J Cooper

Chapter 6: As Below, so Above.

            Trent could hear what used to be Chris tearing through the kitchen behind them—the frantic scrape of nails dragging across tile, the crash of overturned furniture, and that broken, half-formed laugh echoing through the dark like something caught between glitching machinery and a wild animal. He stumbled unexpectedly into something solid and realized with a jolt that he had collided with the candy table. The same table he had knocked over minutes earlier now stood completely upright, as if untouched. For a moment Trent simply stared, disoriented and unable to trust what he was seeing. The candy bowl had returned as well, though it was not merely refilled, it overflowed, mounded with far too many pieces to have ever fit inside it. Hundreds of bright wrappers gleamed like slick, wet jewels in the dim light, their colors unnaturally vivid. Reese’s. Snickers. Kit Kats. More than before. Much more. And worse than that, the entire heap seemed to shift, the wrappers rising and falling subtly, almost imperceptibly, as though the candy itself was breathing.

            “What the hell…” Trent whispered, shocked at how small his voice sounded in the suffocating sweetness that filled the air. It reeked of sugar and something fouler beneath it, a nauseating undercurrent of decay that made the back of his throat burn. He waited for the world to correct itself, for some logical explanation to form about how the table could be upright again or how the candy had multiplied, but every attempt at rational thought hit a dense mental fog that left his mind buzzing with static. Instinct took over. Trent surged forward, gripping the table with both hands, and shoved with all his strength, sending it crashing back onto its side. The bowl flipped, scattering candy across the floor in a chaotic burst of wrappers that fluttered downward like injured insects.

            “Hey!” Matt yelped behind him, momentarily forgetting the terror stalking them from the kitchen. His eyes widened in disbelief at the wasted treasure. “What’d you do that for?”

            Trent didn’t respond. His focus was locked on the floor where the candy had fallen. The pieces didn’t settle randomly the way they should have. Instead, they continued to roll beyond his feet and Matt’s, traveling farther than gravity should allow. One by one, each piece slowed and turned, aligning itself neatly beside the others. Perfect rows of gleaming wrappers formed across the old wooden floor, all pointing in the same direction—toward the dark hallway behind them, toward the path they had fled not long ago, and toward whatever was dragging itself closer in the dark. The house was directing them, or warning them, or perhaps something far more sinister. Whatever it was, Trent felt the weight of its intent settle cold and heavy in his chest.

            Matt had only turned his head for a moment, following the scattered candy as it rolled across the warped floorboards, but the scream tore out of him the instant he saw Chris. The boy stood half-hunched in the doorway, his silhouette crooked and wrong, with a choking stream of black sludge mixed with blood spilling from his mouth and dripping down his chin in thick, trembling ropes. The sound of his ragged breathing filled the corridor, broken and uneven, like someone forcing air through a ruined instrument.

            “Trick or treat, Matty,” Chris growled, the words twisting wetly in his throat. “Give me something good to eat.”

            Matt’s eyes darted instinctively toward the candy that had clattered across the floor like a scatter of loose teeth, a reflexive flicker of childhood habit in the middle of a nightmare. But when he looked back at Chris, really looked—his voice died in his throat. A strangled, broken scream escaped him before he fully understood what he was seeing.

            Chris— or what had once been Chris, stood framed in the ruined doorway. His Art the Clown costume was nothing more than shredded fabric hanging in strips from his trembling frame, smeared with dirt, sweat, and something far darker. The once-white makeup on his face had melted into streaks of gray and black, creating the grotesque illusion of a smile drooping down his cheeks. One of his eyes bulged out in a milky haze, filmed over like a dead fish left too long in the sun; the other flickered with a sharp, ravenous brightness that was not human at all. A thick, bubbling mixture of blood and tar-like sludge oozed continuously from the corner of his mouth, pattering onto the floor with faint sizzling hisses that filled the air with the stench of rot and ruined candy.

            “Trick or treat, Matty…” Chris crooned, forcing his broken voice into a mock-sing-song cadence that made the words feel twisted and cruel. He took another step forward, twitching like a marionette whose strings had been tied by someone who didn’t understand human anatomy.  

            “Give me something good to eat.”

            Each syllable came out warped, half growl, half wet gurgle, as though whatever animated him was still practicing the mechanism of speech, still learning how to shape sounds with a mouth that was no longer fully its own. The smell followed next: a horrific cocktail of spoiled sugar, rusted iron, and rotting flesh so thick it coated the back of Matt’s tongue.

            Matt stumbled backward, his entire body trembling, the knife forgotten for the moment in his hand. His face had drained of color, his eyes wide with disbelief and horror. “Chris…?” he whispered, the name breaking apart in his throat. “What… what happened to you?”

            Chris tilted his head to the side in a jerking, unnatural motion, the vertebrae in his neck popping with sharp cracks. His jaw opened too wide, stretching until something inside seemed to tear.

            “I got hungry,” he whispered, and what followed was a bubbling laugh, wet, choking, and impossibly gleeful—that echoed through the hall like a broken music box playing its final, corrupted tune.

            Trent didn’t wait for another sound. Instinct surged through him like a jolt of electricity, telling him to run even before Chris twitched forward again, fingers curling and clawing at the air. The scrape of Chris’s shoes across the tile sounded like nails dragging across bone, sharp and hollow and wrong. Trent seized Matt by the wrist and pulled, dragging him deeper into the house. Candy crunched beneath their feet, the wrappers bursting under their weight as they slipped on the sticky mixture of sugar, blood, and whatever else coated the floor, the whole house seeming to breathe around them as they ran.

            Matt had turned his head to follow the scattered candy, and screamed as he caught sight of Chris, half hunched over, with a mixture of black sludge and blood running from the boy’s mouth.

            “Trick or Treat Matty! Give me something good to eat.” He growled.

            Matt’s head turned instinctively, eyes darting toward the candy that clattered across the floor like falling teeth, before turning back towards Chris and froze. A strangled, broken scream tore from his throat before he even realized what he was looking at.

            Chris or what had once been Chris was half-hunched in the doorway. His costume hung in tatters, the once-white clown makeup streaked with sweat, filth, and congealed blood. One of his eyes was milk-white, bulging in its socket, the other burned with a feverish hunger. A thick, bubbling mix of black sludge and blood dripped from the corner of his mouth, trailing down his chin and splattering against the floor with a wet hiss.

            “Trick or treat, Matty…” Chris crooned, his voice a guttural mockery of its former cheer. He staggered forward, twitching like a marionette with tangled strings. “Give me something good to eat.”

            Each word came out warped and wrong half growl, half gurgle—as if something inside him was still learning how to speak with a human mouth. The smell hit next: rot, iron, and something sickly sweet, like spoiled candy.

            Matt stumbled back, shaking his head, his face pale and trembling. “Chris…?” he whispered. “What… what happened to you?”

            Chris tilted his head, the motion too fast, too sharp. His jaw cracked. “I got hungry,” he whispered, and a bubbling laugh followed, a gurgling, choking thing that echoed through the kitchen.

            Trent’s instincts screamed run, even before Chris twitched forward, his fingers clawing at the air. The sound of his shoes scraping across the tile came like nails on bone.

            Trent grabbed Matt’s wrist and yanked him deeper into the house. The candy crunched beneath their shoes as they stumbled, slipping on sugar and blood.

            Chris lunged without the slightest hint of hesitation. There was no warning cry, no shift of breath, only the violent sound of his shoes slamming against the tile and the sharp crack of a bone snapping somewhere deep in his neck as he moved. He collided with Matt full force, the impact driving the younger boy backward into the overturned table. The guttural snarl that tore from Chris’s throat was thick and warped, not even remotely human.

            “Matty!” Trent shouted, panic ripping through his voice as he reached for Chris’s arm. But the thing wearing Chris’s skin was monstrously strong. Its muscles jerked and spasmed beneath the shredded clown costume, swollen tendons standing out like steel cables as it forced Matt to the ground with terrifying ease.

            Matt screamed, one sharp, broken sound that echoed through the house, while Chris pinned him down, drool and blood dripping in long, trembling strands from his open mouth. His voice stuttered and bubbled as he spoke, warping into something hideous as it pushed through his ruined throat.

            “I said,” he hissed, his breath wet and cold, “give me something good to eat.”

            “Get off him!” Trent roared. He threw his entire weight into Chris, tackling him sideways. The three of them crashed to the floor, the impact rattling the window and sending a cascade of candy skittering across the tiles like shards of broken glass.

            For a desperate heartbeat, Trent managed to pin Chris’s shoulders to the ground. “Come on, man! Snap out of it!” he shouted, his voice cracking with a mixture of fear and fading hope. He searched Chris’s eyes, praying to see some glimmer of the friend he knew.

            But Chris only laughed.

            It was a choking, gurgling sound, thick with blood and something darker. His spine arched unnaturally, and his head twisted in a full, horrifying rotation until his neck bones popped one after the other like brittle twigs. His wild eyes rolled back into place, and his lips peeled away from his teeth in a grotesque, sludge-slick grin.

            Then he moved.

            His motion was sudden and jerky, powered by a strength that felt entirely wrong. In a blur, Chris rolled Trent beneath him. Trent’s fists pounded against his chest, but the blows landed with the sickening resistance of hitting wet stone, dense, unyielding, and disturbingly warm. Chris’s trembling hands clamped around Trent’s neck, fingers digging in with terrifying force, cold and relentless.

            “Chris, please!” Trent choked, clawing at the tightening grip. His breaths came ragged and thin. “It’s me!”

            Chris leaned in until their faces nearly touched. His breath wafted over Trent’s skin in waves of rot and copper, thick enough to taste. Blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth, trailing down his chin in blackened streaks.

            “I know,” he whispered.

            Then his jaw opened far beyond what a human mouth should allow. The skin at the corners tore with a soft, sickening rip, peeling wider and wider as the darkness behind his teeth widened like a pit.

            Trent’s vision began to shrink at the edges, the world narrowing to a blurry tunnel framed by Chris’s ashen face and those impossible, clouded eyes looming closer. His strength was draining fast. His hands clawed weakly at Chris’s wrists, but the creature’s grip only tightened. He could feel the wet heat of Chris’s foul breath spreading across his face, thick with rot and copper, as the torn mouth opened wider and wider.

            Then a sound split the air.

            It was wet and heavy, like a watermelon bursting open under a hammer.

            Chris convulsed violently. His whole body jerked—rigid for a heartbeat, then collapsing in a heap on top of Trent. A bubbling hiss filled the space between them. Trent blinked through the blur and saw the cause: the sharp point of the steak knife jutting from the back of Chris’s skull, its blade buried deep. Thick black fluid oozed around the wound, bubbling and pulsing like tar trying to crawl free.

            Matt stood behind him.

            He was shaking so hard the knife handle trembled in his fist. His face was streaked with dirt, sweat, and the remains of tears he hadn’t realized he’d shed. He looked impossibly small standing over Chris’s ruined body, yet it had been his hand that delivered the killing blow.

            Trent forced himself to shove Chris aside, coughing as cold air rushed back into his lungs. His throat burned. His chest heaved. He tried to speak, but it came out barely more than a croak.

            “Matty…”

            But Matt didn’t seem to hear him. His eyes were unfocused, wild, locked on the knife still jutting from Chris’s skull as if he couldn’t accept that it was real. He gripped the handle with both hands now, tugging at it again and again in a frantic, mechanical motion. His voice was a broken whisper, repeating the same three words over and over.

            “Get off him… get off him… get off him…”

            “Matt…” Trent rasped again, pushing himself upright despite the pain radiating through his neck. He reached out, grabbing his brother’s wrists gently but firmly. “Matty! It’s okay—it’s okay, I’m okay.”

            Matt’s entire body shuddered when Trent pulled him close. The boy collapsed into him, burying his face in Trent’s shoulder. Trent wrapped both arms around him, holding him as tightly as his trembling muscles would allow. They stayed like that for several seconds, both shaking, both trying to catch their breath. Eventually Matt’s small hands rose to clutch Trent’s shirt, anchoring himself to his brother as Trent helped him to his feet.

            “He… he was going to kill you,” Matt stammered, his voice quaking with leftover terror.

            Chris’s body twitched then, a small involuntary jerk that made Matt flinch and clamp himself closer to Trent. The corpse spasmed once more… twice… then went unsettlingly still, limbs splayed at unnatural angles across the sticky, candy-littered floor.

            The house responded with a low, rumbling groan—a deep, ancient sound that vibrated through the walls and floor. It felt displeased. Almost disappointed, as though some part of it had been invested in Chris still moving.

            Then the giggle came.

            Soft at first. Thin and childlike, drifting through the dark halls like the voice of someone hiding behind a door. But the sound grew, layering, overlapping until multiple children seemed to be whispering and giggling inside the walls, a disorienting nursery chorus that crawled under the skin.

            Trent swallowed hard and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, trying to steady his nerves. “We have to move,” he said, his voice rough and unsteady.

Matt nodded quickly. Tears streaked fresh paths through the grime on his cheeks.  “Yeah… before it wakes up again.”

            Trent’s gaze shifted instinctively toward the overturned table. Matt followed his eyes and frowned in confusion.

            “What are you doing?” he asked as Trent stepped toward it.

            “Getting us the hell out of here,” Trent said.

            He lifted one foot and stomped down on one of the table legs. The old wood splintered with a sharp crack. Trent bent down, grabbed the broken leg like a club, and sprinted to the nearest window. He swung hard. The wood connected with the glass in a heavy thud—solid, unmoving, like striking a slab of stone rather than a pane.

            He swung again.
            And again.

            Each blow rang through the room, raw and desperate. But the window didn’t crack. Didn’t even quiver. It absorbed the hits like nothing more than a deep breath.

            “What the hell…” Trent whispered. He leaned closer until his forehead nearly brushed the glass. Outside, there were no streetlights. No yard. No trees. No neighborhood. Nothing but an unnatural darkness so thick it looked like ink pressed against the glass. His own reflection stared back at him—or something wearing his reflection. Its eyes were darker. Its mouth almost smiling. And as Trent breathed, its chest didn’t rise in sync with his.

            “I wanna go home…” Matty whimpered behind him.

            Trent stepped back from the window, forcing calm into a voice that trembled with fear. “Don’t worry, buddy. I’m gonna get you home. We just have to find a way out of this house.”

            Together, they backed toward the hallway—the same one Chris and Logan had disappeared down earlier. The candy scattered across the floor shifted as they moved, the wrappers crinkling softly. The pieces pulsed faintly like living things, their bright colors flashing in the dim light as they slowly rearranged themselves across the boards.

            Behind them, Chris’s fingers twitched.