Reaping a Hateful Harvest

Uog-Toth enjoyed this one’s spirit.

Gene Gibbs

“You’re not going to beat me!” Gene Gibbs couldn’t help but feel crazy yelling at the front door because that’s the kind of shit only crazy people do. But he wasn’t crazy, and if he couldn’t get out of this fucking house, he was going to burn the bitch down.

Shadows played at the corner of his eyes.

Since they’d been doing that for the past three days, he wanted to ignore them, but unlike the other times, this one was large enough to be a person. Or something else.

He spun.

Having difficulty between knowing if he was awake or in his nightmares, Gene expected the walls and ceiling of the entry hall of the early 1900’s house to be covered in the swirling black tendrilly morass that reeked of death and exuded derision, and to feel That Presence— That Someone. That Something; full of hate and hunger waited in the kitchen. In the walls. In the ceiling. Everywhere.

The walls and ceiling were bare dirty-white plaster. The corkboard flooring in the hallway gave way to tiny white and Gainesboro gray tile flooring; halfway completed in the empty kitchen. The stairs on his left that led up to the landing were upholstered in hunter green, 1970’s shag carpet until they turned right to go to the second floor. Yet another partially completed renovation. Right now, the stairs were just stairs. They didn’t feel like they lead up to death.

In case whatever that was at the corner of his eye had hopped into the living room, Gene took a quick step and peeked in.

Nothing there either. Just more corkboard floor, the lawnmower he had brought in to fix on its side next to his tools, and the wide brick fireplace.

So, it was just him in his navy-blue coveralls. In the hallway. Holding a cool mason jar of gasoline.

He had punctured the lid first to stuff a ripped portion of his flannel pajama bottoms through. The cloth had absorbed some of the gasoline inside and the fumes reminded him of what he had planned on doing.