My Fingers

Charlie King was a decisive person, and damn proud of it. Decision was something he craved. Like a sip of fine wine, each decision he made gave him a shot of pleasure that lingered in his mouth and sizzled somewhere in his soul. He wore his nature on the cuffs of his sleeves, in the form of two polished brass buttons. Each day, he’d shine them—keep them gleaming as a reminder to the world just how well his quick and sharp decisions had paid off.

He’d moved out the second he was legal, dropped out of college the following year, and started his own restaurant chain—all good decisions. The money from the diners kept his schedule lean, and estranging his family had certainly freed up some time of its own. No funerals. No reunions. No more birthdays to remember.

Plenty of time to sit around shining buttons.

But even though the thought of wine and decisions wouldn’t have normally stoked a good mood, Charlie found himself unhappy. He was even sitting in his favorite chair, a plush chintz with an amber brocade on the back.

Still unhappy.

Charlie fished the letter out of his pocket, and read it again, as if, by running his eyes over the words for a third time, he would finally elicit some enlightenment.

No luck.

Yes, Charlie was unhappy because, for the first time in what had to be years, he couldn’t make a decision. The letter before him was from his father’s house keeper, a little woman from one of the southern countries. Her English hadn’t been articulate, and the handwriting a bit too small, but he’d gotten the gist on the first read. His father, a quiet man of 93 years, had finally kicked the bucket.

And that was it. The decision he couldn’t make. After a good afternoon of thinking, Charlie still had no idea how he felt. A part of him wanted to walk right up to the old family home, and defile it with eggs and spray paint, an act he’d considered many times as a child. He’d be free to do it now that his father’s switch was no longer waiting for him. But there was another part—the vocal minority—that wanted to be upset. To maybe shed a tear or two. There’d been some good times, after all, especially when he was little. His mother had been alive then, and though the fights had been loud and late, his father would always enter Charlie’s room after the lights went out to reassure him.

“I love you, Charlie,” his father’s voice would declare, “never forget that.”

Those words were often the last thing Charlie heard before going to sleep—and they made the nightmares that followed easier to bear.

He was conflicted.

Until, the minority presented something else. Something that finally tipped the scales.

If he went to the house, he’d be able to enter his father’s study. And stay there for as long as he liked.
As long
As he liked.

Charlie crumpled the letter and tossed it into a trash bin in the corner of his sitting room. He stood, gathered his coat, and made for the door. Once outside, he slid into his car, backed into the street, and tore away with all the speed of a predator.

There were many things about his father that bugged Charlie; his trend toward violent punishment being the most obvious. But none dug deeper under his skin than his father’s study. Since Charlie’s earliest memories, the room had always been locked. Off limits. Top Secret.

And, while alive, his father had spent 90% of his free time behind that door. He would come home from work, and disappear inside, only to reemerge when it was time for supper.

Now was his chance to finally discover what lay within.

… He reached the house just before the sun set, and had to sit for a minute in the driveway, marveling at just how weird the place still looked.

The house was three tiny stories stacked up poker-straight like the segments of a dead finger. The walls were cloaked in stucco, aged and worn, with the texture of old bones.

Charlie climbed out of his car, and fished for his key. A part of him was thankful he’d kept it all these years. The notches met with the cogs in the lock, and a heavy click rang from inside the door. With a squeak, the old wood swung away, and he was in.

It occurred to him to call for the housekeeper, so as she wouldn’t mistake him for an intruder.

“Sonya?” He called.

He called again.

Wind tousled the trees outside. Thunderheads advanced across the sky. The house shifted in its sleep.

No answer.

He hadn’t seen her car in the driveway. She was out. At the grocery store, perhaps.

And so Charlie went to the study. The door was just as he remembered it. Thick, dark, old. Stoic, he thought, like dad. He wondered what else in the study would remind him of his father. A part of him feared that the room would be a window into something Charlie didn’t want to see. Fighting, drinking—most of his father’s flaws were so obvious. What if he found something worse inside?

Either way, there had to be some reason for keeping it off-limits for all these years.

The knob turned freely in Charlie’s hand; he nudged the door ajar.

A flick of the light switch revealed a chair, a desk, and a massive painting.

It was bigger than any work Charlie had ever seen. The canvas dominated the entire north wall, stretching from the floor all the way to the ceiling. The subject was a single, aging hand, hewn from a muddy assortment of oils.

What struck Charlie was the detail. Every hair, every pore, every tiny imperfection was vitalized by articulate brushwork. The artist had scrawled a signature into the lower right corner, or, at least, what appeared to be one. Charlie got closer, and found not a name, but a sentence.

Fingers made me paint this.

No name. Just five words.

Charlie decided that, while strange, the signature didn’t really merit any more examination. Nor did the painting. He’d never pegged his father for an art buff, but this had been his private space. Maybe his love for paintings had been a well-kept secret.

Charlie moved to the desk. The surface was empty, but the built-in drawers weren’t. Within each he found a stack of papers—they were drawings, sketches in pencil and charcoal.

Of hands.

Page after page, stack after stack—hands. Old hands, young hands, fists, peace-signs.

finger guns, hands mid-clap. They were beautifully drawn, but each gave Charlie a weird feeling. His father had spent all his free time in this room. Had he just been drawing hands all day?

Charlie leafed through the last stack, and was about to shove it back in its drawer, when the last page caught his eye. This stood out from the others in that it sported a few lines of his father’s chicken-scratch shorthand.

Dear Assistant
I’m disappointed that he escaped, after all we went through to bring him into this world. I’d love to offer a solution, but I can’t. We’ll find him when he wants to be found.

A pair of holes perforated the paper near the bottom of the message, seemingly stabbed through with a pencil. Charlie’s head swam with questions, but he guessed he was looking at a draft of an unsent letter; the text was dated “August 9th, 1973.”

Charlie moved to put the letter back, then noticed something drawn on the other side of the page. This sketch featured a crude stick figure with a round, blank face. The holes from before were enclosed in its circle-face, now a pair of empty eyes.

The hands of the figure were way too big, and way too detailed to fit with the rest. Couple that with the eyes… And you had something seriously disturbing. Charlie put the letter away, and took a step back.

Had his father drawn all these hands? And the painting on the wall—was that his too?

Charlie returned to the massive canvas, and hefted it off its hook, hoping to find a signature on the back that would confirm his suspicions.

Instead, he found a door.

Charlie swallowed. Why…?

Not why was there a door, but why was it boarded up?

Charlie spotted five, no—six boards nailed to the doorframe. Obeying a visceral apart of himself, Charlie pressed an ear to the door. He wasn’t sure what he was trying to find, but he stumbled backward when a noise met him through the wood.

After getting over the shock, Charlie returned, and gave it a closer listen.

It was a sharp creaking sound, the noise a chair made when someone scooted it across a wooden floor.

“Hello?” Charlie called.

No answer. More creaking.

Charlie decided to rehang the painting, and leave the study before anything else weirded him out. Hell, maybe he’d just leave the house all together. He’d had enough of hands, creepy drawings, and everything else.

But he couldn’t do that. Not yet.

There was one more place he needed to see.

… Charlie’s old room was downstairs, nestled between the kitchen and the backyard like a forgotten novella in a row of dictionaries. He’d suspected it to be cleaned out—sold in pieces at various yard sales. However, after stepping inside, he found the room to be completely preserved. His bed, his posters, even his various Lego sets were just as he’d left them.

Though the peach freshener had long since left the atmosphere, leaving the funk of mold and old wood unchallenged. The creaking from upstairs was audible here too, but it quickly faded into the background. Charlie lay on the bed, and shut his eyes. He could almost hear his father’s voice probing the darkness, comforting him as he lay.

He must have fallen asleep, because the next thing Charlie knew, he was awake again. The sun had set, and rain pattered against the roof. The light of the moon threw shadows of the droplets onto the walls and floor, giving Charlie the impression that his room was melting.

All at once, he was a kid again. Lost and alone in a coffin of shadows. A stranger in a strange land. Only this time, he didn’t have his father. No voice to keep close when the cold set in. And boy, was it cold. The hairs on his arms stuck up like quills, and goose bumps had laid claim to his skin. Milky air hissed out of him like a spirit fleeing a tomb. Charlie caught the last ghost of a breath before it could escape. Something seemed particularly off about the room. Something he couldn’t quite… It hit him. The creaking had stopped. The chair—or whatever it was—had stopped.

Charlie wanted to sit up, but his legs refused. His childhood self assured him that death would follow any attempt to leave his bed. Best get under the blankets.

Then the cracking sounded. A harsh splitting sound from beyond the ceiling, the splintering of stubborn wood.

The planks.
A rip came seconds later.
The canvas.
Then footsteps. Fast and hard. Running down the stairs, straight through the hall.
And into his room.
Charlie had shut his eyes; he didn’t dare open them now.
A throaty voice mingled with the rain.
“I know your mother and I don’t always agree. And I know that sometimes, that can be scary.”
Charlie’s blood finally ran cold.
“And I know that I can say some scary things.”
No…
“But I love you, Charlie,” the thing said in his father’s voice, “don’t ever forget that.”

A hand brushed against Charlie’s forehead, and Charlie grabbed it. His eyes flew open, and standing above him, he found a tall shadow. Taller than his father ever was.

“Who are you!?”

Even as he said the words, Charlie knew that what would’ve been more appropriate.

Glowing green eyes sparkled like fire crackers. Huge hands dangled from its arms, painted bone-white by the moon. Charlie didn’t see a mouth open, but seconds later, a scream issued from the depths of the creature louder than anything Charlie had ever heard. The shriek rattled the glass, and Charlie’s teeth. It was all he needed.

In one motion, Charlie sprung out of bed, and slammed his fist into the Creature’s face. It toppled like a bowling pin—a big tangle of dry limbs and darkness. Charlie stormed out the door, and tore through the hallway. His heart pushed blood into his head as he pumped his feet. All the while it was right behind him, screaming like a tortured prisoner. He was mere feet from the door when he felt its fingers on his back, tugging at his jacket. And so he let it go—Buttons and all.

He wriggled free of the jacket, and threw it into the thing’s face. He ripped the door open, and stumbled outside, slamming it behind him. The thing regarded him from beyond the glass of the door. It seemed unable to leave the house—or, at least, it didn’t want to. Charlie wanted to run, to tear away in his car and never look back. But there was one question that still needed answering.

“Why did you do it? Why did you impersonate him for all those years?” The creature took a moment to reply. “Because I wanted to be him,” it cooed in a voice that didn’t belong to anyone. “But I am just fingers.” Charlie was gone. Out of the driveway, out of the neighborhood, then out of the city. The rain still tore through the air, still coated the road. But it was letting up. Charlie took out his phone and combed through his contacts. Not friends, not coworkers. Family. Small group, but it existed.

The decision cheered him up, as they usually did. And this was a big one. He decided to get in touch with some real family.

Mute

Martin raised his head in the direction of the distant shouting and set forth to investigate. The dense and prickly brush that covered the rocky land scraped at his unprotected torso as he trudged closer to the source of the unknown noise. He had walked through the forest for what seemed to be five minutes before he found the source of the sound: a distressed-looking woman who carried a large backpack and continued to shout the same phrase.

“Sunny!” she shouted, “Sunny!”

Martin deliberately rustled a bush near him to let his presence be known, which the woman immediately reacted to by jerking herself backward to face him. The woman’s face revealed a fearful expression, which quickly distorted into that of surprise.

“Oh my god are you alright?” She paced quickly at Martin with a look of concern on her face and dropped to her knees so she could look him in the face. “What are you doing all the way out here, are you lost?” A brief silence loomed between them before he answered by shaking his head vehemently. The woman looked deeply perplexed.

“Where are your parents?”

Martin didn’t answer.

“You can talk to me” the woman stated while displaying a warm smile.

The boy stared at her for a few seconds, then created an X out of his index fingers and rose them toward his face where he placed them over his mouth. The woman’s worried expression returned. Her eyes drifted to the side and she contemplated her situation. Moments later her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a dog’s bark.

“Sunny!” She stood up and shouted, “Where are you?” She waited for a response, but never got it. She faced Martin.

“Stay close to me, we’re gonna find that dog, alright?”

Martin complied and they both headed deep into the forest. As they walked, the woman spoke about her life in the city and asked questions that went unanswered. Occasionally a bark would be heard and they both would continue to follow it blindly while the woman kept calling. They found a stream eventually and they stopped to rest and replenish their water supply for a few minutes before continuing. When dusk arrived, the woman gave a deep sigh and turned to Martin.

“We need to get you home”

He nodded in agreement, and began to walk back the direction he came. When the woman attempted to follow, he turned and pointed at her, then to the direction where they had heard the dog’s bark. The woman looked conflicted.

“Do you know your way back?”

Martin gave a single nod and turned his back to the woman for the last time. “You sure?”

He ignored her and kept walking.

He hadn’t been walking for three minutes before he found he spotted the corpse of a dead animal in the middle of his path. He advanced upon it slowly for an examination, and found it to be the body of a brown and white mutt. Its eyes were closed and its mouth was shut, it would have looked very peaceful if it weren’t for the fresh surgical wound that ran along its neck. Frightened, he looked all around him to see if the dog’s killer was about. Nothing. Then he heard the sound of a dog’s bark in the distance. He looked back towards the dead mutt, it still lay there dead and unthreatening. Terrified, he decided that head back alone was not an option. The night’s first wave of fireflies appeared as he frantically sprinted back in the direction of the woman. He reached the stream that they had rested at earlier only to find her body peacefully lying on its back with its arms crossed on its belly. Its neck had the same wound.

The boy heard the bark again, only it seemed closer this time. He jerked his head in all directions searching for the best way of escape. He impulsively selected the thickest patch of brush he could find and dashed into it. He ran. The bark was heard again, though this time it seemed much closer. He stumbled over rocks and roots as the night became blacker. The bark repeated three more times, each time getting closer. The small branches around him torn at his skin and snagged his shorts as he ran through them. He heard the woman questioning him from behind.

“Where are your parents?”

Her voice sounded mechanical, like it was being projected from a megaphone.

“How far from here do you live?”

It now seemed like she stood right behind him, but he didn’t dare look.

“You can talk to me” The voice whispered in Martin’s ear.

Martin felt a hand grasp his shoulder and he was tossed to the ground. His impact with the earth pressed the air from his lungs and before he could regain his breath he was effortlessly flipped on his back by whatever stood behind him. What he could see in the dark appeared to be a partially organic and partially mechanical humanoid. Fastened to its exterior were a pair of mechanical lungs, each one inflated and deflated like a bellows fueling a fire. Secured to the monster’s waist appeared to be a varied collection of vocal organs floating freely in a transparent tank of dirty liquid.

The creature used one cold, iron hand to secure Martin to the ground while leaning forward to get a better look at the boy who now suffered in silence. His breath shook heavily and his face was wet with tears and blood, but no noise was produced from the child. The creature now took its free hand and ran its fingers down the boy’s neck while gazing at the familiar mark that ran along it. Upon seeing Martin’s scar the creature stood up, turned its head in a robotic snap, and leisurely wandered back into the forest where it had come from. Martin watched the monster until it was out of sight.

He had survived again, and he felt relieved until he heard the monsters parting words “Goodbye Martin” shouted the invisible voice in the distance.

Hearing his own name did not strike Martin, but he was horrified that it was spoken in the same voice that narrated his conscience.

Scout

The boy had been hunting for only a few weeks when he realized how dangerous it was to be in the woods at night. He took up the job of providing the family with food, what little he had left of his family, after his father had died from an infected wound that he had received from an intimidated rodent. There were only his mother and younger sister left to expectantly wait at home in anticipation of some sort of meal for the night (there wasn’t much left to do out in the woods other than eat and appreciate each others’ company). The boy remembered when he had the leisure of having the role of waiting at home, and he missed those times.

“I miss my father,” he said. “I wish that he was with me to comfort me, to be my companion in this lonely forest, and to properly teach me how to do this task of hunting that I never expected to take up.”

He had been following a deer for a couple of minutes in hopes of bringing it back to his family’s shelter. He had never killed a deer before, but he had seen his father bring the graceful beasts strapped over his back many times before.

“Maybe I will be like my father,” he wished. “Maybe he will be with me, drawing the arrow back with me, guiding my aim to the deer’s vitals.”

The deer was very adventurous, though. It travelled through the forest deeper and deeper until the boy was no longer able to recognize the trees and brush as those of the world he grew up in. The animal had little care for this, though, as it had no suspicion that a small human had been silently following its every footstep.

When the deer stopped to eat some fresh evergreen plants, the boy nearly blew his cover from his heart skipping a beat. He seized the opportunity to raise his bow, grab and arrow, and prepare to kill the animal. He aimed for the deer’s vitals, and pulled back the string of his bow. In the heat of his excitement, whether it had been for the desire be as much of a man as his father or simply due to his overwhelming hunger, his hand began to nervously shake. The string of the bow snapped loudly, and the arrow whirred into the air above the boy. The deer bent its head quickly toward the disturbance, and it scurried away into the darkness between the trees as soon as it registered the threat of the boy.

“Curse these frail hands!” he yelled. “Now I’ll return home with no food, nothing to be proud of, and it’s all because of these hands!”

But his exclamations were cut short when he noticed a luminous appearance in the black of the forest. Not one shape, he realized, but two small, glowing shapes about two and a half feet above the ground. He made out the details of the bright circles: each had a golden brightness with a black pupil that was deeper than the abyss of the forest. These radiant eyes stared straight into the pale, sickly eyes of the now-frightened boy.

The boy realized that this was a black wolf, one of the most dangerous creatures of the forest night. Just like his mother’s warnings had told him, he could see nothing of the beast in the evening darkness except for those two orbs. The rest of the wolf’s body was left up to his imagination. He imagined the large fangs that would be used to strip his body away from his bones, the thick paws that would leap upon him and hold him down, and the large fur that coated the nimble, yet strong, build of the killing machine. The boy knew that this was only what he imagined, unsure of whether the reality was better or worse.

The boy and the beast were locked into each other’s sight. He wondered if the wolf had any ulterior motives behind his primal desires. He wondered if the wolf had its eyes on the same deer that he had been stalking through the forest earlier. He wanted to apologize to the wolf, to tell implore it to forgive him for scaring away its meal. How he would have given up, he thought, if he had known that such a threatening predator was also claiming ownership over that graceful creature. He wondered if his mother and sister would have forgiven him for giving up their dinner to evade a wolf. He wondered what his father would have thought. Would he have thought of him to be wise or cowardly? There was no drawback to attempting to escape now, though. The boy’s mind raced while trying to formulate a strategy to lose the wolf. His body stayed completely still despite his frantic state of mind. The wolf’s eyes matched this retention of composure: a focused, calm exterior that differed from its raging bloodlust inside.

The boy slowly took a step back, knowing that his life could be stripped away within the next second. The wolf’s eyes moved up by an inch, and the boy’s limbs turned into that of a statue’s as soon as he noticed. Clenching his muscles tightly, the boy shut his eyes and prepared for a jet-black demise. The wolf moved his legs up, and arched his back downward.

A howl echoed out from the heart of the forest.

The boy opened his eyes to hear the footsteps of the wolf trotting into the night. He loosened his muscles and thanked the Lord, thanked his father, thanked his ancestors for watching over him. He decided to find his way back home, even though he was unsure of his current location in the forest.

The boy turned around to head back and was immediately met with six pairs of glowing eyes that had responded to the dinner call.