Under The Trapdoor

I could not have been more than fifteen years old when the murders started. We lived in the suburbs at the time. A small community where everyone knew each other. The entire neighborhood was in the grips of a terrible terror…no one went out at night; most families bought shotguns and new locks. But every other week, someone would be found dead in their homes; they were primarily people who lived alone. So, all lone dwellers moved out of the community…and the killings stopped. The investigators and the town elders could not see how the killer did it. There was no reporting of any sounds of struggle or screams for help. But the dead bodies were pretty severely brutalized. There were rumored to be deep cuts on the victims’ bodies, pools of blood dried around the corpses, and terrified expressions in the lifeless eyes. No signs of breaking in. The night prowlers never once witnessed anyone coming in or going out of the neighborhood when the murders occurred. Speculations abounded, and rumors spread like wildfire… a serial killer was living amongst us!

Of course, none of these details were directly available to us; but things were difficult to conceal in a close-knitted community like ours. Over the decades, a communication web was enacted to ensure the rapid spread of information. They said the suburbs had never experienced anything like the serial killings’ nightmare in all its history. Moreover, everyone found it hard to believe that a community member was doing all this.

“It’s ridiculous! The police are trying to cover their own as…”, said my father one evening during supper, stopping mid-sentence after my mother leered at him, “…incompetence, I meant incompetence. I mean, everyone here has been around for decades! How could anyone go on a killing spree just out of the blue?”

My father’s opinion was more or less shared by every other person. Things cooled down for some time, and everybody relaxed, but not too much. One day, my mother let me go out to the butchers to pick up our meat supply in the evening. I nagged her into it, having grown tired of being cooped up in the house for so long. Thankfully, she gave in as things had been calm for some time. But she made me wear the cross that had been in our family for generations.

The butcher was old Mr. Erickson, who I had known for as long as I could remember. He was pleased to see me and greeted me with a booming voice. His appearance had altered considerably in a short time: he was thinner, paler, and more wrinkled than before. I guessed that the panic had been bad for his business…maybe that’s what got him worried, or perhaps fear that he would be next? Whatever it was, he looked terrible. I couldn’t help but ask for the reason for his abysmal health. Suddenly, a grim expression cast shadows on his visage as his eyes darted left and right, ensuring no one else was there. He proceeded to tell me some disturbing things.

He had developed a dementia problem; lately, he said. There were extended periods when he couldn’t remember where he was or what he was doing. It was like a terrible dream, he said. Only wispy memories and fragmented images came to him afterward. As he told me all this, his forehead became dotted with thick beads of sweat…

Then, suddenly, from the door behind the counter came a rattling noise.

I curiously looked over; it felt like a wooden log banging against the wall. But there was a change in Mr. Erickson… his eyes bulged and became bloodshot, and his mustache and sporadic beard bristled as if an electric current was passing through him. I thought he was having a stroke or an epileptic fit, but that was not what it was. His eyes rotated upwards in their socket until his pupils were no longer visible; only the sclera etched with red threads stared at me. He breathed harshly, with his terrifying eyes locked on me. I flinched upon meeting his gaze, my footsteps retreating backward. He jumped over the counter with unbelievable agility for his age, his cleaver menacingly gripped in his right hand.

Slowly, he began advancing toward me; I wheeled and ran for it as fast as my legs could take me. But then the supernatural, the violation of the laws of physics, came into play; the door banged close on its own accord. As I turned, the cleaver was swung over Mr. Erickson’s head…but before he could bring it down, the adrenaline pumping through my veins, the firm will to live made me get out of the way in time so that the cleaver sliced the air and not my flesh. Seeing no other way out, I rushed towards the rear door to the small slaughterhouse and storage area. I quickly shut the door and locked it. But behind me, there was that rattling noise again…and before me, the banging on the door. My legs trembled in blood-curdling terror; drops of sweat trickled down my chin. The rattling came from a trap door that someone below was trying to forcibly open. I dashed towards the trap door and stomped on it in my irrational fear. By this time, I was weeping.

“Go Away!” I screamed.

“FOR GOD’S SAKE, LEAVE ME ALONE!”

The cross necklace bounced off my neck and thudded over the trapdoor. It stopped rattling instantly. The pounding on the door also stopped. I passed out and fell to the floor.

Coming around, it took me several seconds to regain my bearings. To my great surprise, the trapdoor was gone! Rushing outside, I found Mister Erickson rubbing his head. He said he didn’t remember anything. I asked him about the trapdoor, to which he gave the most bewildered expression.

The killings in the town stopped after that.

I never spoke a word of what had happened in the butcher shop to anyone…never.