All Kinds Of Things Kill

Terry pulled his car into his parents' driveway and shifted into park. His father’s car was there. He knew his mother would be gone for the weekend, but he had to tell them sometime. And if he waited, even a few days, he may no longer have the guts.

And he might as well tell Dad first. Get it out of the way.

He considered not telling his parents at all. He considered going in, hanging out for the summer, and leaving. But he knew he couldn’t do that. He’d told people at college what he was doing over break. What would they say if he came back and told them he’d wilted?

No, he knew what he had to do.

He opened the car door and stepped out onto the lawn. He smirked, seeing the grass just beginning to grow past the half-inch mark. Dad’s letting the grass grow? Maybe he’s winding down. Maybe this won’t be so bad.

His eyes crept up the yard toward the front door, passing the tiny curtained window along the bottom of the house. The window led into his father’s forbidden basement work room. Terry suppressed a chill - maybe he’s different now - and stepped up the yard to the door.

****

Terry’s brother Sam sat at the kitchen table and chewed a bite of his peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He did his best not to worry about Dad discovering what he’d done. He looked out the window over the sink and focused on the sky. Summer. Free from school, free from the other kids. Free from chaos in the hallways and orders in the rooms.

His newly-long legs felt awkward in the chair. They reached the floor, and then some, when a year before they had just dangled. Growing up was strange, Sam mused, and uncomfortable. He didn’t like things sprouting in his body he couldn’t control.

Junior high started next year. A mix of old and new kids in a new building. The uncertainty of it unsettled him. He didn’t like it, so he pushed it down, chewed and enjoyed the cool central air on his bare legs. Shorts and air conditioning. Summer.

Mom was gone for the weekend, so it was just Sam and his father in the house. His father, who at the moment idled in the living room watching a nature show on cable, was Frank Richards. Dr.Frank Richards to a crop of local state university students. Professor of Botany.

He had his own lab to work in at school, but he had another work room in the basement at home. All but Dr. Richards were forbidden to enter. Sam, Terry, even Mom. Dad told them they would destroy the delicate balance of light and moisture for the plants growing in there. Terry and Mom seemed to accept this. Sam, on the other hand, wanted to see inside. But the door was always locked and the only window so small a cat would have a hard time getting through.

There was something old-fashioned about Sam’s father. Like he was built from old plans by workers long dead. He smoked a pipe. He scanned a newspaper every day. His forehead crumpled at profanities on television. He had short, neatly trimmed hair and a short, neatly trimmed beard. He always dressed in clean pressed clothes and all in all was pleasant enough to be around. Sam supposed he liked him as much as any boy liked their father.

But there was one thing Sam didn’t like about his dad: all the orders. There was always something Sam was supposed to be doing, and a precise way he was supposed to be doing it. Sam couldn’t wait until he was older, ‘til he could be in charge. In control.

“Sam?” came his father’s voice.

It was behind him, and Sam jumped. How could the old man move so quietly?

“Yeah Dad?” said Sam, through half a mouthful of peanut butter. He twisted in his seat to see his father behind him, looking down.

“Could you come here a sec?” he said. It was his professor voice. Sam imagined him using it with students. It meant a lecture was coming. Sam felt his throat constrict, and swallowed as best he could. He hated the lectures.

“Sure, Dad,” he said, and pushed himself up from the table. He took a quick gulp of milk to drown the last of the food.

Dad opened the door at the back of the kitchen, the one that opened to the garage. Sam stifled a groan. He had a pretty good idea what was coming.

“This way,” Dad said, stepping into the garage. Sam followed.

Dad led him to a work table. A sheet of particle board hung on the wall behind it. Numerous hooks jutted out from the board, with various tools hung from them.

The table was clear except for a lone hammer. Again, Sam crushed the urge to groan. He’d used that hammer earlier, then laid it on the table afterwards.

“Now,” said Dad as they came to a stop. “You managed to get the hammer all the way back to the table. Would it have been so hard to finish the trip to here?” He indicated the two hooks the hammer normally laid across.

For pete’s sake, Dad, Sam thought. “No,” was what he said.

“You have to keep things under control, Sam. You can’t just let things go wild.”

How about I take that hammer and knock you over the head, old man? Sam thought, unable to beat back a smirk. Who’d be in control then?

“I know,” was what he said.

“Well, if you do,” said Dad, “then please act on that knowledge.”

Sam sighed and moved the hammer to its proper spot.

“And don’t sigh at me, sprout,” said Dad. “Now go finish your lunch. Your brother will be home soon.”

It was true. Terry was coming home for the summer. His big brother, off at college, back to his roots for a few months. It would be fun to see Terry, but truthfully Sam’s mind was on something else.

The basement.

Sam had seen Dad’s work room. The other night, he’d gotten in.

Dad had been asleep in front of the TV, a bunch of school papers in his lap. Mom had already gone to bed. Terry was at that college in some other state. Sam had his opportunity.

He tiptoed down the stairs, thankful for the carpet. He paused at the bottom, listening for his father’s loud snoring. He heard it, from upstairs, and smiled. He slipped a key from his shorts pocket. The key he’d slipped from his parents’ dresser. He pushed it into the lock and turned it. The handle clicked and the door swung open.

Inside was darkness. Sam frowned. Where was the precious balance of light his father spoke of? Maybe this wasn’t the real work room, maybe it was further inside.

He felt around for a switch and found it. He flicked the switch up and several bulbs came alive, lighting the room. A long hallway stretched from the door to a desk at the other end. The desk was piled with papers and some equipment Sam didn’t recognize.

But lining the hallway, all up and down from floor to ceiling, were shelves and shelves of plants. Big, leafy things with long stalks and leathery skin. All of them slumped towards the floor.

Had his father just left all these plants in the dark to die? Surely not. If that were the case, they wouldn’t look as healthy as they did. They were big, rich, robust-looking plants. Just sitting in the dark and slumping.

Sam frowned, not knowing what to think.

He walked down the hallway. The plants towered over him as he passed. Their presence made him nervous. He felt, crazily, that they were watching him. Waiting for something. Finally, he reached the desk. There were papers piled everywhere which Sam couldn’t decipher. Above the desk was the small window that looked out into the front yard. Dad always kept it heavily curtained.

Also on the desk were a bunch of electronics Sam had never seen before. All had exposed wires and black tape wrapped around them. Like Sam’s father had made them himself. Among them was something that looked like a TV remote with a radio antenna stuck to the end. Sam picked it up and looked it over. Curiosity got the better of him and he pressed a button.

Suddenly he felt something in the room with him. He heard a rustling from behind.

He turned and it took a few moments to register what he was seeing.

The plants were moving.

At first he thought there must be a breeze. But there was no wind of any kind. And the plants didn’t look like they were being moved by wind. They were moving themselves. Straining against their pots, writhing, reaching.

For him.

He let out a little yell and tossed the remote down. He ran past the plants, not even looking to see if they were still moving. He snapped off the light and slammed the door shut. He locked it as fast as he could and raced up the stairs. He tripped over the bottom stair and slammed his knees into the kitchen linoleum with a big thump.

His breath caught in his throat and he listened. Had his father heard?

Snoring still came from the living room.

Sam let out a little sigh and walked, shaken, to his own room and shut the door. He hid the key under his mattress until he could return it unseen.

Sam was unable to sleep at first. He was terrified. He would close his eyes and see the plants moving. He would open them and imagine he heard rustling.

He would have to tell Mom. Dad would be furious, but he had to tell someone. Mom would understand and would make sense of it all.

As the night stretched on, though, he thought again. He thought of the remote in his hands, making the plants dance. He thought of bringing other kids down there, showing them how he could control the plants. Maybe he could even bring David Newton, that pig-faced bully down there. Make the plants writhe until Newton shit himself with fear.

So he kept his discovery to himself and slept. And whenever fear grew in him, whenever he had a nightmare of grotesque malformed plants reaching for him, he would mentally replace himself with David Newton. And smile.

Sam thought about that and finished his sandwich. His face was hot and his back was tight. Geez, Dad, it’s just a hammer.

He heard a car door shut outside. Then keys rattling outside the front door.

“Terry’s home!” Sam called and stood.

“Sure sounds like it,” said Dad, walking through the kitchen to the living room.

Sam followed and saw Terry coming through the door. He looked … well, he looked like an adult. It was strange. It made Sam feel isolated. Everyone else was an adult.

“Hey, Dad,” said Terry. “Hey, Sammo!” he waved at Sam.

Sam planted his hands in his pockets and looked at the floor. “Hey.”

Terry frowned. “You alright there, buddy?”

“I guess,” said Sam.

“He’s just a little grumpy,” said Dad. “You know teenagers.”

“Hey, yeah,” said Terry. “Junior High next year, huh?” Then his face shifted, became more serious. “Speaking of school, I need to tell you something, Dad.”

“Sure thing, sport,” said Dad. “Decided to come to your senses and transfer to college here in town?”

“No, no,” said Terry, shifting a little in the entryway and setting his suitcase down. “I’ve just learned a few things at school and I need to tell you something. Sam, can I have a few seconds alone with Dad?”

Dad frowned, then smiled. “Whatever you want, Terry. Hey Sam? Why don’t you go clean up your dishes. Remember, plates in the bottom rack, glasses on top.”

No shit, Dad. Who doesn’t know that? “Sure,” said Sam, and headed back to the kitchen.

Sam grumbled on his way to the table. He grabbed his plate and glass and took them to the dishwasher.

Dad could be so full of it sometimes. Telling Sam how to use the dishwasher? It was insane. He wanted to give his father a few minutes down in the basement. Turn those plants on and stick Dad in the middle. Let him hear those things reach for him in the dark. Then he’d treat Sam with more respect.

“Gay?” came Dad’s loud voice from the front room.

Sam stopped, the dishwasher door hanging open. He set the plate down on the sink, wondering if he’d heard right.

He crept over to the doorway to the front room and peered around. No one noticed.

Dad sat on the couch, looking at the floor. His hands were on his knees, gripping them tightly. Terry stood off to one side, his hands in his pockets.

“Dad,” said Terry, “It’s natural…”

“Don’t talk to me about natural, Terry,” Dad snapped. “I deal with nature every day.”

“No, Dad, you try to control nature. You put it in pots, in categories. But you can’t control me. This is just what I am.”

Dad said nothing for a long time. He stared at the floor, still gripping his knees. Several tense seconds passed. Then his grip loosened and he sighed. He looked up at Terry, and Sam thought – for just a moment – there was deep sadness in his eyes.

“Well, I guess that’s how it is, then,” he said.

Terry looked confused, like he was trying to get a read on Dad. “Yeah,” he said.

“Well, okay,” Dad said. He stood and stuck out his hand for Terry to shake.

“Are we okay then, Dad?” said Terry.

“Sure we are,” said Dad, smiling.

Terry smiled and shook Dad’s hand. Then Dad pulled him close and hugged him. He patted Terry on the shoulder and stepped back.

“Say, Terry, could you do me a favor and mow the lawn later on?”

Terry smiled and nodded. “Sure thing, Dad. I’ll go do it now.”

Dad smiled. “Thanks, son. Oh, and I think it needs gas. The can’s in the garage.”

Terry smiled again and headed outside.

****

Terry stepped out onto the porch and let out a deep sigh. He’d done it. It had been tense for a moment, but he’d done it and everything was okay. And compared to Dad, Mom would be a walk in the park.

He hummed as he opened the garage and eased out the mower. He led the mower out into the yard and looked up and down the street. He was happy. He realized he’d forgotten the gas can. He turned to head back to the garage and took a step.

Pain shot through Terry’s foot and up his calf. Burning, stabbing pain. He cried out and fell to one knee.

Something’s in my shoe, he thought. He undid the laces but the shoe wouldn’t budge. Like it was welded to the ground.

Leaving the shoe where it was, he pulled his foot free. Hot liquid pain raged through his leg and foot. When he was free of the shoe he saw that his sock was soaked in blood. He peeled the sock off. Four narrow slits ran straight through his foot, top to bottom. Blood pooled in the slits and ran down the top of his foot.

He lifted the tongue of his shoe and looked inside. Four blades of grass thrust up through the sole and sat, bloody, inside.

This is crazy, he thought and tried to stand. The pain was too much and he fell forward, catching himself with both palms on the grass.

The grass fired up through his hands, spattering his own blood in his eyes. He screamed as the grass bent over, gripping his hands to the ground. Blood coursed between the blades and into the dirt.

He struggled, screaming, to pull himself free. The grass, impossibly strong, held him fast. Pain pierced his legs and knees and he knew the grass was pinning him further.

He was panicking now, tugging and pulling like an animal. He couldn’t move. The blades of grass in front of his face began to turn and bend. They were twisting around each other, forming a single thick cylinder of grass.

“No! No!” screamed Terry, pulling. He couldn’t move. He bellowed, mouth open, at the grass. The cylinder shot up, into his mouth. He felt pain in the back of his head. Then liquid running down his back. He saw his own blood run out of his mouth and pool on the ground. Then he saw nothing.

****

Sam finished putting the dishes in the washer and shut the front. He stared out the window just above the sink.

He didn’t know what to think about Terry being gay. He’d never really thought about it one way or the other. Terry was just Terry. His brother. He didn’t see what difference it made if he liked girls or guys.

He felt bad then for his earlier mumbled greeting. He decided he would go greet Terry properly and let him know it was fine if he was gay.

He walked out of the kitchen and into the living room. He opened the front door and stepped out, bracing for the summer heat.

And stopped cold in the middle of the porch.

Terry lay dead a few feet from the mower.

Blood was all over him, running from holes punched through his body. Blood pooled next to him, mingling in dirt and grass.

Sam stared, unable at first to grasp what he was seeing.

“Terry?” he said, knowing Terry was past hearing.

Then he screamed “Dad!” and ran back into the house, leaving the door open.

He raced from room to room, yelling for his father. But all of the rooms were empty.

Downstairs, Sam thought. He ran around the corner and down the stairs in one motion, almost falling. He ran to the door to his father’s work room and raised a hand to knock.

Then he saw the door was partly open.

He pushed it the rest of the way. The light was on but his Dad was nowhere to be seen.

“Dad?” he asked, stepping further into the room. He walked past the shelves of plants to the desk at the end. No Dad.

Then he saw the curtain was pulled back from the tiny window that looked out into the yard. He saw movement outside and stood on his tip-toes, peering out past two large thick-leaved plants framing the window.

His father stood over Terry’s body. But his father didn’t scream or cry or look around in horror. He just bent down and slung Terry over his shoulder. Then calmly walked out of view.

Sam blinked and lowered himself down. His gaze fell on two thick wires running out from the basement wall and down towards the desk. The wires ran into a large electronic box sitting in the middle of the desk. It had knobs and handles and a big red light. Which was glowing.

Sam’s eyes ran from the box back up the wires and into the wall. Into the yard. And Sam knew what had happened. Knew what his father had done.

A cold rage grew in Sam and he ran out of the room and back up the stairs. He threw the door to the garage open and ran to the wall lined with tools. He yanked the hammer free, shaking several hooks loose and sending tools clattering to the table.

Hammer in hand, he ran into the house and back down the stairs. He ran past the shelves of plants towards the table. And the metal flashing box.

He screamed as he brought the hammer down. He struck the box again and again, sparks flying and a sputtering static coming from it.

Finally, when the red light was out and the box was reduced to a pile of dented metal and wires, he stopped.

For several seconds he stood, panting down at the remains of his father’s invention. The hammer hung loose and heavy in his hand. Then he heard his father sigh behind him.

He spun around, gasping. The hammer flew from his hand and spun along the floor, smashing into a ceramic pot holding one of the many plants lining the walls. Right next to his father’s foot.

Sam’s father looked at the broken pot, then up at Sam, and sighed again. He had blood on his hands and shoulder. Terry’s, Sam knew.

“Oh, Sam,” said Dad. “This is going to be quite a blow to your mother.” He pulled a pipe from his shirt pocket. He took a bit of tobacco and crushed the leaves inside. He stuck the pipe in his teeth. “First Terry’s death, and now yours.”

Sam’s legs were shaking, a mixture of rage and fear. But the rage was slowly fading, the fear becoming purer.

“Why?” Sam managed to say. “He was your son.”

“He was unnatural, Sam. I’d hoped you would understand that.” Dad looked Sam up and down. Finally he shook his head. “I suppose we should get started. I’ll have quite a lot of cleaning to do down here afterwards.”

Sam was finding it hard to breathe. “Dad?” he tried to say, tried to plead, but his voice was small, almost silent.

Dad reached into his back pocket and pulled something out. The remote contol. The one Sam had handled the first time he’d been down here. He pressed a button and the plants framing the window slapped their oversized leaves against the glass, blocking out all light.

“I told you, Sam,” said Dad, holding up the device. “You can’t let things go wild.” He pressed another button and all the plants in the basement began to move.

He turned his back to Sam and walked up the hall, towards the door.

“Dad?” Sam repeated, his voice almost a squeak.

Sam’s father said nothing. He snapped off the light and stepped out, shutting the door behind him.

“Dad?” Sam whispered. He heard his father’s footsteps echo through the darkness as he went up the stairs. Then the sound faded, replaced by rustling. Like a million voices. The sound of thick leathery leaves stretching and pulling.

He wanted to run. He wanted to turn and claw at the tiny window. But he couldn’t move. He could only stand and shake, could only try his best to breathe through his constricting quivering throat. Could only stand and hear the sound of horrible green things reaching for him in the dark.