I
Wondering why he felt compelled to stop at the old two-story house, Troy stood before it, entranced. He knew the abandoned Victorian reminded him of a home he lived in as a child, but why was he seduced by the sight of it? Why had he stood here for hours, every night this week, since he had first driven by it?
Hands clenched inside deep trench coat pockets, he stayed on the sidewalk, inexplicably unable to step onto the property. He stared at a glossy magnolia leaf, which had fallen by his left foot. Light from a lamppost reflected its shine, hurting his eyes.
The air changed, became chilly. Falling leaves shimmered in the lamp light. He stared at the gleaming, twirling leaves, which looked like stars floating around him. The world became an impressionist haze of dark blacks and greens, blending with sharp glints of whites and yellows. He stretched out his arm to touch an indistinct light, feeling rather than hearing a snail crunch underneath his foot as he stepped forward to grab the ‘star’.
Shuddering violently, he pulled his foot off the crushed snail. His wide, frightened eyes found hundreds of snails sliming the sidewalk around him, and twice as many leaving twisted trails on the pathway leading to the empty house. He shook again, fixated on the garden snails creeping across the ground. He hated snails; could not stand the sight of them.
“S-car-got, we’re eating fancy, tonight!” a crackly, hated voice said behind him.
Spinning around, Troy confronted nothing. No one stood between him and his car. Across the street, a thin woman briskly walked beside a Siberian husky. Obviously, the voice did not belong to her. He stared up and down the mundane suburban street. No one hid behind his car. Shaky, he slid behind
the wheel.
Thoughts of his office job served to distract his mind from the surrealistic moments he had experienced. A transient by the security gates of his community asked for a handout as he stopped his sliver sedan while waiting for the automatic gate to open. Troy had seen the guy before, near the Vons he frequented. Rolling down his window a bit, he yelled.
“Hey! Stop panhandling on this property, or I’m-“He meant to say, ‘going to call security’, but, just for a moment, the bum’s face turned into Troy’s father’s.
The gate opened and Troy accelerated too fast, his teeth rattling with the car as it lurched over a speed bump. At home, he fed and played with his dog, Max, and drank beer in front of the television. After six Budweiser’s failed to numb bad memories, he turned to Jack D, who always helped him forget. He fell asleep with his arm around his golden retriever on his tan Ikea futon, to loud I Love Lucy reruns.
II
Static from the T.V. coupled with heavy rain awoke Troy from dreams of his father, dirty and drunk, force-feeding Troy snails. Troy found himself drenched in reeking, toxic sweat, gagging on nightmare slime. He showered to wash off his stench, while gargling mouthfuls of Listerine to nullify the gut clenching feel of thick snail gunk.
Troy saw his father in the steamy mirror. The father he loved, before the monster transformation. Troy blinked and his face became his own; a square shaped, blued eyed average face, which looked older than twenty-one. Troy felt older than the unremarkable man in mirror, as if he was fifty, trapped in a younger man’s body.
III
Despite dismal rain, he stood before the house, drawn to it. Faint remembrances of a perfect life, a perfect childhood changed abruptly into misery. His beautiful, sweet smelling mother loving him became a harsh, homeless life with his father. Warm security and safety replaced by turbulence with a killer, who ran from consequences and himself.
The brown station wagon they lived in disappeared less than a year into their hiding. Troy was not sure if his father had sold it for booze, or if it had been towed away. Life grew worse, more desperate, more humiliating. At ten years old, Troy starved. He ate from trashcans while his father drank away panhandled money. Each day brought torment from his father and their homeless society. Soon after his father began eating bugs, and snails, Troy drifted away, more easily than he had imagined.
Troy’s last image of his murdering father refused repression. Half unconscious with booze, the filthy old man cooked snails over a smoky newspaper fire, laughing at the shells cracking and popping. Only relief filled Troy that the murderer did not notice his son slip into the night.
Troy shook himself from the memory. The rain that had not ceased in sixteen hours pounded onto his soaked head, the beat drowning logic. Rainwater dripped into his eyes, blurring the dark house, turning it into the happy home of early childhood. He wiped the water away, ignoring the wet, salty taste on his tongue.
Through the rain, he heard a muffled groan. His gut contracted, and he squinted, peering into distorted darkness, listening for another sound. Involuntarily, he walked toward the dark house, searching for some indefinable thing, tense with fear of the unknown.
The front door materialized in front of him, and he heard a distinct moan coming from within the vacant house. He noted a thin crack of light beyond the slightly open door, and looked back at the safety of the lamp lit sidewalk before quietly entering.
Troy could not remember when or why he had grabbed the Sig Sauer P220 from the Lexus’s glove compartment. He had no idea how the gun came to be in his wet grip. Numbness settled over him, and he welcomed the calm lack of feeling. He walked inside, cautiously, the gun held out, leading his way. His eyes adjusted to the shadows. Reassuringly, the lamppost shone a bit through windows bare of drapes. Downstairs, empty rooms greeted him. He headed towards the staircase, startled by a descending figure.
Troy stayed, silent, in the shadows. His heart halted while his mind formed panicked conclusions. Unsuccessfully, he tried to regain the numbness, to control his trembling hands. The shaking lasted for long moments, and he waited, paralyzed in doubt and shadow.
His father walked down the worn steps. Old and decrepit, the monster that had killed Troy’s mother slowly descended, turning towards Troy upon reaching the ground floor.
Desired numbness rescued Troy, and immediately he stepped forward to face his life long nemesis. Hand steady, he aimed the gun at his father’s chest. The bum’s face rippled, becoming Troy’s own. Nausea swept through Troy. Sweating palms made him clench the gun’s handle tightly.
“STOP FUCKING WITH ME!” Troy yelled at his father, his enemy. His hand resumed shaking, due to bursting adrenaline.
His adversary raised old, spotted hands defensively.
“I’m sorry, mister, I didn’t know this place was taken. Just trying to stay dry. Finding a place to stay dry…” The transient babbled at Troy, who found the words nonsensical.
“Please, don’t shoot, mister. I’ll go. I’m sorry. I’m going. Didn’t want to do nothing but stay dry. Been raining two days.” The man’s litany droned on and his face changed again, into the bum Troy saw at his apartments.
The gun wavered, transfixing Troy, who stared at it even as he turned it to his head. He did not blink, becoming cross-eyed as he placed the barrel on his forehead.
The transient ran outside, the motion startling Troy from his intention.
“WAIT!” Troy screamed. “YOUR’E GOING TO PAY-”
Standing in the doorway, Troy squeezed the trigger, the wild shot missing the bum’s retreating figure.
“GOING TO PAY FOR WHAT-”
On the small porch, a brown snail marked a small strip of dry wood. Troy’s voice faded as he gazed at the offending creature.
“Going to pay…,” he whispered, spotting another snail, and a third, a fourth.
Without thinking, he shot at the snail, creating a hole next to it. He fired over and again at the snails now covering the house. More appeared with each burst of gunfire. They crawled their slimy way towards him, making him retreat into the house, shooting at them until his gun emptied.
Wild and terrified, Troy screamed. He kept pulling the trigger, the empty gun clicking uselessly. He stomped on the snails, trying to crush as many as possible. His shrieking prevented Troy from hearing a siren wailing. Focusing upon eradicating the snails, he did not notice blue and yellow flashing lights.
A blue form rushed at Troy, knocking him down, into the sea of snails. Troy’s wails increased to a high-pitched keening that did not stop until two police officers forced him the back seat of a squad car.
“Sir, can you tell me your name?” the burly officer sitting in the passenger seat asked, once Troy quieted.
“Snails…snails…no more…got…to pay…”
“That’s O.K., buddy, we got someone for you to talk to.” The officer driving said, exchanging a glance with his younger partner. “I told you. Rain like this brings out the crazies.”
“Thought you said that about the full moon.”
“That, too. It’s got something to do with the tides.” The driver responded.
“Save it for your philosophy club, Tom. What matters is that this guy didn’t hurt anyone… ”
Troy twisted his head to watch the retreating house out of the back window. He shuddered. His mouth gruesomely pulled back with fear. A snail stuck on the glass worked its way upwards, leaving behind a thin, crooked trail of slime.
The End
