SHORT STORY: Knee Deep

The childhood monuments hadn’t changed in thirty years. The old "warhorse" still bobbed at the end of its frayed rope and the rainwater gently sloshed within its tire. The jungle-gym cast its long shadow across the yard, a grim reminder of fractured arms and chipped teeth. Jeremy couldn’t understand his father’s need to keep them around. Each time he made one of his occasional visits, guilt demanded he make more occasions to visit. Today, though, his father had called for him. Something urgent.

He couldn’t remember the doorbell ever working, so he rapped with the rusted knocker.

"Jer, come on in. But do it slowly." The windows were propped open; his father was apparently in the kitchen.

"Why?"

"Just do it. There’s something in here you need to see."

Jeremy’s father was very healthy for his age. He hadn’t shown any signs of senility in the past, but something about his tone sounded... off. Jeremy stepped into the house, flinching when the floor complained beneath his work boots.

"Dad?"

"In here. Quiet."

Jeremy peered around the corner and into the familiar kitchen. His father cowered against the humming fridge at the opposite side of the room, a claw hammer gripped tightly in his left hand.

A fist-sized shape, smeared in black, danced around the table between them. It skittered sideways along the scarred wooden surface. Several spiny limbs sprouted from its back, all of them stubby next to its menacing stinger. Jeremy decided it must be some sort of scorpion.

"Dad, what is that?"

"It’s my coffee mug."

"I don’t--"

"Watch." The old man took a hesitant step forward and swung his weapon downward with surprising violence. The creature exploded. White debris littered the tabletop.

Jeremy studied a piece of the rubble. It was porcelain, with a decorative blue trim.

"Have a seat, Jer. We need to talk."

"No kidding! What just happened?" Jeremy brushed chalky powder from the seat of his chair and realized he was seating himself in the same chair he’d been assigned for three decades. His father sat next to him.

"What does it look like?"

"It looks like you pulled a magic trick without me seeing the strings. Where did the scorpion go?"

"Scorpion ... I hadn’t thought of that. I suppose it did look like one. I assure you that it's gone now, though--I smashed it. Assuming it wasn’t a trick, what did you see?"

"OK ... It looked like you broke a mug that wasn’t a mug at first."

"No, it was a mug at first. It was the mug you gave me when you were in the sixth grade. It was the one that had that old picture of you and Tad Delpino on it."

"I don’t remember that."

"You don’t? Well it’s right there, on the counter behind you." Jeremy raised an eyebrow. His father looked extremely old, the creases radiating from his eyes were deeper than usual and the veins in his forehead tried to push free from beneath his dark skin.

Jeremy spun around and came face to face with a mug he’d never seen before. A faded image, apparently captured from Jeremy’s days in Boy Scout Troop 522, had been glued onto its surface. Tad Delpino grinned a gap-toothed grin next to a teenage Jeremy. A simple blue trim had been painted around the rim.

"But... Tad was never in the Boy Scouts. His parents wouldn’t let him join, remember? Where did you get that? I didn’t give you that mug." When Jeremy turned around to face his dad again, the table was completely clear. "Dad, how are you doing this?"

"I’ve discovered a fundamental truth about the universe, or perhaps a fundamental lie would be more accurate. Here, take this and be ready to smash my mug again."

"What?" Jeremy retrieved the hammer.

"Just do it. No! Not yet--wait for it to change. I know you never gave me that mug. In fact, you hardly ever gave me anything. So, I convinced myself that you had. I fabricated several things that you might have crafted for me throughout the years, had we been closer, and then there they were. Physical. But, as you can see, they’re changing."

"Changing into what?"

"I don’t have an answer for that, but you saw one of them. About to again--smash it!"

The mug vibrated at first, but soon its surface boiled and the photograph peeled. Tad’s smile grew unnatural as it melted away. The exterior cracked, creating a jigsaw pattern of shining porcelain pieces connected by black, organic sinews. Jeremy pummeled the half-mug until it was chalk again.

"So you’re telling me you only have to wish for something and it’s yours? Do you know how crazy that sounds?"

"Yes, but that's not exactly what I meant. I don’t wish for things; it’s more complex than that. I lie to myself. Do you think I would still live in this place if I could have anything? No, Jer, I’ve tried. It’s something different. Loss, maybe."

"I don’t understand."

"I’ve always regretted how things worked out between the two of us, so I convinced myself that it couldn’t possibly have been as cold as it seemed. And then it wasn’t. I had photos on my walls of us going to ballgames, scrapbooks full of your artwork, perfect report cards, hell I even had video tapes of us on the beach when you were only four years old--you do realize we never even owned a video camera?"

"How?"

"Because it’s bullshit. All of it. That’s why I called you over. Everything is changing, like the scorpion you saw. I don’t know why. Maybe as I’ve grown closer to the end of my life, I’ve started doubting my memories, perhaps even repairing them."

"Then there are still more of those things?"

"They don’t all look the same, but yes, there are many more of them."

"Where?"

"I’ve killed a dozen or so, but several escaped. Some haven’t even changed yet. That’s why you’re here."

"You’re afraid of them."

"They’re real, Jer ... And violent." The old man lifted up his shirt and ran his knotted fingers across enormous bite marks on his belly.

"Dad!"

"It’s fine. It hurts, but it didn’t break the skin."

"We have to get out of here. You can come live with me for a while."

"Did you know I drove all the way to Redwater last month? You didn’t, did you? Went to stay with your aunt Claudia, but they followed me there. No, I created these things and apparently they’re bound to me."

"What do you plan to do?"

"Fight them. I’ve got a big one trapped in the basement. Maybe the biggest. You and I are going to kill it."

"How big?"

"Do you really want to know?"

"No ... I guess not. Do you have any weapons?"

Jeremy’s father gestured for the hammer and his son returned it to him. He tested the weight of it. "This has done fine for me so far. We’ve got a couple of your hockey sticks still in the garage."

"Dad, we never played hockey ..."

"Right. Shit."

"You remember playing baseball?"

"Of course."

"Good, there’s a baseball bat in the garage too. We’ll get that after we deal with the sticks."

Jeremy rifled through the cupboards for makeshift weaponry. He carefully opened each cabinet, ready to spring away if he encountered more of the inky beasts. Finally, inside the kitchen drawer, he discovered a long-tipped barbeque lighter and complimented it with a can of anti-corrosive spray.

"Dad?"

"Yeah."

"You understand that I am having a hard time with this, right? I want to believe you’re not crazy, and I’ve seen some stuff here that I can’t explain. But doesn’t this all seem a bit surreal to you?"

"Yeah."

"You’ve definitely creeped me the hell out, you know that?"

"Sorry."

"Do you think you’re the only one who can do this?"

"Honestly ... no. I think the scale of it is much bigger. I’ve thought about the lies we feed ourselves each day, hell, we’re not even responsible for most of them. Our brains tend to twist things over time, sometimes making old experiences better, but usually making them worse. Grudges. Hurt. What if all that garbage is leaking out into the world around us? What happens when all those misconceptions begin to break down like mine did and we’re left knee deep in shit?"

"That’s awful."

"Yeah."

"No, really--that is fucking awful. How am I supposed to accept that?"

"It’s just a theory, Jer. Come on, now that you’ve "outed" my hockey sticks, we’d best get to them before they escape."

The two men walked carefully through the hallway, each studying the rooms they passed for signs of trouble. Jeremy felt a stronger connection to his father than he had in years, despite the absurdity of the situation. They were the Carver team, perhaps for the first time. Jeremy’s lighter flashed to life and he held the spray can ready. He nodded his readiness to his father.

Though the door’s paint had faded over three decades, the familiar double-click of the top hinge hadn’t changed. The two men tensed, but nothing attacked. Jeremy reached into the black room and flipped on its harsh fluorescent light.

"There’s my bat, but I don’t see any hockey sticks," said Jeremy.

"Not a good sign. I bet they’re hiding back there." He tilted his hammer towards several large sheets of plywood.

Jeremy nodded and they advanced together. As he stepped beneath the light fixture, something wet splattered onto his shoulders and sprung to life. It clung to his neck with rubbery legs.

"Get it off! Get it off!"

"Hold still, I’ll--" The old man shrieked as the second creature squirmed its way up his pant leg. He dropped to the ground, desperately pushing down on his jeans to keep the beast away from his crotch.

Jeremy slammed into the old tool desk and sent its contents clattering to the floor. The creature spiraled around his neck several times and when it finally flexed, it easily cut off Jeremy’s breath. Panicked, he aimed the anti-corrosive can towards his own face.

The old man dropped onto the oil-stained floor and splayed his legs. He hammered the bulge in his jeans with the claw-end of his tool, shrieking with each swing. The creature only squeezed tighter, so he swung with more violence.

Jeremy, ready to black out, made a dangerous choice. He sprayed the anti-corrosive towards himself. The clear stream passed through his lighter’s flame before splashing his face with pain. It blazed brilliantly; soon he wore a beard of fire.

The creature in the old man’s trousers began to slow; black liquid bled through the fabric. Finally, he felt the hockey stick return to its rigid state during a downward swing. It was too late to redirect the blow.

Jeremy pulled the flaming, charred carcass from his throat. It transformed into a blackened, L-shaped piece of wood as it struck the ground. His father stood and pulled the chipped hockey stick from his pants. He kept one trembling hand on his testicles.

"Dad, are you--"

"I clipped one. I ... I'm sure it will be OK." His voice was a whisper.

"I think I burned myself bad--I can’t feel my face."

Jeremy’s father stared at him, jaw agape and eyes intent. He quickly corrected his reaction and smirked. "A little red is all, like a sunburn. You got a worse burn skiing in Colorad--"

"Dad."

"Never happened, did it?" His voice remained weak. The old man was biting back his pain.

"No. What do we do about these sticks?"

The old man said nothing. He simply picked up the damaged sporting equipment and placed them upon his table saw. It took several runs over the noisy blade, but the threat was eventually reduced to kibble.

"Get the bat, Jer."

"Are you sure you want to do this? Maybe we should wait a bit until we’re both feeling a bit--"

"We need to do this now."

Jeremy hesitated. He was looking for a way out. He wanted to return to his own house, where Mary would be waiting with his dinner. He’d put some cream on his burns, fabricate some crazy excuse as to how they got there, and return to normality. But how could he leave his father to fight his demons alone?

"Jer?"

"Ok. Let’s do it." He pulled "Slugger" off of its wall hook.

The short walk back inside and to the basement was brief but uncomfortable. Jeremy kept his eyes aimed upward as much as possible. His father limped, his right hand still attached to his groin.

"You said this was a big one, dad. Are you sure we can handle it?"

"Right now, yes. It hasn’t changed yet. When it does, though – probably not."

The lights were already on in the basement, and Jeremy was grateful for that. When he opened the door, he saw same the basement from his youth. At twelve, his father had allowed him to move his room downstairs. It was his sanctuary. The thought of something unnatural living in it caused more anger than fear. He descended halfway down the stairs and peered into the open space.

"Dad, if you know it’s a lie, why hasn’t it changed already?"

"I think because it believes in its own existence."

"What do you mean?"

Jeremy glanced up at his father. Tears traced the heavy creases in the old man’s face. The father studied the son, whose face was a reflection of his own from thirty years ago. Patches of his boy's cheek, where the skin had peeled away, swarmed with squirming black tendrils. The old man raised his hammer.