Spillway Review
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The Crawl Space

by W. F. Stokes, Jr.


It is early September and the leaves are already beginning to fall.  The heavily treed lot where the house sits will be covered with leaves in another week.  They're falling early this year, not due to cold weather but because of the drought. 

The drought's killed the grass, too, except where it's been watered.  I don't water grass; I detest yard work.  I've left the yard natural, except a small part right around the house; it's easier to maintain that way.  I don't have neighbors; leastwise, none nearby . . . nearest is six miles away.  Maintaining a yard for the neighborhood isn't an issue.  I like it that way.

I don't rake my leaves, just let them lay.  They serve as warning devices when they're on the ground.  Leaves can't be walked on without making noise.  This is helpful, especially at night.  Even with a bright moon, the trees on the lot block the light, like a shroud covering a coffin.  The leaves provide an alert when intruders are present.  I can tell by the sounds of the leaves when there is a cat or a dog or a deer outside.  I can tell when the noise is made by only two legs.  Animals don't bother me when they come near the house at night; they mean no harm.  Things with two legs bother me . . . two-legged things making noises . . . things I cannot see, making noise.

I sat in my chair in the living room reading.  My eyes had begun to grow weary when I heard a thud at the back door.  The house has two back doors, one in the kitchen and one in the living room.  The kitchen door is the one from which the sound came.  The door has a window.  The sound came from the window portion of the door; the window had been struck with something solid.  It was not the sound of an acorn falling against the window, it was much more substantial.  The sound was sufficiently loud to drive me from my chair to investigate the source of the sound.  I went to the door and peered out, looking around the curtains and through the window into the blackness outside.  Unable to see anything, I switched on the deck light and opened the door.  There was nothing; nor was there evidence anything had hit the door window and dropped to the deck in front of the door.  I listened.  In the distance, I could hear faint sounds of retreating footsteps, fleeting footsteps, going through the brush and moving across the crunchy leaves.  I called out but there was no response.  I could not see beyond the trees.  The footsteps stopped after I called out.  I went to the kitchen drawer, where I kept the flashlight, and returned to the open doorway.  I shined the light in the direction of the steps but there was nothing.  Then, I heard the footsteps again.  They were walking with purpose, moving slowly and deliberately away from the house, deeper into the woods, deeper into the darkness.  They were two-legged footsteps, I could tell.  I stood quietly on the deck and listened until I could hear them no more.  I returned to my chair in the living room and continued my reading.

An hour passed when I was again disturbed.  There was a similar noise at the window in the living room.  It sounded as though the window had been struck with a stick.  I went to the door in the living room, turned on the light and looked into the backyard.  I saw nothing.  I heard steps on the leaves.  They were slow and steady – step – step – step.  They were deliberate, not soft steps, wishing to go unnoticed; they were deliberate and they continued – step – step – until I could no longer hear them.  I left the outside light on and returned to my reading.

My eyes grew heavy as I read; I placed a bookmark in my book and prepared for bed.  I checked all the doors, making sure they were locked and turned off the lights.  I got in bed and went to sleep immediately.  I was resting comfortably, when suddenly, something awakened me.  Something caused my eyes to open wide.  I lay in the bed, in the position that I had been sleeping.  I could see the lighted numerals on the clock glowing . . . 1:00 a.m.  Something had awakened me . . . but what?  What had caused me to regain consciousness from such a deep and thorough sleep?  I listened.  I could hear the steady, monotonous ticking of the wall clock in the living room.  The wind blew outside; the leaves remaining on the trees made a rustling noise as the wind flirted with them.  There was a small bump on the roof . . . probably an acorn or a small branch, blown from one of the trees . . . a clicking sound in the wall in the corner nearest the head board . . . just the house adjusting to the weather.  What was it that had aroused me from my deep sleep?  No moon out.  It is completely dark outside my bedroom window, there are no shadows.  The deck creaked once then popped . . . it's adjusting to the weather, too.  There was nothing but the sound of my breathing.  I became apprehensive; my breathing grew louder and louder.  I was breathing faster.  My heart was beating harder; it was beginning to pound.  Was I having an anxiety attack?  Something had caused me to awaken.  I lay still and quiet and listened.  The bed seemed to be in sync with my heartbeat . . . surely my heart was pounding hard enough to make the bed rock with each thump.  The bed seemed to be moving with every beat, pulsating with the blood pumped through my arteries.  I must be imagining the movement of the bed.  My beating heart could not physically cause the bed to move.  I stared blankly into the blackness surrounding me and listened.  The crickets and other night insects were the only sounds.  There was another noise from the roof, an acorn had fallen, I heard it as it rolled from the roof.  Then, there was a loud thud from underneath the floor of my bedroom.  I sat up immediately. 

The crawl space around the house is bricked completely.  There is only one place to enter it.  There is a small door with a latch.  That is the only way to get into the crawl space.  I was sure the crawl space door was closed and latched; it's always closed and latched.  There was another thud.  It was a hard sound, as if someone had bumped their head on the floor joist underneath my bedroom.  The crawl space has vents, but they are screened with heavy wire and louvers.  The noise could not be from a raccoon or other such animal . . . they could not penetrate the vents.  I threw off the cover and stood.  As I stood, I heard a sound.  An airy, hissing, growl like a sound that would come from deep within an animal's throat . . . then an airy sound, like the sound of exhaling loudly through an opened mouth.  A sound like that of a cat hissing and spitting, only deeper and slower, a demonic sound . . . I could feel the hair on my arms and neck raise in response to the noise.  The noise turned into a low, moaning growl.  I turned on the light and slipped on a pair of shoes.  I ran for the flashlight.  I opened the kitchen door and walked slowly across the deck, feeling my way with each stride.  I made my way to the steps.  I stopped.  Hastily, I shined the flashlight toward the crawl space entrance at the end of the house.  The door to the crawl space stood opened.  The flashlight beam penetrated the thick blackness of the crawl space. 

"Okay!  I know you're in there.  Now you come on out, right now!" I said, in as stern a voice as I could muster.  There was no response.  I could hear that deep throat, airy sound again, but it was much louder now.  The sound turned to a moaning growl.  It was coming from the crawl space.  The hair on my arms and neck stood erect again.  My heart pounded.  I moved slowly and cautiously toward the crawl space entrance.  First, down the steps from the deck, one step at a time – four steps.  My eyes and the flashlight were directed at the opening.  I inched my way toward the black hole of the open door at crawl space opening.  The sound grew louder and the moaning growl became louder and more intense.  It knew I was coming.  It was waiting, waiting for me!  Cautiously . . . ever so cautiously, I stood back from the crawl space and shined the light straight back into it; there was nothing. I bent and moved to a position where I could direct the light to the area under my bedroom and peered into the crawl space.  The hair on my arms was still standing erect and the hideous noise grew ever louder.  The noise turned to a shrieking snarl.  As I moved the light around, I saw a dark form.  It was crouched down, located in a position about the center of my bedroom.  I could see a head, shoulders and arms.  It was squatting, with its back toward me.  I could not make out other discernable characteristics – suddenly it turned – exposing bright red, glowing eyes.  They gleamed hideously as the light beam from the flashlight reflected from them.  The thing screamed a shrill scream that turned into a deep blood-curdling growl from deep within its throat and showed its sharp yellow teeth and froth from its mouth.  The sound was like that of a scream from a mountain lion or a cougar and reverberated like the cry of a demon from hell.  The evil eyes focused on the light I held in my hand.  Suddenly, it bolted and started for the opening!  It moved, keeping its head low and propping on its hands.

I started for the steps at the deck.  My feet slipped and my legs were like stone.  It was as though I was moving in slow motion while this thing streaked from the crawl space toward me.  My attention was focused on the opened kitchen door.  The beast was moving at a remarkable speed and would be upon me in an instant if I did not get up the steps.  I struggled, losing a shoe in the process.  I stumbled as I started up the steps and looked back quickly at the crawl space entrance; it was making its way from the entrance . . . hissing, spewing, frothing from its mouth and clawing as it made its way out.  I regained my footing and ran across the deck . . . the thing was starting up the steps to the deck.  I grasp the door facing of the kitchen door and pulled myself into the house.  It was on the deck.  I could hear it running across the deck making scratching sounds as it tore the wood fibers with its claws and made its way toward the door.  As I entered the kitchen, I slammed the door behind me.  It hit the kitchen door with a loud crash, shaking the door violently. 

As I turned the dead bolt, I felt the doorknob turn in my hand.  It was scratching and beating the door.  Unearthly, demonic screeching and growling noises came from the creature as it clawed and scratched.  My heart was pounding.  I was breathless; my mouth was dry.  It was still clawing at the door; it wanted inside; it wanted me.  I couldn't swallow.  I moved back from the door and watched anxiously as I listened to it claw and scratch.  It shrieked and wailed like a pack of possessed demons set loose from the bowels of hell. 

I waited and listened.  The scratching and clawing stopped.  I heard steps on the leaves . . . steps retreating from the house . . . steps like I heard earlier.  I turned on all the outside lighting and went nervously to the kitchen window, anxiously, peering out; there was nothing but heavy darkness.  The exterior lights caused the trees to cast grotesque shadows on the yard but nothing else.  Nothing but the blackness of the night and the shadows  Was it gone?  I went to the living room window and then the bedroom window.  It was gone!  What was it?  I had never seen anything like it.  It walked stooped and humped over.  Though it walked on two feet, it also used its hands.  I shook as I thought about the creature and how it turned and faced the light from its dismal lair in the crawl space.  Who would believe me?

I sat at the kitchen table, trying to regain my composure.  My respiration and heartbeat were still not normal.  I needed to relax; I went to the refrigerator for a beer and then fell into my favorite chair.  I sipped my beer and thought about what I had seen but I wasn't sure what I had seen.  Was it some demon, inspired and conjured up from hell?  Or had I imagined the whole thing?  Had I allowed my imagination to get away from me?  That couldn't be.  After all, the door to the crawl space was open when I went out to check, I didn't imagine that . . . and I am missing a shoe.  But there is no proof that anything had been in the crawl space, no proof that it chased me.  There is no proof.  If I say anything about it, they will think I am insane, just like they did Jules Hickman.  Then they'll come and take me away, just like they took him away.  I remember Jules.  He wasn't crazy, not to start with, anyhow.  Jules lived about ten miles away and one day he just started talking to himself.  Then he told them about seeing things at night – strange things, so he said – and if I'm not careful they'll do the same thing with me.  They came for him and took him away and I haven't seen him since.   What I saw was real, I know it; it doesn't matter that I can't explain it – I know what I saw. 

One more beer and I'll be able to go back to sleep, maybe.  I'll take it to bed with me and that should do the trick.  I left my reading lamp on and took my book and beer to the bedroom where I lay in bed and read, sipping my beer until I was once again sleepy.  I put my book aside.  I had left all the outside lights on and tried once again to relax as I stretched out in my bed; but I lay there restlessly tossing for a while before getting comfortable on my side.  With my eyes closed facing the doorway leading into the living room, I could sense the light from my reading lamp, the way you can see red through your eyelids when you look at a light with your eyes closed.  The light gave me a secure feeling.  It shown down the hallway and into my bedroom

I was finally comfortable and relaxed.  I tried to clear the mental trauma keeping me from sleep.  I was in the house alone.  The silence was deafening.  I could hear my heart beating; I could hear the air passing through my lungs each breath that I took.  I was adapting . . . I was relaxed almost to the point of sleep.

Subconsciously, I realized the light from the lamp in the living room was not as noticeably bright.  Even with my eyes closed, I could sense something between me and the light from the lamp.  A shadow was being cast across my eyes.  I sensed movement.  Something was between me and the lamp light . . . or was I falling prey to my own overactive imagination?  I must decide what to do.  Should I open my eyes and confirm that I am imagining an object is casting the shadow?  Whatever is making the shadow had positioned itself silently.  I had no warning of its presence until I realized I was blocked from the light of the lamp.  It had to be nearly as large as a person to block out the light.  Likely it was standing in the doorway leading into my bedroom.  It could be closer, though, I couldn't be sure.  It was watching me.  My heart began to beat faster.  I couldn't allow that.  I must remain calm.  I couldn't get excited.  I must control myself.
 There was probably nothing to this, yet my heart began to pound.  I knew I had to get my heart rate under control.  I could feel the blood rushing through the arteries in my neck.  My increased heart rate would cause my breathing to increase.  I could feel the shortness of breath.  I had to calm down.  I heard a thud at my bedroom window.  It was the same sound I had heard at the kitchen door and at the window in the living room.  I swallowed hard.  My mouth was dry; swallowing was difficult.  My heart continued to race.

I heard another sound.  A quiet sound.  The kind of sound only heard in dead silence, the quiet brushing sound of nearby movement.  The floor popped – the kind of sound a floor makes underneath a footstep.  I could hear a sound.  A deep throat, growling, hissing sound.  It's back!  It's in the room!  Maybe . . . maybe, there were two of them.  One came inside, through the open kitchen door, while I was outside at the crawl space.  Now it's standing over me looking down at me.  I must be dreaming at this very moment.  I must not move . . . if I don't move, it will go away . . . or should I open my eyes?