Rick McQuiston
Devin glanced around to make sure no one saw him before he realized he was the only one in the room. The feeling of foolishness settled on him like a cold winter day, exposing every nook and cranny of his pride and damaging his ego.
He relaxed slightly basking in the fact that nobody had seen him perform his irrational and utterly stupid actions. He had always been a slave to his idiosyncrasies, frequently allowing them to overrule his common sense and intelligence and occasionally paying the price for it in the form of embarrassing situations with other people.
The pencil lay like any other inanimate object, still and void of life. Devin had nudged it only a few minutes before, pushing its sharp, leaden tip approximately one-hundred and eighty degrees in the other direction away from where he sat eating his lunch.
Why things like these bothered him he had no idea. There was no reason to feel uncomfortable or scared; it was only a pencil, a standard number two cylinder of wood with a thin rod of lead embedded in it. Yellow paint coated the majority of it, which contrasted strongly with the shiny metal and bright red eraser on its end. All in all, a common writing utensil manufactured by the millions and undoubtedly occupying a spot on every school kid’s desk.
He finished his sandwich and drink and began to clean up his mess. Mrs. Stoneston would have his butt in a sling if he left any trash behind again. He meticulously removed any residual traces of his meal, carefully tossing the bags that contained his food into the trash and flinging the empty soda can into the recycle bin. The tabletop was wiped clean and various papers and pens he had been using were neatly gathered up and put into his bag. He sat back down and did a quick sweep of his work. Everything looked good, except for the pencil, which sat squarely in the center of the table…pointed directly at him. Did he mistakably bump it and cause it to rotate around? He didn’t think so but he wasn’t sure. Reaching forward, he flipped it around facing away from him.
Strange thoughts, totally unworthy of a normal, intelligent individual such as himself, drifted into his head. Bizarre images of aliens manipulating inconspicuous objects and using them as tools or even weapons to further their heinous plans occupied his mind. Or secretive and powerful underworld organizations who had mastered the art of controlling inanimate objects with their minds.
The clock on the wall reminded him that his lunch was about to end. He stood up and pushed the chair back in. ‘Everything to be left as it was’ stared down at him from the wall next to the refrigerator. The sign was quite clear in its intent just as Ms. Stoneson had intended.
He thought about tossing the pencil in the trash can but knew Stoneson would probably fish it out and somehow in her detestable and otherworldly ways link it to him. The wasting of a perfectly good pencil would incur her penny pinching wrath; of that much he was sure. He picked the pencil up and slid it into his shirt pocket.
One o’clock rolled into late afternoon and eventually began to move towards the end of the workday. Devin had been very busy locating orders, filing invoices and moving stock which were all accented with innumerable small and less important tasks.
“Devin, there’s a customer up front in the clearance center. She’s pissed that the coffee table set she ordered had a few scratches on it.”
Devin looked at his co worker. Al was a good friend as well as a hard worker. They had applied for jobs at the same time had became friends right away.
“You still up for that new horror flick tonight?” Al asked.
“Sure thing,” Devin replied. “Looking forward to it. I’ll take care of the customer. You say she’s in the clearance center?”
Al nodded and walked away. “Take it easy.”
Devin sighed. The day was beginning to take its toll on him and the fact that it was ten to five and he had to deal with an irate customer gnawed at his good mood. Visions of dinner and a cold beer slipped into his mind repeatedly and he had to forcibly subdue them, at least until he was in his car leaving the parking lot.
“Yes Mrs. Etheud, I’ll see to it that the replacement request is fulfilled immediately.” He felt like a school kid in detention with his teacher glaring at him.
“Fine,” she agreed. “Mr. Etheud and I plan on entertaining some guests I’ll have you know and I need that furniture.” Her chubby face fluctuated between flush and pale and reminded Devin of the inside of a ripe cantaloupe, soft and brimming with moisture. He couldn’t wait to get away from it.
“You’ll be notified as soon as the order is in Mrs. Etheud, most likely within three to five days.”
“Thank you young man. I will expect a prompt phone call then.” She then casually strolled out of the store without so much as glancing anybody there.
What a way to end the day. He had to work at double speed just to tie up his loose ends before he could punch out, knowing full well that his energy would be in serious doubt by the time he got home.
* * * *
Al was puzzled. Devin had told him to come over to his place around six. The movie started at six forty-five and they were going to try to meet some girls first. He looked at his watch; five fifty- seven looked back at him. Strange that no one was answering the door. He peered in through the small window imbedded in the front door. It afforded a clear view of most of the living room and part of the hallway and kitchen. He leaned in as close as he could to the glass. All was still and quiet…too quiet. The feeling that something was wrong began to tap on his mind.
A dozen knocks and several doorbells later he decided to try the doorknob. He’d entered Devin’s house in the past, it was no big deal. To his surprise it was unlocked! It swung open and he stepped inside continuing to call out to his friend. After two steps he was greeted with a horrible sight.
The lifeless and partially devoured corpse of Devin Ferrin sat upright in a large recliner in the near corner of the living room. Apparently he’d been dead only a short while as evidenced by the somewhat fresh condition of the blood. The cause of his demise was equally obvious; a small, bloody wound in his chest.
Panicking, Al went straight for the phone, stumbling over his own feet in the process. He quickly dialed nine-one-one and began to ramble on to the dispatcher. But when she asked for an address it occurred to him that he didn’t exactly know it.
“Since you don’t have a cordless phone sir,” she instructed. “Write down the address on a pen and paper, I’ll wait.”
Al hurried out onto the front porch, jotted down the numbers and relayed it to the dispatcher. She told him not to touch anything and the police would arrive within five minutes. He gingerly walked into the kitchen and sat down at the counter. He began to doodle on the paper above where he had written the address. And then he realized that he didn’t need to stay in the house. He stood up and began to leave.
* * * *
The front door was wide open as the patrol cars pulled into the driveway. Three officers exited the vehicles and approached the house, their hands resting uneasily on their guns. Two of the men, Tom Drapt and Frank Quete were hardened veterans of the force with nearly forty years between them. The third was a rookie who was trying mightily to adapt to the risks and demands of his chosen profession. All three entered the house together and immediately came across the corpse of Devin Ferrin.
“Sullivan!” one of the veterans barked. “We have a possible homicide here, call for backup now!”
The rookie froze for a second and then scooted back out the door to his patrol car.
“This is the police. Is there anyone here?” The stench that permeated the house was unmistakable in its origins. It assaulted the officer’s faces and caused them to tighten their grips on their weapons.
“What do you think Frank?”
“Better split up and check the perimeter Tom. Might be more bodies.”
Both men fully realized the possibility that the killer might still be in the house and were prepared by numerous perilous situations that they had experienced.
Al stared at the policemen with blank eyes, his cold and lifeless _expression reflecting his violent death. He was till sitting in the kitchen at the counter with a pad of paper and pencil in front of him. The address to the house was scrawled across the top above meaningless scribbles. Blood trickled in a slow but steady stream from the wound in his chest down to the countertop forming sticky, crimson puddles.
The officers signaled each other as they entered the kitchen. The discovery of a second body stung their senses and etched away another layer of their belief in the good of humanity.
“Suicide note?” Tom questioned as he motioned towards the paper in front of Al.
Frank leaned forward and shook his head. “Nah, just the address and some scribbling.”
Tom nodded. “Never could get used to this shit,” he lamented quietly. “I’ll probably take all these damn memories to my grave.”
“You got that right,” Frank added. “You and me both.”
The two veteran officers then turned and left the room not noticing the pencil on the countertop sprouting legs and scurrying away.
BACKGROUND
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Rick McQuiston is a 38-year-old father of two who loves reading, writing, playing drums and painting. He has had 69 publications so far and is currently finishing his fifth book of stories. Rick is also a guest author each year at Memphis Junior High School and will join the Horror Writers Association later this year.
