Expiration Date by Duane Swierczynski

Dennis Michael Vincent—who was probably already awake, sitting in his parents’ old king-sized bed on the second floor—that something was wrong. I heard his heavy footsteps clomping down a wooden staircase. He was coming down to check on his captive.
    “Patty! Listen to me! You need to be quiet!”
    Then he was right above us, almost tripping over the open trapdoor.
    “The hell !?”
    Years from now, the neighbors would come forward with all kinds of details. Like how they remembered Vincent putting out ten paper bags of dirt for each weekly garbage collection. Didn’t even dump the dirt in the backyard; he put it out for the trash guys to pick up. Neighbors would also remember hearing sawing and hammering—and, once in a while, screaming. But they just thought it was a cowboy or science fiction show on TV. Maybe a war picture. Nothing to worry about.
    Couldn’t they hear Patty’s screams now? Why didn’t they pick up the telephone and call the police—if nothing else but to put their minds at ease?
    There was a harsh, bright light from above as Vincent turned on a light in the laundry room. Instantly I felt like I was going to throw up. The light again. Light did not like me. I inched backwards, trying to tuck myself back into the shadows. Of all of the Achilles’ heels in the world to have, why did mine have to be the thing the planet is bathed in half the time? And could be summoned with the flick of a switch?
    Two brown work boots landed on the dirt, along with two legs clad in muddy denim. Then his whole form crouched down. Dennis Michael Vincent was a tall man. Ruddy-cheeked, big-boned with sideburns gone wild. His eyes were too close together, like he’d grown up while the upper half of his face stayed frozen.
    “Shhhh now little girl,” he said. “We talked about this now. You don’t want to get the belt again do you? You want me to bring the belt into the pit?”
    I lunged at him.
     
     
    It hurt like hell—my other bones colliding with his real ones. But I think it hurt Vincent, too. And confused him. He grunted and spun around, squinting into the near darkness. I hissed at him, trying to sound as monstrous as possible.
    “Get out of here now.”
    Let him worry. Let him freak. Let him run screaming from his own house. Maybe then the neighbors would do something.
    “Who is that? What the—”
    I didn’t know if he could hear me. I didn’t care. It made me feel good.
    “I’m the Devil. I’m here for my daughter.”
    I charged him again.
    This time, though, Vincent managed to grab me for a few seconds—how, I have no idea. But the light from above burned my back. I felt like I was going to throw up and fry to death at the same time. I twisted and rolled across the dirt, hearing Patty’s screams and Vincent’s fevered grunts as he searched for whatever was attacking him.
    The opposite corner of the pit was pitch dark. I crouched there for a moment, trying to catch my breath and fight the dizziness I was feeling. Not yet. I couldn’t wake up just yet. Just a little while longer. Just until she’s free.
    “You’re doing that, aren’t you? You’re doing that, aren’t you, you little whore?”
    Patty screamed, but the cry was broken in half, like she’d been throttled halfway through.
    “You’re doing that because you’re the daughter of the Devil! You stop it! You stop it or I’ll use the belt on you until your bottom bleeds!”
    There was a slap. I charged him again. I didn’t care if I burned alive down there. I needed this man to stop hurting this child.
    Vincent’s head struck pipe. There was a dull bonging sound and a second later he cried out in agony. Then he went scrambling up out of the pit. I grabbed a sheet from the kiddie mattress, draped it over my head and then climbed up into the laundry room, not stopping until I was safe in the darkness of the living room. He was in there, too. I could make out his dim form among the shadows, mouth agape, eyes bulging, trying to