The World Beyond the House

Barry remarked, "You know, if these good things keep happening to us, we might end up being friends again."

"We might," Ariel responded, "or we might not. I don’t see that good luck has a damn thing to do with our problems."

"Well, you know what they say," he cheerfully went on. "Good luck usually comes in threes. We found a great place to stay in pretty much the middle of nowhere at a super rate, and we just ate a stupendous meal for a hell of a price. Maybe we’ll have a third lucky strike and go back to the cabin and be able to work out our differences. At least, I hope so, Ariel. I mean I feel kind of lucky so far. I just hope it holds."

As Barry concluded this comment, Ariel’s world stopped. A convulsive shiver down her spine unexpectedly overcame her, so momentarily powerful that she was forced to stop walking, rendered temporarily helpless. She gasped, inhaling sharply, her eyes sweeping out of focus. Swaying slightly, she veered first to one side, then to the other. Instinctually, she extended her arms outwardly for balance. She could neither speak nor move, yet in that split second, she had the discernment to know, as surely as she knew of her own existence, that luck for her had run out.

No! Her brain shrieked. Please Lord! No! No! Not again!

Her lips couldn’t move and she was as blind as a newborn pup. She felt her heart begin to cry. The sadness welled up in her chest to such a severe degree she thought she would instantaneously burst. In a flash, she felt more than saw the malefic evil, the black power--large, ominous, tensing itself for an encounter with her. Caught in this impasse of lunacy, she could not muster enough strength to cry out; at the same time, she knew that if she could, there would be no one to hear her sobs. Instinctively, she intuited the baneful wickedness of the creature and knew at that moment that it was one she would have to face alone. Not spoiled egomaniacal Barry, nor any intrepid, lionhearted friends, nor chance encounters with any superhuman heroes would be able to help her out of this one. All of this she was deeply and profoundly convinced of in less than a few seconds, and she groaned painfully at the violent impact of this realization, although she couldn’t tell if she had groaned aloud or to herself.

This was not a physical attack; yet, by the sheer freezing and containment of her mental processes, the result was the same. It momentarily overcame her ability to affect her motor control. It was more of an ilk that she would be unable to describe. Mental? Emotional? Spiritual? Yes, all of those. But also something that probed much deeper, into the very heart and soul of her being, penetrating all of her cavities and wounding the core, the very pith of her existence. It was a foulness that reached out to her from a putrescent darkness to apprehend and hold her, violate and desecrate even the smallest modicum of her essence. What she hated the most was the fact that it felt like something she could not oppose--she had to sit helplessly by and witness herself being probed head to toe. It left her feeling as though she was onstage, naked, in some kind of grotesque sideshow.

Then she saw them--the two evils, side by side, one large and all encompassing, the other smaller but certainly not less threatening. Suddenly, she was thrust again into a somnolent, almost benign paralysis. Time seemed to stretch out before her, as though she were captured in a horrendously savage tunnel, and as her heart swelled and waned across the depths of the hideous and ghastly chasm, she knew this encounter had lasted quite longer than the first. She could sense the smaller presence, the lesser evil. He was much closer than before.

It left Ariel dazed and astounded, reduced to a remnant, and the level of peril she foresaw was staggering. Whatever did they want with her? Why had she been chosen for this torture? She couldn’t begin to guess. But more importantly, could she prevail against this beast? Did she have the power to withstand such an unconstrained terror, such a tyrant? And how would she do so? What tools could she use? She didn’t know. She had no answers. Her eyesight glimmered hazily and swam slowly back into focus. She was staring at the back of Barry’s receding head as he made his way across the parking lot, her body slightly swaying, her breath barely escaping her tightened lungs. She couldn’t believe what she knew, and how very real it all seemed. There were no doubts in her mind. The omen clung to her soul like the haze of a mid-morning sun, and in her heart she knew the truth, and the truth was unbearable. She collapsed.

* * *

Slowly, torturously, Billy Baxter pulled off the fly’s wings and watched the effect it had on the insect as it tried to crawl off to some small space and hide. He scowled murderously as it tried to get away, then smiled at the exertion it had to expend to crawl over even one brick. It had to be in pain, he surmised, and tried to envision just what kind of pain a fly could feel. Probably not much.

Not as much as that old lady he’d almost beat to a pulp, which was why he was in the slammer in the first place. If only she’d been a good mark and just handed over the money she’d gotten at the bank from cashing her pension checks; or if only he’d followed her to her house instead of trying to nab her in that alleyway. S---, that was stupid. He should’ve known she’d scream, and even though he’d hit her--hard--he didn’t hit her in the right spot because she’d kept on screaming. And screaming made that same old bolt of lightning flash through him. So he’d just beat her and beat her and beat her. To make her stop that damned screaming. Long after she’d ceased howling, or even moving for that matter, he was still hitting her.

He never could understand to this day what comes over him in those instances. He starts to use violence, not to off someone, but maybe only to hammer ‘em once or twice just to get a situation under control, and before he knows it, he just gets carried away. He doesn’t think about this to any great extent--he’s got no bent to psychoanalyze himself--he just wonders why he enjoys it so much that he almost can’t bring himself to stop. Sometimes, he knows it almost gets in the way of the actual job he’s trying to pull.

Billy figured he’d killed about two or three hundred people, all told. Maybe more. He’d really lost count somewhere along the way. It didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was that he got what he wanted when he wanted it, despite anyone else’s position, rank or authority. He’d learned long before that if he launched a physical onslaught quickly enough, not giving his prey time or opportunity to register his intentions, they’d drop all defenses immediately. Timing was everything.

He’d only depended on actual weapons a couple of times. He mainly enjoyed using his fists and loved simply beating people to death. He never challenged anyone young or fit but mostly preyed on the elderly, the infirm, and of course, females. He had a fetid heart, if any heart at all, and with each savage beat could only think of new and better ways to create dread, loathing and fear in the lives of others.

Even though he was only thirty-three, Billy felt he had lived twice that long, but at the same time knew he had a lot of life left to enjoy. Promising himself to be much more careful in the future about who he knocked off and when and mostly where, he’d been on very good behavior while behind b