The Crawlspace

The real estate developer stopped his truck on the side of the road. The Nissan Titan he drove still smelled like new car. The paint still shined like fresh glue. He set the brake. The vehicle adjusted with a clank. He opened the door, shielding his eyes from the unchallenged tyranny of the sun. Dusty wind blew thin hair over his sunburned scalp. He wondered about moving his car. He looked up the road and down, but saw nothing but simmering heat waves. He left the door open, and checked out a rusted shiloh nested by wild animals before the field. The land smelled arid and of kindling. Tall yellow grass swayed from neglected irrigation ditches. Dirt mounds piled up around the fossils of dead trees. No path led to the hamlet. As he stepped closer through the bush a flock of Sandhill Cranes flocked from the grass. A garter snake ran between his shoes. Pieces of foliage and burrs stuck to his pant legs. The heat waves over the town subsided as he came nearer. He kept his eyes shielded. The sun punished the land, and all who live on it. His gut swayed past his belt. His thighs rubbed together. He looked at his watch. Less than ten minutes and sweat dripped down his back and soaked his neck. He wiped sweat away from his forehead, and squinted to make out the town in front of him. The smallest place he ever saw. Three roads assembled in the shape of a C-clamp. Buildings with signs that faded long ago with wooden siding and roof shingles that peeled from structure. Dark windows stared lifelessly. Abandoned cars wasted away beneath crumbling lean twos. The scars of a railroad long since removed impressed the dirt. A church stood at the far end, its walls gone, leaving only the bell tower, the pews, the pulpit on top of small gardens of re emerging weeds. Dark birds sat on these buildings and squawked at the land developer. He tossed his coat over his shoulder and tugged at his collar. A single power line strung over the lake of grass to the town. He saw the line connect to a single building. An iron fence impeded him. He hopped over the top into an alley filled with trashed signs, broken glass, and pieces of building. He peeked through holes in the wall, noticing it completely deserted. Pushing away from the wall and surveying the building. An iron ladder with loose bolts led to the roof where he could see over the land. The ladder shifted and adjusted against his feet. The land developer's sweaty palms slid against the iron bars. Once at the top, he watched the power line go on over the field to a roof one mile away. He followed the power line from the building to a lonely house. The black birds lifted from their watch towers and glided along towards the house. Some settled on the roof, others in the branches of a twisted ash tree.

The land developer's heart pounded and his ankles ached. He stopped in the shade, leaning on the trunk. Taking a minute to breath, he lifted an eyebrow and looked back to the hamlet as if someone called his name. He then looked back at the house, as if it fell from the sky. A fresh, untarnished coat of pink paint covered the siding. Fogged designs of butterflies and flowers stained the windows. The land developer stomped up to shade of the porch, he wiped sweat from his brow and peered through the windows of the front door. Hard wood floors, deep red paint, flooded with sunlight. The land developer took the knob and twisted it. Through a small crack he called for any residents. No one responded but his echo. He didn't know what to expect. The county office insisted the property was unowned and for sale. Yet the paperwork he saw in that office implicated that someone lived there.

He looked back towards the yard. Tall grass, wild weeds, but no vehicles or tire impressions. Biting his tongue he pushed open the door and entered, walking on the balls of his feet. Grains of dust floated through the window light like bugs. The interior welcomed him. It looked finished and sharp. Clean, and well maintained. He entered, feeling alone, taking heavy, confident steps. From the main room he looked to his left. No door covered the kitchen. To the right, he could see the banister of the parlor above a fireplace. Ashes scattered in the bed. He went in. Glass doors hung open, the compartments along the walls empty. Staples from a carpet removed poked from the floor into his shoes. He knelt before the fire place, holding his palms above the black ashes. He sensed no heat. With a pen from his pocket he poked the ash but the substance burned away long ago. The ash came apart into brittle flakes. He leaned in and looked up the chimney. He squinted to see in the dark but with a light from his phone he saw the limestone maintained its white luster without marks of smoke or heat. He exited the parlor and entered the kitchen.

Faded stains marked where the appliances once stood. Only the sink remained. The land developer tried the water but nothing ran. In the cupboards he found patches of shedded fur, but nothing else. He looked in the pantry. No food. But he heard something. It sounded distant, and quiet. He lost interest and went back to the main room. He ascended the staircase. Each step creaked and whined but to his relief nothing collapsed from under him. He tried a light switch at the top of the stairs but the buttons effected nothing. A hallway ran down from the top of the stairs with two bedrooms and another bathroom. He inspected both bedrooms but sighed, finding nothing but old blankets and moth eaten suits stored away in the closet. He felt bad for the house. Such a pretty little gem in the dust of Sioux county. But places like this didn't sell. Not like what he planned to build.

He turned down the stairs deciding not to waste anytime getting the bulldozers running. His fat fingers dialed the digits, but he stopped in the main room. A library of curiosities struck. A door stood in the corner. He felt certain that he checked all over. Something inside him wound like stretching tendons. The land developer took the knob, but a lock kept it in place. A horrendous odor seeped from under the door. He liked it at first. Sweet like blueberry syrup. But it became too sweet for even his appetites.He preparred to exit, with the knob dropped to the floor and the door swung open.

He told the demolition manager about it in the air conditioning of the foreman's trailer. They came in together, covered in dust. The room temperature chilled them like a deep freezer. Through the window both could continue monitoring progress. The backhoe used its scoop to pull down flooring on the second floor. A bulldozer pushed away what came down.

“So that's where the old man was hiding? Poor old bastard. What did you tell the police?”

“Same thing anyone would tell them. Got my project delayed by two days for what it's worth.”

“It's really a shame.” The demolition manager watched from the window. “it was a lovely home. Don't see much woodwork on houses nowadays. Can't believe you wouldn't find a buyer.”

“Of course I could get a buyer. But I prefer to look at the big picture.”

“What do you think he was doing in the closet?”

“I don't know. Old man went in to change the light, had a stroke or something.”

“Or someone killed him and stuffed him in there.”

“I like to think he went in there happy. Maybe he wanted to die in the closet.”

The southern wall collapsed. A cloud of dust swallowed the machinery but wind blew the cloud away. The machines roared. Bit by bit they broke the house apart and swept the lot clean.

“Looks like this is going faster than anticipated. We might be able to start construction tomorrow if we can get the land all cleared today.”

“Good.” The land developer said.

The machines finished. A flat, dirt lot now rested where the house and the overgrown grass did before. The land developer went to bed early, but his mind raced. The home in his mind excited him. He turned on a lamp, and sketched page after page of his architectural fantasies. This stimulated him further. He looked at the clock. He told the crew he wanted construction to begin at six am. A few hours away. He climbed out of bed, slid into baggy jeans and threw on a golf polo. He got into his luxury truck, and took it to the hamlet. The bulldozers flattened a path through the grass which he followed to the square lot of dirt. He took the keys out of the ignition, shut door and entered the gentle warmth of a summer night. He looked up at the stars. A flurry more than what can be seen in Omaha. In truth he hated that polluted jungle of poverty, crime, and worst of all- concrete. He stepped onto the dirt wishing he lived out in the open air, but his feelings halted. A familiar sound. The land developer put his soft hand by his ear, and he listened. It took a bit of concentration. He tried to remember where, and then he recalled hearing this faint sound in the pantry of the farm house. He stepped further into the dirt. The sound developed. He couldn't mistake it. A woman cried. He looked around, and called out for anyone that might need help. No one responded. He walked deeper. The crying sounded muffled, like behind a locked door. In the dark his foot found a block of concrete. The land developer cussed and knew for certain because he personally oversaw the process that everything was cleared. The moon shined through the clouds and revealed something that he failed to notice when he first saw the farm house. A cellar door. He took hold of the handle. The sobbing vibrated against the plywood. The door budged, but something caught it. Squatting low, and using his thighs, the door opened with a pop. The crying emitted from beneath. He stood above the short stairway. Cold air pushed up his pant legs. Nails stabbed through support beams where the stairs left the pale impressions on the wood. The land developer hollered into the dark, asking if anyone needed help but the weeping darkened into grinding of vocal cords, choking on tears. With light from his phone, he inspected the bottom. Rubble of the stairs piled in a dangerous heap. As if the steps collapsed on top of each other all at once. He dropped himself down, sitting on the ledge and lowering his body and watching the dirt disappear behind the limestone wall.

The weeping sunk into the limestone and muffled bashing slapped against the rocks. The land developer touched the wall and let his hand guide him to the first corner. Hushed. He stayed close to the wall and bent his knees to spring away if need be. Cobwebs covered the adjacent corner. He felt the voice vibrate against the wall. The structure changed. His fingertips slid across smooth stone to rough, red brick. A centipede crawled from a gap between bricks and crawled over his hand. He shook it off, and when his palm came away from the wall the intensity of the bleating enhanced. It sounded violent. Fearful anticipation… a harrowed gasp- as if recoiling from attack, then dumbfounded mumbles and suicidal moans- interrupted by the muffled bashes that sounded sweeter, and meatier each time the vibration startled the brick. The voice rose again to the peak of beastial alarm- this time the land developer heard the crack of bone. The wall tensed like a cramped muscle. It felt like the handle of a push mower. He thought he would be sucked inside. He figured where the source came from. The power behind the wall told him as much. He rose the light and it revealed the crawlspace. A rectangular window, wide as a bench, tall as the wheels of a Saturn. The space blasted the sound like a speaker. The land developer took hold of the edge. He wondered if something inside waited for a chance to bite him. He put his phone in his mouth with the light source facing down. He wished he brought a flashlight as he took the end with his free hand and kicking against the cracks he elevated himself to the crawlspace. He inserted his head. The wretching agony crushed his ear drums like headphones. All other sounds muted. He heard the stretching of the windpipe and the tearing of the lingual frenulum. A crow must be crawling up their throat, the land developer thought. He stuck his hand in and took hold of cracks in the cement and pulled his bovine gut inside. He crawled until he could squeeze his fat knees in. Saliva gargled. He could hear it boil in the throat. Tilting his head up he could see with one eye beyond the phone. He moved slow, and the sound of the crying slowed too. Drawn out, so that each tremble of vocal chords became its own song. The gust of despair rose on a draft. The land developer took slow breaths. The air tasted like mold. Spit dripped from the corners of his mouth. He crawled further until his hands left the cement and found raw earth. Roots tickled his forehead, and swept into his eye. He paused to turn the phone to the other side of his mouth. He tilted his head downward. A shallow halo of light cast down the tunnel. He made out words from the strained cries. “What have you done... what have you done...”. He crawled further. He felt the roots brush his back. He panted. Sweat poured down the side of his head. The musk of his arm pits smothered his breathing. A sweater of heat covered him. His bladder pressed against his pelvis. His slow breathes. Faster breathes made him anxious as if a giant rat crawled in behind him with its plagued teeth. His palms landed in what felt like syrup. The tunnel heated up. Everything he touched felt sticky. The light revealed a curve. The tunnel twisted. His shoulders brushed against dirt. When he moved his head dirt crushed his nose. Dirt filled his nostrils until he sneezed. He stopped for a minute fearing the ceiling gave way behind him. The crying ordered his attention. The ceiling pressed against his spine. He dropped the arch in his back. His spine popped. A few meager feet forward, the ceiling constricted further until he could feel moist soil filled in the valley of his spine. He dropped to a prone position. Swaying his hips, he moved inch by inch. The crying warred. Like a jet flying overhead. His ear drums rang. His elbows cut through dirt like hoe blades. His wrists crossed under his chin. His gut dragged over every sharp rock waiting for him. Dirt soaked in sweat caked his navel. His lungs starved. A vacuum stuffed down his throat sucked up the oxygen. Inch by inch he crawled.The crying exploded.
The sweater steamed into a suit of armor. His bladder filled up. His phone shoveled dirt. He snaked over a curve. A root scraped ribs. He felt bitter grains on his tongue. His skin, every inch, suited in earth. Moving forward. His rib cage peeling against the limits of the tunnel. Pieces of the ceiling sprinkled down. The lamenting paused, as if they heard him coming and wanted to speak to him, but only nonsense emitted from the end of the tunnel. Progress slowed. His hips felt screwed into the walls. His shoes flapped without space to stretch. His knees only bent when he crossed his feet, and putting both feet together like a fin, he kicked from the curving wall and pulled with claws forward. His bladder felt like a cracking dam. His teeth bit into the phone screen. Deeper. Deeper.

Something scratching at his leg, and delicate pods began beating up his pant leg, and over his back. A mouse. The rodent scampered further down, and jumped into a hole. The land developer wanted to go backwards, but to have one of his buildings put over a trapped person enticed a harrowing feeling. He clawed further to the mouse hole. The sobbing halted. They held their breath. Played dead. The land developer crawled closer to the hole locating the source of weeping and to his revulsion once the light revealed it, he found not a mouse hole but the empty pits of a skull with a mouse tail dangling out, like a tear. He tried to move backwards. But a crash erupted and dusty air filled the tunnel. The stream of cold air behind him stopped. He shook, feeling like the most foolish thing living on this planet. He dialed on his phone. He tried to explain his problem, but tortured cries interrupted him. He tapped the hang up key, but the crying kept on. As did a skeletal hand over the glowing screen, crushing it, and leaving the land developer in darkness. He screamed and kicked. The crying began self satisfied giggles. He pounded against the tunnel with his fat hands. Breath becoming short, he stopped, saving his air. He wanted to sleep. Never did a nice, long sleep appeal to him, but he understood what falling asleep meant. He kept thinking to himself. The crew will find the cellar. They will rescue me. Until the roar of machinery began to shake the ground. He started to cry, his weeping going from pitiful to fanatical.

The workers got started. The sun just rose. The music of power tools, and trucks carrying supplies. The crane stood by. The manager looked at his watch. “He should be here by now.” he told the foreman. “oh well. He'll show up eventually.”