Episode Notes
Blake has been tasked with going into the crawlspace to find the source of a putrid odor, but that was only the tip of the iceberg of morbid insanity that awaits him.
The Dead Thing Under the House by David O'Hanlon
Music by Ray Mattis
http://raymattispresents.bandcamp.com
Produced by Daniel Wilder
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Transcription:
Old Man Jennings ventured from his home on Sundays. He’d amble down the gravel path that led from his porch to his mailbox for the weekly accumulation of sales ads and bills, and promptly retreat into seclusion. In Blake’s thirty-one years, he’d never seen anyone come to visit Meadowview’s mysterious hermit. Once a week, a lawncare service came out to take care of his yard. Twice a year, someone power washed his siding. He paid them all with a check, slipped through the mail slot, when they were finished.
A barred door with two locks hung on both the front and rear of the house and they stayed shut. He would open the ornate front door with its beveled stained-glass window to enjoy the weather, but never the security door. His windows were much the same with heavy, blackout curtains on the inside and bars on the out. His groceries were delivered promptly at one in the afternoon, every Thursday for as long as Blake could remember. A little doggie-door, for lack of a better term, would lift out and Jennings would pull the bags through to the obscure solitude of his self-imposed prison.
Theorizing about what went on inside the home was a Meadowview pastime as familiar as the annual crawdad boil or the town’s community yard sale. Depending on who you asked, Old Man Jennings was a Satanist, a serial killer, or a space alien. Some people even believed he was already dead and his ghost was just stuck there. Blake didn’t believe any of it.
The ancient coot would have to leave the house to murder people, after all. As kids, Blake and his friends dedicated enough hours spying on the man to know that never happened. As an adult, his divorce had forced him to move back in with his mother… directly across the street from Jennings. Blake found himself peering through the blinds out of habit and the geezer still stayed locked inside, just like he always had.
So, it would be an understatement to say Blake was shocked to find Old Man Jennings standing on the porch when he answered the geriatric’s frantic knocking. Jennings’ hair was an explosion of white that jutted from his dark scalp in all directions. The mane was much more ample than Blake’s own, which was retreating faster than a chubby kid at fat camp. Jennings stood on the porch with the grim stature and utter silence of an animated skeleton. Blake shut the door, removed the chain lock and opened it fully.
“Mister Jennings, are you lost?”
“No,” Jennings said. “There’s something dead in my crawlspace.”
Blake squinted at the elderly man. “Pretty sure there’s people that take care of that.”
“There is, but I don’t like strangers.” Jennings pointed a bony, accusatory finger at Blake. “That’s why I came to you. I’ve known you longer than anyone.”
“We don’t really know each other, though,” Blake muttered in confusion.
“Then how did you know my name?” Jennings’ lips peeled away from toothbrush-commercial quality chompers in what might have been a genuine smile. “Is your mother home?”
Blake shook his head. “She’s in Toledo, visiting my sister.”
“Oh? How is Sharon? Still married to that banker?” Jennings looked away and tsked. “Sorry, about your own divorce, by the by.”
Blake’s jaw dropped open. “How’d you know about that?”
“Just because I don’t leave my house doesn’t mean I don’t talk to my neighbors.” Jennings shrugged. “Your mother’s been my pen pal since 1984.”
Blake looked over Jennings’ shoulder at his home. “My mom sends you letters? From across the street?”
“She respects my eccentricities.” Jennings jabbed his thumb toward the street. “Speaking of, think you can help me with the dead thing under the house?”
Blake sighed. “Yeah. Let me change into something else first.”
He shut the door and headed upstairs. He wasn’t about to mess up his favorite self-pity outfit crawling around in the mud and spiderwebs that surely occupied the crawlspace. The thought of all those spiders hiding in the dark prickled his skin with a wave of primal terror. He pulled the Ghoulies II t-shirt away from his goose bumped flesh.
Blake Sterling’s father gave him the most heroic name in history before he split.
However, it wasn’t a name he ever lived up to it. Spiders were only one of his many phobias. Stretch marks peeked over the band of his sweat pants from a childhood full of expired Twinkies and Ding Dongs his mom brought home from her job at the gas station. Years of bullying led ‘Blake the Blob’ away from the sweets… and food in general. He looked like one of those kids the infomercial people feed for a nickel a day. His dainty form lacked definition or distinction, minus a single tattoo. His ex-wife’s name was coiled around a rose over his heart. He got it the day she said she’d marry him. The mirror inside the closet door reminded him of all the reasons Kayla left.
Blake grabbed a black t-shirt from a drawer and pulled it over his head before changing into a battered pair of Wranglers that were already stained from painting his kitchen. His face soured. It wasn’t his kitchen anymore. He threw on his sneakers and didn’t bother tying them. The crawlspace was going to be more fun than his usual day of self-imposed purgatory. Blake slumped down the stairs and met Jennings on the porch.
The two men made their way across the street and through the gate of Jennings’ chain-link fence. A piece of the butterscotch lattice was removed from the side of the house to reveal the access point between the cinderblocks. The mid-morning sun was blocked by the trio of white oaks in the front yard leaving Blake to unravel the mysteries of the crawlspace on his own. The putrid-sweet stench of rotting meat lingered leisurely from the opening. Blake knelt down and groaned.
“A bit tight,” he said.
“It’s called a crawlspace for a reason.” Jennings tapped him on the shoulder with a small, metallic flashlight. “The smell is strongest in my bedroom. Straight ahead fifteen feet and then hang a left. You should find whatever it is in that area.”
“Right.” Blake took the light and let its beam stab into the tangible darkness. “Mister Jennings, are you sure you don’t want to call someone that knows what they’re doing?”
“You’re a grown up now, you can stop with the ‘Mister Jennings’ stuff. My name’s Harp. And you do know what you’re doing, Blake. You’re pulling a carcass out from under my house for me.” He turned to leave then twisted back. “Oh, I’ve got an apple pie cooling right now for you too. Come get me when you’re all finished.”
Blake shimmied into the space. The flashlight revealed a few broken spiderwebs dangling from the floor. Whatever died had crawled in along the same path that Blake now took and the goose bumps quickly returned. He clamped the flashlight between his teeth and crawled along, panning his head from side to side looking for the vagrant spiders as much as he was the dead thing. Once he made it what he surmised to be fifteen feet, he turned as Harp had instructed. A wave of steam swirled in front of his light and he paused.
Blake took the instrument from his mouth and huffed hard watching the breath fog. He crawled forward slowly, shivering at the sudden bite of cold pressing against his face. The progression was like stepping into a meat locker as he left the warm summer air behind him. The temperature continued dropping with his advance.
Something jutted out of the earth in front of him. He squinted at the shape, trying to discern its nature. It didn’t help. Harp’s pungent guest spread its perfume with exponential intensity as he inched closer. The light flickered and dimmed before it could reveal the source of the growing stench and then went out completely.
Blake continued onward, shaking his head like a dog in an attempt to bring life back to the tool. It worked…
And he wished in hadn’t.
The illumination fell on the mound of disturbed dirt and then onto the arm—the very human arm that reached out of the shallow grave with its fingers furled into the soil. Blake followed the limb to the naked shoulder, up the livid flesh of the neck to the face. Between the strands of dirt-caked, blonde hair the dead woman’s expression was frozen in a final moment of stark terror. The flashlight plopped next to the corpse with Blake’s panicked screaming. He scurried backwards until he was far enough away to risk taking his eyes off the corpse and turned in a mad dash for the exit.
Blake collapsed onto Harp’s porch swing. The neglected chains called out in a demented screech at the arrival of its first guest in decades. Harp pushed open the security door and watched Blake shudder with heaving breaths.
“There’s a dead woman under your house,” Blake whispered.
Harp leaned on the porch rail and crossed his arms. “Just the one?”
“What?” Blake took his eyes off his shaking hands and looked at Harp.
“Was there only the one body down there?”
“I… I don’t know. I didn’t keep looking after I found that one. Why would there be more than one? Why are there any?” Blake shot up. “Why the fuck are you so calm right now? Exactly how many dead bodies under your house would you consider too many?”
“Three,” Harp answered, matter-of-factly. “Three would be very bad. Did you bring the body out?”
“I’m not disturbing a crime scene!”
“Do you know she was murdered?” Harp raised an eyebrow and held his hands open waiting for an answer. When Blake shook his head, he continued. “So, it’s not a crime scene. She might have craw
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