The Will (Complete Story)

The Will
Written by T. J. Dobbin

June 16, 1984  4:03 A.M.

         The ringing of the telephone broke the silence of the night. A groan. With a struggle twenty-three year old Stephen Finney lifted his head; his black greasy hair stuck up on ends. With another groan he shifted to the left advancing toward the telephone as it rang for a second time. Now Stephen wasn’t necessarily out of shape, that would actually be far from the truth. Two hours of working out a day had paid off as he always said. The phone rang again as Stephen coughed fiercely to clear his throat. He was only in bed an hour as he had enjoyed a night out on the town. There were three things Stephen truly loved in this world: literature, alcohol, and women. And he had spent the night out enjoying the latter two. After six rings each spaced three seconds apart Stephen rest his hand on the receiver, sighed in annoyance, then lifted it.

         “Hello?” Stephen said in a raspy voice.
         “Would I happen to be talking to that of Stephen Finney?”
         “Uuuuh…yeah. That’d be me.”
         “Oh, well it appears you have been sleeping. Sorry for calling at such a bad time.”          
         ‘Well of course I’d be sleeping at four a.m. you jackass’ is what Stephen would have loved to respond with. Instead, “Yeah, I was asleep. Though it appears I’m awake now. What’d you want?”
         “Would you happen to have an uncle named Albert Finney?”
         “…Yes.”
         “Fifty-three year old millionaire with a lazy eye?”
         “…Yes.”
         “Well not anymore you don’t.”
         “…” Stephen’s mind came to a blank. “Wh-what happened?”
         “He’s dead.”
         “Well I kinda got that part. I mean how did he die?”
         “Ooh, how. Kitchen accident. Came home drunk, decided he wanted to make a sandwich, started slicing cheese with a butcher knife, nose got itchy, and well…let’s just say he forgot he was holding a knife.”
         “Oh God, that’s fucking awful. Wait, how do you know how he died?”
         “His house has security cameras everywhere.”
         “Ah yes, I forgot. But…oh God, I can’t believe he’s gone. We used to be so close. He meant more to me then my own dad.”
         “It’s not all bad though.”
         “What’d you mean?”
         “The mansion and money is all yours. Apparently he liked you so much, he put you in his will. He wanted everything to be passed on to you.”
         “Are you serious?”
         “No, I just like calling random people at four in the morning and telling them their millionaire uncle has died and left them with his fortune. Of course I’m serious. Congratulations Mr. Finney, you now have a net worth of five million seven hundred sixteen thousand buckaroos. Sure your uncle had to die for it to happen. But still, that’s a shitload of money. I’d say it’s all worth it.”
         “Shut up you prick. And tell me who the hell you are.”
         “Getting feisty I see. If I were a fag I’d probably love th-”
         “Who are you!?”
         “Fine, fine. Mark Bennfield. I work at the morgue. We need you to come down here to sign some papers and stuff. And well, also because this is where the damn mansion and money is. But I’m sure you’re more than glad to fly half across the country. You seem to me like the kind of guy who’s living a meaningless, sad, pitiful, near suicidal existence. Hell, judging from the tone in your voice I’d bet you haven’t gotten laid in months.”
         “Will I have to pay the airline ticket myself?”
         “You bet. But in return, you’re getting millions.”
         “Alright.”
         “Don’t take long.”

June 19, 1984  2:27 P.M.

         Stephen sat a desk reading over his late uncle’s will. He wore a blue sports jacket and gray slacks. His hair was as messy as always. He liked it like that. Mark Bennfield sat an the opposite side of the desk. He was several inches taller than Stephen, nearly six foot five. He had a blonde crew cut and wore a beige suit.
         “I’ll just need you to sign here Mr. Finney.”
         “I told you, please call me Stephen.”
         “Alright then, please sign Stephen.” He handed Stephen a pen, who then scribbled his signature at the bottom of the page. “To let you know, Albert’s funeral mass is in thirty minutes. Do you wish to attend?”
         “Of course I’m going to attend! This man was my hero. He thought me so much as a child. But then again, he was all I had. My dad was always either drunk or beating on my mom. And whenever my mom wasn’t being abused, she locked herself in her room all day snorting crack.”
         “What a lovely childhood you must have had!” exclaimed Mark with a huge smirk on his face.
         “Do you enjoying pissing me off?”
         “Ahh, why whatever do you mean Mr. Finney. I’m no different talking to you then I am to anyone else.”
         “Then I pity everyone close in your life.”
         “So I see you do have a sense of humor. Nice to know.” Mark glanced at his watch for a second.
         “What is it?”
         “We really should get going to the church now.”
         “Wait…WE!? Why are you going?”
         “I love social gatherings.” Mark stood up and walked to the door. “Come on, let’s go. I need to get a good parking space.”

June 19, 1984  4:48 P.M.

         Stephen stood over the open casket, peering down at the man he loved more than anyone else. The man who taught him how to play basketball. The man who gave him advice on girls. The man who on Stephen’s sixteenth birthday gave him his very first condom and told him to make good use of it. To think, dead, just because of some drunken mistake. Damnit, he was trying to fight his alcoholism too. I am looking at his dead body and I still can’t believe it. It’s just not fair. A single tear formed below Stephen’s right eye. He wiped it away. He was never much of a crier. Al told him that crying was for queers.
         “Man this place is sweet.” said Mark, interrupting Stephen’s train of thought. “Though I feel the color black is definitely being overused.”
         “It’s a funeral, what do you expect. And lower your voice.” whispered Stephen.
         “Uh huh, whatever you say. Ah man, look at that chick over by the counter. Wow, is she a looker. Even crying she still turns me on.”
         “You’re a disgrace of a human being, you know that right?”
         “You take life way too seriously. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m looking for the snack dish.”

June 19, 1984 11:27 P.M.

         Stephen grasped the frosted door handle and twisted it. It sent shivers down his spine. He slowly pushed the door open, speechless at what he saw. The walls were made entirely of shimmering crystals. The floor was black hardwood. The stairway was mahogany red. “He was a rich bastard that sadly had no sense of fashion”, gleamed Mark who was standing just behind Stephen.
         “Well, you drove me here and I am grateful. Guess that’s …it?” Stephen pondered.
         “…ah boy, sure was rich…”, Mark said missing Stephen’s hints.
         “So umm, what’re you still doing here?”
         “Ain’t ya gonna invite me in for some coffee?”
         “Well, you are already in the house. And I don’t know if there is any coffee here.”
         “Bollocks. Look around you. If I looked hard enough I bet I could find some child porn and snuff films in here. An’ don’t even argue that. I bet your lonely uncle was a perverted freak.”
         “Okay, my patience in you is running short. I’m trying not to punch you in the mouth right now. Gotta be honest, isn’t easy. Now I would really appreciate it if you would leave.”
         “Okay, okay, must come out with the truth right now.” Mark looked down at his feet as he fiddled with his fingers. “I kinda have no place to stay. Was wundrin’ if I could stay with you - please?”
         “Alright, I guess I’ll be honest too. I don’t like you. I really don’t like you. If I read the newspaper one day and saw your name in the obituaries I wouldn’t even think about it for a second. I don’t know how anyone could live with you. Chances are if I let you live here, I’ll end up hanging myself within the first week.”
         “So …is that a no?”
         “Are you serious?”
         “Just look outside mate. Pouring rain. Any hobo sleeping on his back tonight will probably drown. I really have no place to stay. Landlord kicked me out. Couldn’t keep up with the rent. Please. Just do this for me.”
         “Tonight only. I want you gone in the morning.”
         “Ah hell yeah man, sleep over!”
         Somehow I think I’m going to regret this decision.

June 23, 1984 3:03 A.M.

         Stephen Finney woke suddenly and sat up. He ran his hand through his hair (now soaked in sweat). He heard a faint scratching noise. Stephen pushed his blankets to the side and got out of bed slowly. He flicked on the light switch but saw nothing out of the ordinary. The bedroom was empty except for the king sized bed and a golden mantle place which took up an entire wall. “I think I’m going insane …I need a drink.”

         Mark Bennfield sat upright on the edge of his bed; his eyes glued to the twenty-seven inch television less than a foot away from him (after an hour of sucking up he convinced Stephen to let him stay for a week longer until he got his next paycheck).  He had been flicking the channels furiously for the last hour. “Over three hundred channels and no good porn. What’s happening to this country?” Mark heard a weak but rather distinctive screeching sound behind him. Forgetting about the TV, he swerved his body around. Seeing nothing. “Huh, that was odd,” he said, and turned his focus back to the television. He heard the high pitched screech again, only this time louder. Mark froze, dropping the remote out of his right hand.

         A rugged hand grabbed the refrigerator door handle. Stephen stopped, his hand shaking. He exhaled deeply then opened the door. He went straight for the bottle of bourbon, hauled out of the cork in a swift movement and jerked his head back along with the drink. He made large gulps every five seconds, drops escaped his mouth and rolled down his cheek. When he was down to the last drop he took a half-drunkenly step backwards and dropped the bottle, shattering instantly. Stephen’s body swayed slightly, and he took one step forward, his bare foot coming down on the shards of glass. He was too drunk to notice the pool of blood forming around his foot. This was the forth night in a row that Stephen had been woken up due to unexplained noises. He kept telling Mark, but he just called Stephen crazy. “Again. Too much now ..hasn stopped,” mumbled Stephen, who was nearly incomprehensible.

         Mark’s neck twitched as he paced himself down the stairs, only separating his legs an inch each time to make a step. He heard (or thought he heard) the same screeching noise the previous three nights. But this night it had been at its loudest. He knew now that it was real. It had to be. Mark always knew he was an arrogant, obnoxious prick that lacked social-skills and common decency, but he always considered himself perfectly sane. Until now. Mark walked into the kitchen and his eyes widened in shock. He saw Stephen’s bloodied body lying unconscious on the floor. Or dead. He ran over and knelt down by his side, placing his index and middle fingers on Stephen’s neck; and gasped.

June 23, 1984 11:16 A.M.

         Stephen finished re-wrapping the white bandages around his foot and taped it together. “That should do for a few more hours. Hey Mark, I just wanna say thanks for you getting me back into a bed last night and cleaning up the mess I made on the kitchen floor.” Stephen rested his head down on the couch. He was hung-over from last night and still in a lot of pain. He had many small slashes over his back from the glass.
         “No problem. It was the least I could do for you letting me stay here a week.” Mark was sitting down at the dining room table glancing through the movie ads in the newspaper.
         “Actually, I’ve been thinking about it. And I’d like you to stay longer. You’re welcome here until you get yourself back on your feet.”
         “Uh huh, uh huh,” said Mark blankly. “Well, I’ll be damned!”
         “What is it?” asked Stephen.
         “Says here they’re making a fourth ‘Friday The 13th’ movie. Can’t wait to see it.”
         “Uh, that already came out. Couple months ago actually. Wasn‘t half bad.”
         “Then why does it list it in the Coming Attractions section? Being released on April 13th.”
         “Mark, I don’t read newspapers. You’re reading one that’s been here since my uncle lived here. It’s June, not April. And I find it quite sad that you didn’t know it was June.”
         “Psh, who pays attention to what month it is anymore?”
         “You really are an odd one.”
         “An odd one that saved your life. If I never got you off the broken glass you’d probably be dead now. By the way, you never even told me how you got like that. What happened last night?”
         “Huh?” Stephen hesitated, “Oh it was nothing. Little accident you, know.”
         “Still hearing those … ‘scratching’ noises?”
         “Look, I get it. You think I’m insane. But I know what-”
         “No, no. I don’t think you’re insane. I heard something last night as well. But who knows, maybe we’re both just a couple of crazy fools.”
         Stephen sat upright (his head still aching) and stared at Mark. “What do you mean that you heard noises too?” he asked in a stern voice.
         Mark dropped the two month old newspaper and looked back at Stephen. “Well….”
         “Tell me.”
         “It was a screeching. At first just in the distance and it was so quiet. I thought it was just my mind. But then. But then it got louder. More horrific.”
         “Ever hear them during the day?”
         “Just night. Usually starting around 3 A.M.”
         “Same here.” Stephen lifted himself off the couch and stood tall. “You know what this means, don’t you?”
         “Uh …slumber party?”
         “No. It means tonight we investigate this house and find out what the fuck else is in it besides us.”
         “And if it’s nothing but evidence that we truly are going insane?” Mark got up from the chair and walked towards Stephen.
         “Then we become the town crazies.”
         “Sounds like fun,” Mark gleamed. “So, what do you need for tonight?”
         “Just someone by my side to back me up and to use as potential bait,” Stephen joked. “Up for it?” he asked with a smile as he outstretched his hand.
         “Definitely,” Mark responded as he firmly shook Stephen’s hand.

June 24, 1984 3:02 AM

         Mark was in the kitchen swallowing the last mouthful of his fourth cup of coffee. He liked his coffee strong; eight tea spoons of sugar, no milk. The lights were off all throughout the house. Mark and Stephen had been using flashlights to search the mansion for anything out of the ordinary. They assumed if there were was something else in the house, that the light would scare it.
         “Hey. Mark,” Stephen yelled with a whisper from on the staircase. “I think I heard something, come up now. And don‘t forget your weapon.”
         Mark laid the empty mug on the counter and picked up the shadowed object laying on the table next to him. In his hand he wielded a long-handled axe. Personally, he thought the axe was a stupid weapon to use. And he was quite pissed that Stephen had a pistol. Stephen found the weapons while he was routing through the basement; he didn’t think his uncle had ever owned a gun.
         Mark held the flashlight in his left hand and guided his way around the hall, up the stairs, and to the room at the end of the hall.
         “What room is this?” Mark asked.
         “Don’t know,” replied Stephen, “looks completely empty. This wasn’t even a room where my uncle kept his junk or personal belongings. Just nothing.”
         “So, where did you hear the noise?”
         “There,” Stephen said, pointing the flashlight at the wall behind him. “Come over, and put your ear against the wall.”
         Mark cautiously walked over, stared at the wall for a brief moment, then leaned his head toward it, until his ear was touching the wooden wall (there wasn’t even wallpaper like the other rooms had). After a few seconds, but what seemed like an eternity to Mark, he lifted his head up. His face was pale and a single dropped of sweat fell from his hair.
         “So …you hear it?” Stephen asked.
         Mark remained quiet for a moment, then gulped. “I certainly heard something.”
         “What’d it sound like to you?”
         “Something familiar - I recognize it, from somewhere.”
         “…”
         “So, what do you say we do?” asked Mark.
         Stephen stared at Mark solemnly for what seemed like forever. He then looked down at the axe wielded in his hand. “I think you know what to do.”
         “Wait,” started Mark, then stopping for a second to think, “you want me to drive this into the wall? That doesn’t sound safe to me. Hell, sounds like something crazy I’d come up with.”
         “Sure it’s dangerous. But what else can we do? We both know there’s something behind that wall. So we might as well confront it.”
         “Yeah …you got a point. Honestly, what’s the worst that could happen?”
         “We could die,” replied Stephen almost with a smirk.


         Mark tightened the grip of the wooden, long-handled axe. Its point was slightly dull, and the handle was worn. He raised it with both hands and slowly pulled it back to his left side. He took several deep breaths, trying to calm himself, only each exhale made his body shake more. Sweat rolled from his now shiny forehead, gathered in his eyebrows, and splashed on his cheeks. His legs were numb, he felt as if his legs would give out beneath him at any moment. He took one final inhale, held it in for three seconds, then exhaled very loudly. At this moment his body was perfectly still. The sweat he was drenched in made him look like an ice sculpture. He drove the axe towards the wall in front of him. Even though he wasn’t even two feet away from the wall, it seemed like an eternity before the blade pierced into it. He hauled the blade out, swung it back and drove it into the wall again. He did this several times, until there was a very damaged section of wall at Mark’s eye level. He glanced over at Stephen’s face. The two then turned their direction back to the wall, and walked towards it. Mark grabbed onto a hold of a piece that stuck out. It was nothing more than painted sheet wood. In a swift motion he hauled it off and tossed it behind his back. There was now a clear hole made in the wall roughly one foot by one foot in dimension. Mark and Stephen looked through it at the same time.

         They stood motionless for nearly a minute, unable to comprehend the sight before their now terrified eyes. Heads. Tails. Red, glowing eyes.  Hundreds of them scurrying about. Thousands. Potentially millions of them were within the confounds of the mansion. The sound heard earlier was audible again. Only this time it was deafening.

         Stephen finally spoke up, “…rats?” he  attempted to exclaim as his voice gave out.
         “Rats. I don’t know. I’ve never seen rats that big. Or rats with eyes that shun like those.”
         “Then …then what?”
         “I don’t know what they are. But that’s not important right now. We have to expose of them. Any ideas?”
         Still in complete shock and terror at what infested behind the wall, Stephen fell to his knees, unable to speak.
         “Come on, man. You have to get up. We need to kill these bastards! I can’t do this myself! Stephen …please.” Mark’s enthusiasm had depleted by the end of the sentence.
         Several of the creatures were crawling around the exposed hole in the wall that Mark had created just moments ago. Seeing them close-up, Mark was positive they weren’t rats. He tightened his grasp of the axe again, and swung again, this time aiming for the glowing eyes monsters. With each swing, the blade sliced into the chest of one, only for three more to take its place. Soon the wall on Mark’s side had become covered in these creatures. They were brown and furry, with slime oozing from then, enabling them to climbs up the walls. Some were even making their way to the ceiling. Mark swung the axe for what was probably the fiftieth time. This time, several of the creatures had stuck to the blade of the axe and begun to scurry towards Mark. He flung the axe across the room.
         “Stephen, move!” Mark commanded. “Now! Stephen had still not budged an inch. Mark swiped the gun from Stephen’s pocket and grabbed onto his collar. He started slowly dragging him out of the monster infested room as he shot at ones that would come close by. “Almost …out ..of room,” Mark gasped for air in between each word. “Just …need …to …shut …door.” A creature had fallen off the ceiling onto Stephen’s leg (who still wasn’t reacting to the madness occurring around him). Out of energy, Mark lost hold of Stephen and fell back, landing on his backside. The red-eyed creature had exposed its claws and had begun tearing into Stephen’s leg. Blood oozed out, soaking his pants. The creature put its hairy mouth to Stephen’s leg and sucked the blood emitting from it. The slime from the creature was seeping into Stephen’s exposed skin. Stephen remained motionless on the floor. Mark (too exhausted to move) stared into his eyes. Tears formed around them, his lips quivered. “Come on!” yelled Mark with every ounce of energy he had left. “Stephen! Fight back! Don’t give up …please.” Mark’s voice cracked at the end, and he started crying at the sight of his best friend dying. Not just his best friend …his only friend. The only person who enjoyed the company of Mark. The only person who ever gave Mark a chance.  The only person.

         Stephen’s corpse had been completely covered by the blood-sucking fiends. Every fluid drained from his body. Mark was next, and he knew it. In a second, a dozen of the rat-like creatures were tearing into his legs. Mark didn’t care at this point. After seeing the death of Stephen, nothing mattered. Within two seconds he was consumed. It only took five more seconds to die.