Death at the Door

Author's Note: I was limited here by a contest I wanted to put it in. I will probably go back and add some more material later, but I feel good about what I have since it is dead on with the maximum word count allowed. There could even be a sequel. ;)

Death at the Door

Johnson Dedmon’s eyes fluttered open when three swift knocks came from the wooden front door that was a few feet away from where his mass was planted on the couch in his living room. A tattered and coffee stained book lay open on top of his chest.

Three more knocks sounded, this time they fell with a little more force than their predecessors. Grumbling at having his nap interrupted, he sat up and watched as the book slid from his white t-shirt and dropped to the floor. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” he grumbled as he wiped the corner of his eyes to make sure no gunk had moved in to scare away whoever it might be.

Getting up from the all too comfortable couch, Johnson first went to one of the front windows and pulled down on a flimsy metal blind with two fingers. A large black Cadillac was parked in the shoulder of the road in front of his house. The car was clearly lower than factory specs, and its windows all had black tint to them. He tried to position himself so that he could see just who it was at the front door that would drive such a vehicle, but the angle proved too extreme. Three more knocks hit the door.

Johnson turned the doorknob and yanked the door open before whoever it was could rap on the door a fourth time. “Who the hell is-“

“Are you Dedmon Johnson?” The man was staring at a brown clipboard. “Oh, I’m sorry. Are you Johnson Dedmon?”

Johnson stood there looking at the man for a moment. This man definitely did not look like the driver of the Cadillac that would fit right on the set of a gangster movie. His thin light brown hair that shifted in the lazy breeze was styled in such a bad comb over that Donald Trump might be envious of it. A pocket protector was poking out of his shirt pocket, and his pants were a couple of inches short of where they should be. “You shouldn’t park on the street like that. Home owner association and all.” Johnson motioned towards the black yacht. It was a cool ride despite the shitty parking.

The man smiled, showing two rows of cigarette stained yellow teeth. “Are you Johnson Dedmon?” he asked again. His gaze didn’t waver despite his shortcomings.

Annoyed at the stranger’s intentional side step concerning the parked car, Johnson said, “Yes, that would be me. What can I do for you, Mr….”

“You can call me Death.” A pale hand shot forward, seeking to engage in a handshake.

Johnson scowled at the stupid remark. “Not funny, jackass.” The blinds next to the doorway rattled as the solid door slammed into place. “And move your damn car!” he shouted, hoping the man could hear him from the outside.

Glancing at his watch, it was almost two o’clock in the evening, and way past lunch. Johnson made his way down the hallway that connected the living room to the kitchen. He called out for his wife, not knowing whether she is in the house or not. “Tess, Tess!” No reply came, at least none that he could hear.

A sound traveled from the kitchen and into the hallway. It sounded like the refrigerator door being opened. “So you are home,” Johnson mumbled. “Why didn’t you answer when I called just now?” No answer.

As Johnson rounded the corner into the kitchen, he saw the man from the front door standing there, stupid comb over all, going through his fridge. “What the fuck is this?” Johnson shouted. “You need to get the hell out of here before I call the police!” The deadbolt on the backdoor was locked as Johnson glanced at it.

The stranger stood there ignoring everything but the fridge. Glass jars and bottles clanked around as they were moved about. The clipboard rested on the small island in the middle of the kitchen. Not exactly sure what to do, Johnson did the next thing that came to mind. He quickly closed the distance from the hallway to the fridge and slammed the door on the man, hoping to stun the intruder or just piss him off enough so that he would leave.

The heavy stainless door of the Sub-Zero fridge moved on near frictionless bearings and thudded as it closed and sealed. The man stood there still looking at the fridge. The door had passed right through him, and the only apparent notice he took to the door being shut was a slight frown on his face that vanished so quickly Johnson wasn’t sure it was there to begin with.

He turned to face Johnson. “That’s not very polite you know. I could have been seriously hurt if I were…” he scratched the patchy hair on his chin in a manner that was heavy with sarcasm, “human, I guess. Or, alive.” Both rows of yellow teeth shown in the white lights of the kitchen again as his lips parted in a huge grin.

Johnson could feel beads of sweat as they accumulated on his face and neck, despite the fact that he suddenly felt very cold standing here in the sunlit kitchen.

The stranger reached out with a pale hand and attempted to put it on Johnson’s shoulder, but Johnson quickly retreated a few steps toward the hall. “Oh, come now, Johnson. I’m not here to hurt you. You know that, right?” Johnson stood there, eyes wide, and with no answer for the man’s question.

An almost hearty and warming laugh escaped the man’s mouth as he threw his head backwards toward the ceiling. “You don’t know why I am here do you?” His attention fell to Johnson again with a head that was slightly cocked to the side. The stranger was expecting an answer. “Well,” the man continued, “I have heard stories that sometimes people aren’t expecting me, but you are truly clueless. Why don’t you take a moment to calm your nerves, and then follow me upstairs?”

Johnson stood there stunned, unable to move. He had never believed in ghosts, spirits, or anything that had TV shows about them where people used trick photography to support their claims. But, now he was convinced he could film his own ghost show. Johnson cleared his throat. “What… what are you?”

“Why, Johnson, I have told you who, and not what, I am. I’m Death.” He had not moved from where the steel kitchen appliance door had passed through him earlier.

“So if you are Death… what do you want?”

The man’s smile grew to an almost impossible size. Johnson was sure he could smell the man’s bad breath; a mixture of sulfur and stale morning breathe. “Ah, that is a good question,” the man said as he began to stroke his chin again in a mock gesture of deep thought. “Why, I am here for you, Johnson.” He glanced at a digital watch that was about a decade out of date. “And we will need to be moving things forward pretty quickly too.”

Not knowing what to do, Johnson said, “You… you need to get out of my house. Please, just go, whoever you are. Just go.”

The stranger’s smile diminished ever so slightly. His friendly eyes took on a dangerous and cold look. The smell of sulfur grew to the point where Johnson was sure he could taste it. “Follow me,” the man said as he walked out of the kitchen and into the hallway.

After he was sure the stranger had gone down the hallway, Johnson opened the fridge to take a look at what the man might have been doing. As the door opened, a putrid, vile smell escaped through the airtight seal and hit Johnson’s olfactory system like a punch to the face. “Holy shit!” Johnson leaped back from the fridge as the door hung open. All the food on the shelves was rotten. Maggots swarmed inside of the fridge to the point where the interior looked to be churning. Johnson began to back away from the health hazard and turned once he knew he was in the entrance to the hall. He spun on his heel, but found himself looking at the side of the stranger who was standing in the hallway with Johnson, looking at the pictures that were framed and hanging on the wall.

Reaching out, the stranger tapped a long finger on the glass of one of the frames. “Your wife?” he asked, as he continued to tap the glass.

Johnson noticed that the picture in question was indeed a picture of his wife from when she was in college. He moved a few steps closer, despite still not trusting the intruder. “Yea… that’s my wife... Why?”

The man turned ninety degrees and continued down the hall and up the stairs that shared the entry space with the living room. “She was very pretty,” he said in a tone that was now icy cold. “Come, Johnson.”

For whatever reason, Johnson followed the man down the now sulfur stained hallway. He was terrified of the man, but had no idea what to do. Passing the picture the stranger had been touching, Johnson gasped to see that the glass was cracked and darkened as if it had been superheated in a fire. The delicate picture set under the clear glass shield was wilted and as black as the Cadillac that was still probably parked out front.

Johnson made it to the top of the stairs without noticing anything else that might have been disturbed by the man who called himself Death. The stranger stood with his back toward Johnson as he leaned against the doorframe into the master bedroom. A strange noise met Johnson’s ears. The stranger did not move from the doorway, apparently not worried if Johnson might try anything while his back was turned. The noise continued, if only for a second or two at a time.

“I would tell you to try and keep calm, but it really won’t do you much good at this point,” the stranger said as he turned his head to look into Johnson’s eyes. “Come up here, Johnson.” Two fingers shown over the man’s shoulder as he waved Johnson forward into the bedroom.
The mystery noise kept sounding as Johnson made his way around the man, careful not to make contact, and into the first few feet of the bedroom. A deep, painful cold shot through his torso and radiated outward into his limbs.

On the king size bed was Johnson. A black kitchen knife handle protruded from the middle of his chest. Blood, now almost black, stained what looked to be the exact clothes he was now wearing. The black mass ran down the bed sheet, and a large dark puddle now stained the very carpeting that Johnson stood on. The noise still sounded in Johnson’s ears.

“What… what this fuck is this?” Johnson shouted, his voice cracking.

“Oh, check out the other side.” A cold hand reached out and nudged Johnson closer to the bed. Cold penetrated his shirt and made Johnson’s skin sting, he stepped forward to escape the man.

Johnson couldn’t help but drop to his knees once he rounded the end of the huge bed. His old .38 special revolver lay on the floor. Next to it was Johnson’s wife, Tess. A massive wound, what could only be from the revolver, marred the front of her face. She was still alive and breathing, but the ragged breaths escape from a jaw that was only half there. Spilled blood created a gargling sound as if she were drowning in water that was only a half inch too deep. A dark splatter marked the hall behind her that Johnson had failed to noticed prior to then.

An agonizing pain hit Johnson, causing him to double over on himself. He sobbed as he tried to touch his wife, but his hand went into her as if she was a hologram. Tears ran faster at the realization of what had taken place in his home. He had been murdered.

The stranger stepped forward, his steps whispering softly on the carpeting. “So you see what has taken place here, Johnson. Your once pretty wife took your life in your sleep, and then attempted to take her own. As you can see,” he pointed at her, “she was unsuccessful in her endeavors.” He placed a hand on one of Johnson’s shoulders again and leaned in toward the broken man. “I do not know why she did it, but now you know that I am Death.”

Pain. Pain like nothing Johnson had ever felt struck. It eclipsed the pain he had felt a moment earlier. It threatened to overwhelm his senses. To cause to him black out and never wake up again. He forced himself to turn to look at the source. The stranger’s hand had melded and fused with his own shoulder. “Please, God,” he managed through clenched teeth.

A growling, demonic laugh shook Johnson’s mind as the stranger laughed at the call for divine intervention. Johnson pushed himself, despite the pain, to turn his head further to look at what he now knew was death incarnate. The figure had changed. The strange, awkward looking man from the front porch was gone. In his place was a figure wearing nothing but a black cloak. Nothing but soul devouring blackness was inside of a deep hood that covered the space where a face should be. The pain grew inside Johnson until it felt like the molecules that held the fibers of his being together were starting to pull apart from one another. Everything went black.

The sunlight momentarily blinded Johnson as his eyes cracked open. He felt himself being dragged by what he could only assume was death. His pants clung to the concrete of his walkway as he realized he was moving backwards away from his house and towards the black car sitting at the curb. He tried to fight, but pain racked his body again until he had no choice but to admit defeat. He could only try so much. What was a man suppose to do against such a force? Death was silent. His friendly attitude long gone, like everything else Johnson knew.

Johnson felt himself being lifted into the air by pale, but now strong hands. The trunk was open; it was pitch black inside, just like the car. He began to scream for help, hoping that a neighbor or passerby might hear him. He kicked and tried to lash out, but Death ignored him like as if he were a child and continued in his task
.
“Why?” Johnson managed through sobs.

Death looked at him. “I do not know, that’s not my job.” Death lowered Johnson into the trunk. “Ask her when you see her.”

Johnson’s last scream was cut off as the trunk slammed down and clicked into place.