my right, ready to head back the way I had come: even the darkness was better than the truth. My bloody prints emerged from the corridor; they had gone to a maroon like shade, not quite dry, but still damp.
I started to walk back into the darkness, when a low, trembling voice sliced through the thick air.
"No…"
I stopped.
"Stay here…"
I slowly turned around.
"With me…."
My skin, which was hung upon a meat hook, seemed to grin at me through the loose cheeks. I found myself smiling back. My vocal cords loosened up.
"Home," I whispered to myself, which were both the bloody corpse and the skin on the hook.
(From the Eagleton News, Tuesday, February 21st)
Police have identified the body found by a neighbor at 3116 Croaton Drive to be that of Craig J. Dean, the father of Mayor Julie Dean. According to police reports, he appeared to have passed away sometime during the night, most likely in his sleep. His funeral is set for Friday afternoon, February 24th….
(From the Eagleton News, Saturday, February 25th)
At the Will reading, Mr. Dean's brother was bequeathed his most cherished item: a meat hook he used to hang the bodies of deer on after hunting. It was located in his storage shed, hung from the wooden ceiling by a metal chain, the coagulated blood of a long ago hunt lie in a gelatin puddle on the floor directly beneath.
Mounted above the deceased man's fireplace in his home was the best hunt he had ever had, according to his daughter, Julie Dean, and her fiancé, Mr. Mark Theoreau, Attorney at Law for Hutson & Parker law firm: a 12-point buck. When guests arrived for the Will reading, they mentioned that the deer head, known as Henry to the late Mr. Dean, gave them the chills. When asked why, they all responded in the same manner: it seemed to be grinning at them underneath its dead skin.
Copyright 2002, "Little" Curtis Graham
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