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Order this writing in the 2009 book Crawling Through the Dirt

By the Numbers

Sean MacKendrick

    It was late. She should have been at Mother’s over an hour ago. And God help the poor sap that let down Mother.
    The tall, almost anorexic young woman sucked the hot, sour city air through her teeth, impatiently scanning the horizon. Unconsciously she twisted the hem of the thick white blouse clinging to her, as if she could wring the nervousness from her clothing. After an eternity a yellow spot appeared in the distance and grew quickly into an approaching taxi, and she released a shuddering sigh of relief, wiping the thick sheen of sweat from her ashen face with her sleeve. It’s going to be all right, she told herself, wanting desperately to believe the words her mind spoke. You just need to visit Mother for one hour, and then you can go back home and crawl into bed and hide. Fourteen average minutes for travel, for eighty-eight minutes total. You can survive for eighty-eight minutes.
    The taxi slowed in response to her frantic wave and pulled over to the curb. Phoebe squinted at the vehicle, trying to make out the license plate number as it approached. That turned out to be okay, so she waited impatiently for the cab to pull up alongside her so she could check out the rest of the cab. They really ought to place their numbers on the top where everybody can see them, she thought, and not for the first time. It really would make things easier on everyone.
    The cab was coated with dirt and grime, probably as an attempt to hide its number. Phoebe could still pick out the digits 3-0-1 through the grime, though, and stepped back quickly, almost tripping over her own feet. The driver stared - no, he glared at her from under a dirty crop of dark black hair, frowning when she continued to edge away from the vehicle and its driver. Three-oh-one was just thirteen in reverse with a zero thrown in, and a zero really didn’t count for anything anyway. The evil creature behind the wheel scowled and motioned impatiently, urging her forward. Phoebe could only shake her head, feeling the blackness trying to smother her senses. The excuses she usually had prepared for these occasions slipped from her mind, crowded out by the darkness. Eventually the taxi sped away, spitting gravel onto the sidewalk.
    Once the blackness seeped out of her mind, Phoebe glanced nervously at her watch while the churning in her stomach settled. Mother was going to have a fit. Fortunately another taxi was already approaching in the distance. Phoebe waved to get its attention, more courageous and ready to face the numbers after her last success. The license plate was clean, and safe from any bad numbers. Phoebe watched the door carefully, waiting for the cab number to come into view.
    Twenty-three. Phoebe looked up at the driver, who smiled. A good, honest smile. Could he actually be unaware of the danger surrounding him? He seemed genuinely at ease; no sense of danger was coming from him, only from the car. Two-three. The squares of which were four and nine, summing up to thirteen. A clever disguise, but one with which Phoebe was familiar. Apparently it had fooled its driver, though. This time Phoebe was able to fight off the blackness long enough to pat the pockets of her jeans and throw her hands up in mock despair.
    “I’m sorry, I forgot my keys,” she said, struggling to keep the waver out of her voice. “I have to go back.” She turned and walked directly away from the taxi, not daring to look back.
    As soon as the sound of the cab’s motor faded into the distance, Phoebe jogged back to the curb, frantic now. It was three minutes before another cab approached, and by that time Phoebe was fairly terrified for herself. She waved it over, did some quick calculations but found nothing wrong with the number 117 printed in fading digits on the door, and hopped in the back.
    Ten minutes and five dollars later Phoebe hopped back out and raced up the eight steps of the Lakeside Retirement Homes, building 2, so panicked by the information on her watch that she ran right by room 130, usually terrifying because of its lack of even the most basic attempts to hide its evil, on her way to the elevator. She punched for the sixteenth floor, dragging rasping gulps of air into lungs quivering from a combination of fear and physical fatigue. She really needed to start exercising again, especially if she wanted the strength to run from the numbers when it was necessary, as was so often the case lately. The numbers were getting bolder and more deadly, and no place was completely safe anymore.
    The floor numbers flashed by on the display above the door, a small bell ticking off their passage. Eight. Ten. Suddenly Phoebe forgot about feeling tired. She forgot about the need to make it Mother’s on time. She forgot everything but the digits on the display.
    Twelve flashed briefly before turning directly into fourteen. The darkness threatened to descend over Phoebe and blind her. The architects or whoever it was that numbered the floors had known enough to skip that number, but the floor was still there. It knew which floor it really was and it sat there, waiting for her, hoping that she would fall for the disguise and step off on the wrong floor so it could devour her.
    Phoebe watched the display above the door, fighting a losing battle against the darkness. The number wasn’t going to change. The elevator was stuck on the damned floor, and she was going to die. Change! she screamed with her mind. The stagnant air in her metal coffin was suffocating. This was the end.
    After an eternity the number did change, to fifteen and then sixteen. Phoebe stumbled through the doors as they opened, still blinded by the veil of blackness draped over her brain. Only Mother could force her to go through this hell once every week. Only She could terrify Phoebe enough to drive her past an entire floor of pure evil waiting to kill at the first available opportunity. Phoebe hurried to room 1620 and knocked on the door, sucking the cold recycled building air into her aching lungs.
    There was no answer, so she knocked again, louder. Still no answer. Phoebe covered her face with her hands and turned away from the door. Either Mother was so angry that She refused to answer the door, or She already left. In either case Phoebe was in serious trouble. If Father had still been alive, He would’ve beaten her senseless and locked her in the cellar for a week for letting down her Mother. “Piss!” spat Phoebe before she was able to bite off the word. Warmth flooded into her face as she waited to see if Mother heard the language and was going to open the door with her fist already swinging.
    The door never moved. Phoebe shuffled back to the elevator after exactly four minutes, wishing there was a hole in the ground so she could crawl into it and hide forever. The doors opened immediately when she pressed the down button, almost as if the elevator was waiting for her. She walked to the back of the elevator after punching for the first floor, pressing her forehead against the cold metal wall in the back.
    The bell pinged once as it passed the fifteenth floor, pinged again as it passed through the fourteenth. Then the lights went out and the elevator shuddered to a halt. Phoebe turned slowly to the front of the elevator, too much in shock to be afraid. The red emergency lights flared on, illuminating the elevator in the color of blood.
    The number fourteen was on the display, flickering every second or so to twelve and then back again. The thirteenth floor had captured her. And not the floor that needed to hide its number. She was trapped on the real thirteenth floor.
    No. This could not be happening. She had been too careful for this to happen. She spent most of her adult life preparing. She was too smart for the numbers to catch her like this.
    Phoebe shook her head slowly. No, she couldn’t lie to herself. She hadn’t been careful; she had let down her guard. Worrying about missing Mother had made her forget to be careful. She hadn’t been thinking, and the number reached out and grabbed her when it saw she was vulnerable. But the blackness hadn’t smothered her mind yet, and she could still think clearly enough to escape. Above her was a hatch that led to safety. Now how to unlock it...
    A heavy thump on the door drove the thought from her head. She backed away from the door, trying to push herself through the back wall as the thing scraped at the door. Still the blackness hovered in the air, just above her.
    Phoebe closed her eyes as the doors began to open, forced apart by the thing on the other side. They scraped open slowly and the thing stumbled in, choking Phoebe with its rank odor. Wheezes rattled through a rotting throat as it placed a stiff hand on Phoebe’s shoulder. She could feel bones exposed through the decayed flesh of the thing’s hand. She knew what it was even before it spoke.
    “You’ve been bad, young lady,” her Father rasped. “You’ve let your mother down.” His grip hardened, sinking into her shoulder. Although her eyes were still closed, she could feel His face drawing closer, His other hand twisting its dirty snakelike fingers in her hair.
    Finally, the darkness descended.

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