They're coming.

Collected Rejections Weekly Writing Prompt #36

“On New Years’ Eve, someone writes a list of resolutions. But when they wake up on January 1, they find that their list has become a list of obligations—with dire consequences if they don’t follow through.”

—

Get over Emmett

Three little words on the page of their notebook stared accusingly at Frankie in the dim light, wavering in their hand as they sighed into place on the loveseat.

The place was a wreck. The sounds of the night echoed in Frankie’s bones, echoes of shouts and laughter and the thoom, thoom, thoom of midnight. It was a miracle no one called the cops, to be honest. They exhaled, long and slow, properly drained from the night.

No, tidying up would have to wait until tomorrow. Without looking, Frankie rummaged for a pencil on the side table beside them, frowning at each broken one before finding one with a point.

Clean up for company

They balanced pad and pencil on the overstuffed armrest, their eyes lingering on them for a moment as a small, contented smile crossed their face. Frankie stood; their fingers snagged a half-emptied bottle from the table slicked with carelessness, and they made their way to bed.

—

“They’re coming.”

Frankie could feel slow breath on their cheek, cold and dry, rotting and sweet.

Randy hunched on the bedside table, fingers dangling long and dark off the edge. She blinked, first one eye, then the next, and so on. “They’re coming,” she said again, smiling, cocking her head and peering at Frankie’s wet mouth.

Frankie groaned as they sat up in the morning’s light. “Hello, Randy.”

“They’re coming,” Randy sing-songed, her pointed tongue running over flopping teeth. “Better hurry.”

It was much worse in the daylight. Frankie rolled their eyes as they made their way to the closet, plastic crinkling underfoot. On went the gloves, the apron. On went the goggles and respirator. “All right,” Frankie muttered as they pulled out the rags, the spray bottles, the sack. “First day of the new year.”

Frankie scrubbed. Time slipped away into the odious stink of bleach, warm and moist against the scalp. Rag after rag into the sack. Randy purred and rubbed against it. “The hole,” she said, her wheeling gaze straying to the kitchen. “Put it in the hole.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know, Randy. Put it in the hole.”

“They’re coming!” Her tongue flicked in worry; the lights dimmed.

“I know, Randy.” Their heart was racing, lungs laboring. Randy’s worry was Frankie’s worry, and they could hear the echoes of shouts and laughter from last night as they stuffed rags and dropcloths into the sack.

Only Emmett remained. The body was gone, long used up. But, bless their sentimental heart, Frankie still had his head in the freezer. They smiled in wist as they looked into Emmett’s eye, brushing his crispy hair away from the bits of pencils that protruded haphazardly from one ruined socket and his ear and his jaw.

Emmett tucked securely under their arm, Frankie stepped towards the basement door. They grit their teeth and swallowed as they drew near, the familiar horror scraping against the inside of them. It mattered not the orientation of the world around it - the door, the door and the hole that lay beyond was down, down, down. Frankie’s heart clenched as gravity bent, blood squeezing through each inch of them as a pallid, shaking hand reached out to take the latch.

Flung wide was the door, and Frankie wailed! Terror clawed at their cheekbones as they pitched winsome Emmett into the yawning black. “The hole! The hole!” cackled Randy as she leapt and danced in the corner. “Put it in the hole!” The sack tumbled after, kicked unceremoniously in as Frankie scrambled, weeping, away. The door slammed shut, and all that was left was the thumping in Frankie’s chest.

Lights, now, as Frankie stood up. Flashes of red and blue pulsed through the window. Randy slithered between their legs in glee. Ghostly hues splashed against the bare white wall in the morning sun. Thoom, thoom, thoom. Like the pounding deep in Frankie’s eyesockets, like the pounding at the door. Thoom, thoom, thoom.

“They’re here,” Randy whispered.

Frankie took a deep breath, rested a hand on the doorknob, and put on their best quizzical smile.