The Broken by Sean Michael Frawley
times. He scanned the wall. He scanned the floor. He scanned the ceiling. What had it been? Five minutes at least. It had to be. Surely, if there really had been a monster, it would have either moved on to another victim by now or died of boredom.
Deciding it was probably safer to go down instead of up, Link went down the rest of the stairs to his bedroom. He grabbed his trusty camera and slung it over his shoulder. The familiar feel of the nylon strap soothed him. He loved this camera. It was nice to know he could count on at least one thing in this crazy, messed up world. If only people were half as reliable as his camera, perhaps life wouldn't be so bad.
He took a long breath and held it in for a few seconds before expelling the air slowly between gritted teeth. In order to maximize its meditative effect, he concentrated on a focus point across the room.
In between breaths, he gradually became aware of a small inconsistency in the texture of the wall. The change was so small that he probably would have missed it had his swollen eye not forced him to squint, but there was definitely a spot where the pattern of bumps and divots seemed to change.
Curious, Link approached it and carefully traced the top with his fingers. Tiny paint flecks flaked into his palm. After dusting off his hand, he inspected the wall more closely and noticed the tiniest sliver of space in the wall no bigger than the width of a safety pin. Link pressed his fingers on top of this. When nothing happened, he tapped the space below it a couple of times. Instead of the dull thump he would have expected from a concrete block, it had a hollow twang to it. Was there an opening behind the wall?
Link tapped it again to be sure. After the phantom rat and the possessed medicine cabinet, it was clear that his eyesight could not be trusted today. This time he felt the difference. Excited, he looked for a way inside the space but couldn't find anything to grip. The minute crevice was too narrow.
In a sudden fit of frustration, he slammed his fist against the wall. Whatever secrets this wall hid, it did so jealously. The only thing Link discovered from his ill-advised tantrum was a fact he knew already. Walls were hard.
9
Crap Bucket
Link walked down the street with his camera, looking for houses. This time he also paid special attention to any objects directly in his path, especially large immovable ones like trees.
One house that he particularly liked was a two-story house with ivy crawling up the latticework. The vines created delicate twisting patterns of green against the sun-faded backdrop of the tan stucco. Two bulging cherry trees, thick with foliage, formed an impenetrable barrier of green and shielded the front porch from unwanted spectators. Along the side, several enormous elms blocked out the sun overhead.
Link found it remarkable how often people were completely oblivious to the reasons they gravitated toward certain things, like houses. Regardless of people's level of understanding, Link knew that the house someone chose to live in revealed as much about them as the clothes they wore.
Moving further down the block, another house caught his eye. At first glance, there was nothing unusual about it. However, under closer inspection, he sensed something vaguely familiar. He tried to figure out why this one-story, wooden A-frame drew his attention but could think of nothing. Black shutters came as standard on such houses. And to say the red door was unique would have been a gross exaggeration. The lawn was well maintained. The boxwood that lined the stairway off the front porch reeked of predictability. He decided to take a couple of pictures of the house and figure it out later. Maybe he would be able to put his finger on the reason for his fascination with the house if he wasn't thinking about it.
Link raised his camera and looked through the viewfinder, searching for a good angle. Tilting his shot a bit, he pulled back the lens as wide as he could. Since he couldn't determine what should be captured in the picture, he decided to capture the whole thing. He pressed the button to take the shot. Nothing happened. He pressed the button another time. Again nothing.
"What?" He stared down in shock at his camera. "You've got to be kidding me. Come on, baby. Not you, too! I need you to work," Link cooed. He pressed the button again. Then he pushed one more time with additional force. Still nothing.
"Dang it!" he yelled at the small camera in his hand, barely resisting the urge to hurl it. He hopped around in circles like a toddler pitching a tizzy. Then he held the camera in front of him and screamed, "I hate you! You hear me, freakin' crap bucket! I hate you!"
Link was so busy screaming profanities at the camera that he failed to notice a nearsighted old lady who was coming up the street with her dog. Upon hearing such vulgarities apparently hurled at her, in a low voice, she growled, "What did you call me?" She gave Link a look so withering he had to double check the moisture level in his pants.
"What?" Link stared at the old lady, dumbstruck. Once his brain fully registered the reason for the woman's apparent anger, he said, "Oh, no. I didn't mean you were...I mean...I said that because my camera stopped working," Link tried desperately to explain. "I would never call an old lady a crap bucket or any of those other things either," he continued.
Though he would not have previously believed it possible, the lady's scowl grew even deeper, her eyes even more menacing. After he realized his second mistake, he quickly added, "Not that you're old. It's just..."
Before he could say another word, the woman turned away in a huff. She tightened her hold on the dog's leash. Then she pounded her walker into the sidewalk as she stomped away.
Link watched the woman go. What was with the elderly women in this town? He looked once more at the house and took a mental snap shot before leaving.
10
You've Got Mail
Back in his room, Link sat in front of his computer and willed for someone to have written. After the move his father had finally allowed him to set up an e-mail account. He knew it wasn't likely that any of his old friends had written to him, but there was always the chance. An empty mail box and an empty heart; funny how often these two were a couple. Fingers crossed, he punched in his ID and password and logged into his account. A brick settled somewhere deep in his gut while he waited for the page to load.
Just junk-mail. His inbox was filthy with it. Link had refused to clear out his inbox. He didn't particularly need a revolutionary way to lose weight or increase his chest size. All the same, even the spam if addressed to him, was better than nothing.
Nothing was worse than nothing.
Link heard the squeak of floorboards overhead and assumed his dad had come home for lunch. As a realtor, his father enjoyed a lot of flexibility in his schedule and often stopped in for a bite to eat followed by a fifteen-minute power nap.
Link logged onto his Facebook account and found that message box empty as well. He was just about to log off when he received a message from an unfamiliar user. The user's name was Jim Jim. The note consisted of only four words:
Look behind the wall.
Typical. He finally got a message, and the sender was a raving nutjob. There was no way the user's real name was Jim Jim. The profile picture was a black background with a green circle in the middle. He clicked onto the link and found a generic page with absolutely no information. The only post was a profile pic that had been posted within the last month.
Link shrugged it off as spam and was about to exit the page when he remembered the spot on the wall that he'd noticed earlier. He swiveled the chair around with such haste he knocked a few CDs off the desk. Link's heart began to race.
Surely, it was just a coincidence. Nobody could possibly know about the wall. He hadn't even had a chance to tell anyone.
Nervousness, similar to the one he'd experienced after holding his mother's camera, returned. For the second time in one day, he couldn't shake the feeling that someone, or something, was there, watching him. He typed:
Who are you? What do you know about my wall? Is there something in it?
A message popped up in response:
Hurry, Lincoln. You must hid
e what you find. If they know, they will kill you. Then all I have done would have been for nothing. Remember 1317. Beware the shadows. They must never find out.
Link typed as fast as he could, all the while looking over his shoulder. His paranoia from before came flooding back. Chills streamed up and down his arms. He typed:
Who will come? Kill me? What are you talking about? What do I know? What do you want? Who are you? What's wrong with the shadows?
There was no response. Link waited a little longer, but his mysterious correspondent had disappeared, or at least he was no longer interested in chatting. The little icon above the Jim Jim handle dimmed to signify the user was no longer online.
Link returned to the portion of the wall he had assaulted earlier out of frustration. He squatted next to it and searched for any possible point of entry. When none could be found, he struck it again. This time he used the bottom part of a closed fist. He tried to muster some force behind the blow, while at the same time sparing his knuckles any further damage. They still smarted from his earlier failed attempt.
Link heard something crack. There were still no changes in the wall's appearance, but the sound egged him on. He hit it again. This time the crack was accompanied by a faint popping noise. A small sliver of black opened on the evenly painted
Deciding it was probably safer to go down instead of up, Link went down the rest of the stairs to his bedroom. He grabbed his trusty camera and slung it over his shoulder. The familiar feel of the nylon strap soothed him. He loved this camera. It was nice to know he could count on at least one thing in this crazy, messed up world. If only people were half as reliable as his camera, perhaps life wouldn't be so bad.
He took a long breath and held it in for a few seconds before expelling the air slowly between gritted teeth. In order to maximize its meditative effect, he concentrated on a focus point across the room.
In between breaths, he gradually became aware of a small inconsistency in the texture of the wall. The change was so small that he probably would have missed it had his swollen eye not forced him to squint, but there was definitely a spot where the pattern of bumps and divots seemed to change.
Curious, Link approached it and carefully traced the top with his fingers. Tiny paint flecks flaked into his palm. After dusting off his hand, he inspected the wall more closely and noticed the tiniest sliver of space in the wall no bigger than the width of a safety pin. Link pressed his fingers on top of this. When nothing happened, he tapped the space below it a couple of times. Instead of the dull thump he would have expected from a concrete block, it had a hollow twang to it. Was there an opening behind the wall?
Link tapped it again to be sure. After the phantom rat and the possessed medicine cabinet, it was clear that his eyesight could not be trusted today. This time he felt the difference. Excited, he looked for a way inside the space but couldn't find anything to grip. The minute crevice was too narrow.
In a sudden fit of frustration, he slammed his fist against the wall. Whatever secrets this wall hid, it did so jealously. The only thing Link discovered from his ill-advised tantrum was a fact he knew already. Walls were hard.
9
Crap Bucket
Link walked down the street with his camera, looking for houses. This time he also paid special attention to any objects directly in his path, especially large immovable ones like trees.
One house that he particularly liked was a two-story house with ivy crawling up the latticework. The vines created delicate twisting patterns of green against the sun-faded backdrop of the tan stucco. Two bulging cherry trees, thick with foliage, formed an impenetrable barrier of green and shielded the front porch from unwanted spectators. Along the side, several enormous elms blocked out the sun overhead.
Link found it remarkable how often people were completely oblivious to the reasons they gravitated toward certain things, like houses. Regardless of people's level of understanding, Link knew that the house someone chose to live in revealed as much about them as the clothes they wore.
Moving further down the block, another house caught his eye. At first glance, there was nothing unusual about it. However, under closer inspection, he sensed something vaguely familiar. He tried to figure out why this one-story, wooden A-frame drew his attention but could think of nothing. Black shutters came as standard on such houses. And to say the red door was unique would have been a gross exaggeration. The lawn was well maintained. The boxwood that lined the stairway off the front porch reeked of predictability. He decided to take a couple of pictures of the house and figure it out later. Maybe he would be able to put his finger on the reason for his fascination with the house if he wasn't thinking about it.
Link raised his camera and looked through the viewfinder, searching for a good angle. Tilting his shot a bit, he pulled back the lens as wide as he could. Since he couldn't determine what should be captured in the picture, he decided to capture the whole thing. He pressed the button to take the shot. Nothing happened. He pressed the button another time. Again nothing.
"What?" He stared down in shock at his camera. "You've got to be kidding me. Come on, baby. Not you, too! I need you to work," Link cooed. He pressed the button again. Then he pushed one more time with additional force. Still nothing.
"Dang it!" he yelled at the small camera in his hand, barely resisting the urge to hurl it. He hopped around in circles like a toddler pitching a tizzy. Then he held the camera in front of him and screamed, "I hate you! You hear me, freakin' crap bucket! I hate you!"
Link was so busy screaming profanities at the camera that he failed to notice a nearsighted old lady who was coming up the street with her dog. Upon hearing such vulgarities apparently hurled at her, in a low voice, she growled, "What did you call me?" She gave Link a look so withering he had to double check the moisture level in his pants.
"What?" Link stared at the old lady, dumbstruck. Once his brain fully registered the reason for the woman's apparent anger, he said, "Oh, no. I didn't mean you were...I mean...I said that because my camera stopped working," Link tried desperately to explain. "I would never call an old lady a crap bucket or any of those other things either," he continued.
Though he would not have previously believed it possible, the lady's scowl grew even deeper, her eyes even more menacing. After he realized his second mistake, he quickly added, "Not that you're old. It's just..."
Before he could say another word, the woman turned away in a huff. She tightened her hold on the dog's leash. Then she pounded her walker into the sidewalk as she stomped away.
Link watched the woman go. What was with the elderly women in this town? He looked once more at the house and took a mental snap shot before leaving.
10
You've Got Mail
Back in his room, Link sat in front of his computer and willed for someone to have written. After the move his father had finally allowed him to set up an e-mail account. He knew it wasn't likely that any of his old friends had written to him, but there was always the chance. An empty mail box and an empty heart; funny how often these two were a couple. Fingers crossed, he punched in his ID and password and logged into his account. A brick settled somewhere deep in his gut while he waited for the page to load.
Just junk-mail. His inbox was filthy with it. Link had refused to clear out his inbox. He didn't particularly need a revolutionary way to lose weight or increase his chest size. All the same, even the spam if addressed to him, was better than nothing.
Nothing was worse than nothing.
Link heard the squeak of floorboards overhead and assumed his dad had come home for lunch. As a realtor, his father enjoyed a lot of flexibility in his schedule and often stopped in for a bite to eat followed by a fifteen-minute power nap.
Link logged onto his Facebook account and found that message box empty as well. He was just about to log off when he received a message from an unfamiliar user. The user's name was Jim Jim. The note consisted of only four words:
Look behind the wall.
Typical. He finally got a message, and the sender was a raving nutjob. There was no way the user's real name was Jim Jim. The profile picture was a black background with a green circle in the middle. He clicked onto the link and found a generic page with absolutely no information. The only post was a profile pic that had been posted within the last month.
Link shrugged it off as spam and was about to exit the page when he remembered the spot on the wall that he'd noticed earlier. He swiveled the chair around with such haste he knocked a few CDs off the desk. Link's heart began to race.
Surely, it was just a coincidence. Nobody could possibly know about the wall. He hadn't even had a chance to tell anyone.
Nervousness, similar to the one he'd experienced after holding his mother's camera, returned. For the second time in one day, he couldn't shake the feeling that someone, or something, was there, watching him. He typed:
Who are you? What do you know about my wall? Is there something in it?
A message popped up in response:
Hurry, Lincoln. You must hid
Link typed as fast as he could, all the while looking over his shoulder. His paranoia from before came flooding back. Chills streamed up and down his arms. He typed:
Who will come? Kill me? What are you talking about? What do I know? What do you want? Who are you? What's wrong with the shadows?
There was no response. Link waited a little longer, but his mysterious correspondent had disappeared, or at least he was no longer interested in chatting. The little icon above the Jim Jim handle dimmed to signify the user was no longer online.
Link returned to the portion of the wall he had assaulted earlier out of frustration. He squatted next to it and searched for any possible point of entry. When none could be found, he struck it again. This time he used the bottom part of a closed fist. He tried to muster some force behind the blow, while at the same time sparing his knuckles any further damage. They still smarted from his earlier failed attempt.
Link heard something crack. There were still no changes in the wall's appearance, but the sound egged him on. He hit it again. This time the crack was accompanied by a faint popping noise. A small sliver of black opened on the evenly painted