Cages and Those Who Hold the Keys

8

Everyone gathered around the center of the room as Knight situated himself on a stool. Even Morrison and the others looked on him with a sad kind of respect. “Any requests?” asked Knight.

It was Grant McCullers who spoke up. “I’ve always been partial to Bach’s ‘Sheep May Safely Graze.’ It’s kind of a Christmas tune, don’t you think?”

“I do.”

And Knight began to play it, smoothly, hauntingly. It was majestic and sad and melancholy and glorious, and yet there was something hesitant about the way Knight played the song; the notes brushed you once, softly, like a cattail or a ghost, then fell shyly toward the ground in some inner contemplation too sad to be touched by a tender thought or the delicate brush of another’s care.

It was perhaps the most beautiful thing I’d ever heard.

And then someone screamed from the basement.

Timmy was the first to respond, snapping his head in the direction of the scream and muttering, “Terrible, just terrible,” as he ran across the room and down the stairs. Linus hopped up on his cart and made a beeline across the floor, then pushed himself off and took the stairs with his hands as Beth, Lump, and the still-damp Kyle followed after him.

That’s when I realized that it had been the little girl, Missy, who’d screamed.

I reached the top of the stairs just as Timmy came around the corner, carrying Missy in his arms, her small, shuddering body wrapped in a towel.

He was pale and shaking. “Terrible, just terrible.”

He sounded horrified.

A few moments later Lump gave out with a snarl and a bark, then came charging up the stairs, Beth and Kyle right behind him.

“I saw the Bumble,” cried Missy. “he w-w-was…he was in the wall!”

Beth took Missy from Timmy’s arm and began stroking the back of her daughter’s head. “Shhh, hon, there-there, c’mon, it’s all right…c’mon, you just got a fright, that’s all. The Bumble scares you and you just imagined it.”

She might have just imagined it, but Lump had seen or sensed something that was making him crazy; his legs were locked in place, his lips curled back, eyes unblinking as he stared at the bottom of the steps and growled.

“Where’s Linus?” asked the Reverend, coming up beside me.

“He’s still down there.”

Ted Jackson joined us. He’d unstrapped the top of his holster and was touching the butt of his gun, ready to pull it. “Jesus Christ in a Chrysler, I about jumped out of my shorts.” “Probably nothing,” said the Reverend. “The little girl got spooked, that’s all.” I could tell from the tone of his voice that he didn’t believe it any more than I did. Knight was standing now, holding his guitar like a child, his eyes closed, his face almost peaceful. Morrison and the others were gone. And from somewhere in the basement, something moved. Something big. “What the hell?” said Jackson, gripping his gun but not pulling it from the holster.

Timmy came up to the reverend and grabbed his arm, saying, “Terrible, just terrible,” over and over, getting louder and more excited.

“Timmy,” said the Reverend, gripping both of Timmy’s arms, “I need you to calm down, c’mon. There you go, deep breaths, all right. Good. Now…did you see something down there?”

Timmy nodded.

“Are you sure you actually saw something that was there, or was it—”

Timmy pointed at his eyes and shook his head: no, it wasn’t one of his visual hallucinations, he knew the difference, thank you very much. “Terrible…terrible…just terrible.”

Beth was rocking Missy back and forth, whispering comfort in her ear, kissing her cheek, while Kyle sat on the floor beside them, holding his little sister’s hand.

Whatever was in the basement moved again, and this time with enough force to shake the foundation of the building.

A few second later, Linus came barreling out on his hands, covered in sweat and shaking, his face even paler than Timmy’s had been.

“You’re gonna think I’m crazy,” he said as he took the stairs two at a time, “but I just saw goddamned Godzilla down there!” He hopped onto his cart and sped over to Missy, Beth, and Kyle. Lump still stood at the top of the stairs, ready to attack. “Okay, that’s it,” said Jackson, removing his weapon and clicking off the safety. “I’m going down there.” “Not alone, you’re not,” said the Reverend.

Grant McCullers joined us. He was holding a wooden rolling pin. “Hey, it’s the most dangerous thing I could find in that kitchen.”

“Hang on,” said the Reverend, running back to his office.

He was gone maybe thirty seconds, just long enough for the whole building to shake once more. The chandelier began to swing, rattling. Everyone was gathering in the farthest corner of the room, watching that chandelier. Then the lights flickered once, twice, and went out. The emergency generator kicked in a few seconds later, and the Reverend was standing next to me, handing out weapons. “Goddammit,” said Jackson. “Do you have permits for these things?” “Bet your ass I do.” He handed Grant a pump-action shotgun, then stuck a .22 in my hands. The Reverend had opted for a 9mm.

“Look at us,” said Grant. “The poor man’s Wild Bunch.”

The Reverend almost smiled at that. “Let’s go.”

And we started down the stairs.