Beneath

There’s a man who lives beneath the streets.

People say you can’t be sure about such things, but I am, I know he’s there. And it must be the streets, it must be, there’s just nowhere else to hide. No secret places, no escape from the village of Greendale. Quaint two-story houses, with useless empty backyards; corner shops with abhorrent prices; sprawling flat fields, filled with ankle-high grass. Nothing else to use but the streets. I can see him, twisting under the manhole covers and mashing through the slender pipes beneath, to reach into our lives. No need to creep in the night or slink past the residents of Greendale during the day. He watches us, always.

But I was used to being watched, even when I was absolutely alone. I could feel their eyes piercing through the walls to judge and pry. Which is why the Man had never bothered me before. One time someone’s cousin, Sally Kronan, came in from out of town. My neighbor Mr.Treacher caught us together in my Uncle’s gazebo. He had been hanging out of his window on the second floor, using the detachable sink head from his bathroom to water his plants in the backyard. He possessed an incredible passion for gossip, for a man of such insurmountable horticultural laziness. By the end of the week, the village had assured itself that scoundrel Andrew Martin had all but assaulted an innocent damsel. I was fourteen at the time; she was five years older than me. The Man beneath the street knew that.

I first noticed the Man during my sister Darla’s thirteenth birthday, the whole family had come out to see her and would be gone the following week by my 18th birthday. They had sent me off to the kitchen earlier with various odd jobs, helping Gran prep the food, stacking napkins, filling drinks. Busy work. Towards the end of the night, Gran asked me to go count the guests, so she could cut the cake.

She was forgetful in her old age, or else it was another pointless task. I stepped out into the living room and started counting. Darla, Mom, Dad, Uncle John, Darla’s friend, Mr. Treacher, Gran in the kitchen, three kids, Sally’s cousin; some older people I couldn’t recognize; eleven, twelve, thirteen.

I stopped and counted again, then again and again. Thirteen people, not including myself. I returned to Gran and gave her the number. She didn’t skip a beat before beginning to cut the rectangular cake into even slices.

I brought out the cake, the sound of happy birthday began. Everyone sat down, each taking a piece of the cake. I hadn’t taken mine yet, but there were two pieces left on the tray. I asked the group. But they laughed, they told me that I just counted wrong. But I asked again; I don’t miscount, I was good at counting; I told them this too. They laughed again, but softer. I turned to the kitchen to ask Gran how she cut the cake. From behind, Mr.Treacher said to my mother, “I tell you there’s something wrong with your boy.” I stopped and looked back. My mother’s eyes matched mine for a moment, but she turned away as if she hadn’t seen me, as if I hadn’t heard. I was about to slink off until I noticed something on the counter. One slice of cake. Just one. I had been right. Someone hadn’t taken a slice before. I had to count again to be sure. No one noticed me stride across the room to grab a fire poker, no one thought twice.

Everyone screamed as I bashed in my mother’s skull.

One.

My dad came at me, yelling incoherently. The poker found itself lodged in his neck.

Two.

Everyone noticed, everyone saw, everyone began to run. Mr treacher followed the three young kids upstairs. Darla, her friend and Sally’s cousin, crouched in a corner. My sister was fighting through tears to say something to me. I couldn’t hear her through the other’s screams.

Three. Four. Five.

I didn’t mean to kill Gran, I didn’t know she was in the kitchen when I burst in brandishing the fire poker. her old heart gave out. I didn’t mean to kill her.

Six.

Two of the people I couldn’t recognize were huddled by the back door, fiddling with the lock, unable to get it open. The fire poker was bent, I grabbed Gran’s knife.

Seven. Eight.

The children hid in Darla’s room.

Nine. Ten. Eleven.

Mr. Treacher tried to crawl out of the bathroom window. For him, I dropped the knife. I Wrapped the sink nozzle around his neck twice, bracing myself against the windowsill before pulling with all my might.

Twelve.

And then I was back at the party. The sounds of the guests eating in front of me. Thirteen, I counted them fresh again in my head. Reliving each fantasy over and over. Thirteen. I was so lost in thought that I almost didn’t notice a form pass the living room window. Excusing myself to no one in particular, I went to follow it. Just a glimpse as it passed through the yard. Just the rattling of the manhole as he squeezed under it. I started prying it open, and a chill ran down my spine. The Man was there, staring at me. He had no eyes, but he stared at me. A flowing tattered black cloak wrapped around him, holding the Man at impossible angles in the drain, floating and digging into the walls. He had no mouth, and yet he spoke to me. Clear in my mind, he called me into the drain. The cloak billowed up, enveloping me, shutting out the world until it was just the darkness of his cloak and the pale whiteness of his naked form. Then his body opened, a sickening wet, crackling noise. Uncooked rice being mashed into a paste. From his broken form, a perfect slice of cake emerged, pushing itself towards me. Before I could notice that the Man’s tongue was still attached to the cake, it was forced into my mouth. He pushed it further and further, entering me. I closed my eyes and kept them closed. It was silent. I opened my eyes... but he wasn’t there.

There’s Man who lives beneath the streets.

I see him wherever I go.

In the reflections of people’s eyes,

behind their very shadows.

The corners of my sight,

And in the corners of my mind.

If he isn’t moving beneath the road,

then he is still inside me.

Thirteen...