By Jack Squeri
If I told them they could die I wonder if they would’ve listened. They usually didn’t believe Ben or me, pretty much always assumed we were wimping out of an opportunity to have fun because we were scared. I can’t say that's the furthest thing from the truth; Ben and I didn’t always go for the stuff they did. Probably scared of trouble, among other things.
Earlier that day we came across some abandoned house. We stuck around even though it was riddled with obscene graffiti and stained with the smell of wet air. The house sucked me in; there was something so intriguing and bizarre about it. So familiar, like a house any of us could have lived in, but with its life stripped from it. It didn’t feel right.
My friends, concerningly eager to vandalize, bounded from room to room, crushing drywall and kicking things for no real reason. Ben and I moved through the house with caution, afraid of who might be hiding in the shadows. I couldn’t picture it going down but something wasn’t right. I explored the kitchen, coming across soup cans that only expired a year ago. Stale coffee reached my nose. That scared me. Why is this stuff here?
“Yo! Someones here!” Ben yelled. What? I don’t know if the words even left my mouth. “Someone just pulled up outside.” The others had no idea. “Tell them to shut up.”
“Who is it?” I replied.
“I don't know? Cops?” He ducked behind the kitchen cabinet. Before I could let the others know, there were footsteps outside, coming up the front porch. Orders were being barked in a deep, panicked voice, but I was too scared to make sense of the words. Two men stomped through the front door. One with his hands behind his back, practically whimpering; the other’s face riddled with disturbing intensity. But both were distressed.
No further than three steps into the house the first man fell to his knees revealing that the second man's gun had been pressed against his back.
“Yeah, I’m at the house...The hell do you want me to do with him?” The man with the gun towered over his victim, talking on the phone with someone who was giving him orders. I could hear the faint murmur of someone on the other end of the phone. Maybe the kidnapper’s boss? Was this the mafia? A gang? I had no clue. This was only my second time even seeing a gun! It was hard to pick out the emotions in his voice. Rage, fear, and terror twisted and burned in the room, surely setting off the rest of our friends that something was the matter.
With no luck, I attempted to devise a plan. My mind was going in a thousand different directions, unable to focus on anything. Ben snapped me out of it. He could always keep his cool no matter what. Ever since we were kids he was calm. Sometimes it made him cold, but under pressure, he was always strong. I could tell it was getting to him though. I never wanted to see that look in his eyes again, his fear scared me. He led us to the back hall where we started up the stairs. Each foot reached for each stair. One after another. No breath, no thought. Just silent steps. Then a loud creak followed by a yelling voice filled the air. My heart sank and my legs darted for the closest room.
I heard footsteps. A set of stumbling sneakers followed by snarling boots that crushed the hardwood beneath them. I heard the blood pumping in my ears, Ben’s heavy breath, hiding behind the bed, and I heard that nasty, blood-curdling holler.
“Where the hell are you? Huh? I heard you!”
“Why don’t you come on out before I have to come get you.” He reached the top of the steps. “What? You don’t wanna play?” Those God damn those footsteps, inching closer. I knew right when he entered the room across the hall that my friends were in. I could feel it; feel the terror spike through the walls, feel my heart sink in my chest and feel Ben's breathing speed up. I could feel mine too.
Muffled screams thundered through the house.
“Get on the floor! What do y’all think you're doin’?” For a few moments, I was completely useless. Staring into space walking the brink of hysteria. I was being suffocated by my own thoughts. The more I considered the situation the smaller my throat shrunk. Like when I would get asthma attacks as a kid, but this time I had no inhaler. Nothing to save me.
Ben and I exchanged looks and with the nod of a head, we agreed to try to make it out. Through the crack of the door, I saw the man's back, covered by a red and brown flannel, with two arms extending in the opposite direction, pointing a gun in the faces of my closest friends. I stepped into the hallway, trembling through each step, trying to fight instinct. The yells from the maniac in the room across the hall’s screams seemed to become quieter, being drowned out by the drones of death in my ears. I took my last step and then I heard two gunshots crack in the air. If I could have told them I wonder if they would’ve listened.
Jack Squeri makes and sells clothes, music and various other kinds of art. Follow @jacksqueri on Instagram if you want to see/hear any of it.