I remember that morning because of how foggy it was. I had never been in a fog like that before. Driving over to the house, Sam and I had to pull off to the side of the road and wait for the fog to lift. I stepped out of the car to stretch my legs. The fog quickly thickened around me as I stood there in the silence of the thick white mist. It seemed as if I was lost in a state of limbo, neither alive nor dead, and for a brief instant that thought actually appealed to me. A few years prior to that, that same thought would have made me shiver. I welcomed the silence and embraced the peace of that fog. I liked being lost in its nothingness and wanted nothing more than to drift in its white tranquillity. As it dissipated around me, I wished it would take me with it. We arrived at the home around 7am as the uniformed guys were taping off the bedroom where the murder took place. The house itself was modest enough from the outside, but as I walked up the narrow stairwell I couldn't help but notice how filthy it was inside. Dirty clothes, liquor bottles, and pizza boxes were scattered everywhere. It smelled like your typical corner bar. Two female officers were consoling a sobbing, jumbled mass of hair sitting on the living room couch. I saw little 9 year old Jason for the first time standing in the corner of an adjacent bedroom when we reached the top of the stairs and I noticed he was staring straight at me. 

At this point I had no idea of what had happened, and now when I think about that moment it gives me the creeps. Sam talked to one of the uniformed guys while I checked out the room. Lying on its stomach was a decapitated corpse of a male with his pants down around his ankles. His head was on top of the nearby dresser drawer, lying on it's left ear facing the bed. The eyes were still open. Now, you've got to realize that this was not a decapitation with a sharp object. This guy's head had been torn from its body, as if he had been caught in an industrial machine or something. Blood was everywhere, on the floor, the walls, even on the ceiling. Half of his esophagus was sticking out of his head and slowly dripping blood onto the carpet. I was told later that just about all of the cops who had been through the room had puked, so my embarrassment as I emerged out of the bathroom was short lived. Sam whispered in my ear as I wiped my mouth with a tissue, "You OK, Richie?" "Yeah, I'm all right", I lied. "Jesus Christ, Sam! Have you been in there." "I glanced around", Sam said. "Can't say I've seen worse, but I guess I'm used to it." My partner Sam, a burly ex-marine with a barrel chest and a head like a beer keg, was also my best friend. He grew up in a tough section of Southwest Philly and nothing seemed to faze him.

We'd been partners for the last 3 years and his calm demeanor when viewing a victim's body, no matter how bad the corpse looked, never ceased to amaze me. Once, he calmly ate a greasy cheeseburger as we viewed the remains of a woman who had been pushed in front of a freight train. But I loved him like a brother, and I could always rely on Sam to get all the pertinent facts when we started our investigations. "What'd ya find out?" I asked him as I threw the tissue in the wastebasket. "Well, our unfortunate friend here is a Mr. James Haskins, age 41. He's got a rap sheet as long as Ridge Avenue_dealing meth and heroine, assault, robbery, receiving stolen property, you name it. A real solid citizen. But, check this one out." Sam pointed to the last line of the printout, and I read it out loud. "Sexual assault of a minor?" "And it wasn't a little girl," Sam added as he made that disgusted face I'd come to know all too well. "Wonderful", I sighed. "What else ya got for me?" "The house is owned by a Ms. Rita Jacobs, the skin and bones with hair that we saw sitting on the couch. She moved in here about 2 years ago with her nephew Jason, age 9. Our friend Mr. Haskins is apparently boyfriend of the month, according to the neighbors. People are in and out of the house at all hours, loud parties, drunken brawls, the whole bit. Some of the uniformed boys downstairs have been here a few times to straighten shit out." "Where are the kid's parents?," I asked. "They were killed in a car accident a few years back on the Boulevard. Ms. Jacobs is the mother's sister and wound up with custody of the boy.

"I'm going to talk to his aunt. Rita Jacobs, sitting on the couch and smoking a cigarette, looked like she belonged on the back of a Harley. Her shaggy brown hair covered a pale, skeletal face obviously ravaged by drugs and booze. Black, lifeless eyes briefly glanced at me as I approached this gaunt figure that was nervously twitching one leg. I'd seen a thousand like her when I worked vice. Pathetic, soulless waifs whose daily goal in life was to try and forget what they had become. She had that look of a woman who had once been pretty, but had lost it somewhere and didn't particularly care that she had. "Ms. Jacobs, I'm detective Stewart. I'm sorry about what happened to your friend. Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?" "Yeah, I would detective," she said as her mouth began to quiver and tears welled up in her eyes. "Why don't I ask you a few questions? How 'bout that for a change? What the hell is going on here?" She pointed a bony finger toward the top of the stairs. "Who could do such a thing?" She desperately searched my face for an answer, but I had none to give her. I asked her the usual bullshit about whether Haskins had any enemies, or whether she knew someone who wanted him dead. She said she knew plenty of people who didn't like Jimmy, most of whom wouldn't mind seeing him dead, but she knew none that could kill him in such a fashion.

I could tell she was lying. "It's no secret that Jimmy didn't like Jason, but I never saw,_ I mean, he never touched that kid. Well, maybe whacked him when he got wise, or something, but nothin' real bad. Nothin' like you're sayin'. Did Jason say that Jimmy hurt him? Did he say that?" She began to sob and I doubted her sincerity. I think she realized that this would work better than blowing smoke in my face. She was right. I wasn't going to get anywhere with her, and I decided to head back upstairs. Besides, I could always bring her downtown later on and put some heat on her. Her angry reaction to what Jason might have said puzzled me. She never once asked how he was doing. Why wasn't she comforting him? Why was he upstairs and she's downstairs? This whole thing was really weird. Sam met me at the top of the steps. "You're the winner Richie", he said. "The kid says he'll talk, but only to you. Don't ask me why." I looked over into the bedroom where Jason was standing and was met with the same purposeful gaze as before. It seemed as if he was looking right through me. As I approached him I couldn't help but notice that there was a certain sadness he conveyed. His large brown eyes were the color of a rain-swollen creek and dominated a face that looked as if it had seen and endured more than a child should have to. His messy dark hair, second-hand sweat clothes, and general unkempt appearance still couldn't diminish his handsome features.

"The_the what?", I said haltingly. "You mean someone in the closet? A man in the closet?" "No", Jason said without blinking. "Not a man. It's a Thing, like a monster, but he lives in the wall. I hear him at night, mostly at night. The walls creak and thump, but it's really the Thing. He moves in the walls. He can come out sometimes too, but not for long." I stared at him for what seemed like an eternity, my eyes wandering over his face as his words swirled in my mind. I had read somewhere that abused children will create a fantasy world to help them deal with the stressful conditions of their environment, and I feared that Jason would never be able to tell us anything meaningful about the murder. "I was afraid of him for a long time, but he protects me now. I warned Jimmy, but he didn't listen. The Thing stopped him. I knew he would. He's very strong." I tried to bring him back to reality. "Jason, did your aunt see Jimmy in your room last night? Did she hit Jimmy with something?" "No", he said. "She was drunk again and fell asleep. I wish she saw. She doesn't believe in the Thing. She says I'm an idiot, and a liar, and that I pretend too much. She hits me when I talk to the Thing or when I talk about him, but she'll believe me now. 

The Thing doesn't like her either." "Jason, come on now. You're trying to tell me that ghosts and goblins are living in the house? You're too big for that kid stuff. Don't be afraid, you can tell me." "He's not a ghost, mister. Honest. He's in the wall, he lives in the wall. I wouldn't make it up. Please believe me." I slowly rose from my crouched position and looked down at the desperate little boy who now looked to me to believe his tale, to believe in him. The harsh realities of his life had forced him into a fantasy world, and now he looked to me for approval and affirmation. I thought of how lonely this kid must be. My heart sank. "You believe me, don't ya detective? You believe in the Thing?" "Sure Jason. I believe ya." The smile on his face was worth my lie. I playfully mussed his hair and told him to come downstairs with me. I noticed he walked with a very pronounced limp as he shuffled down the steps ahead of me. "Jason, why are you limping? Did you get hurt last night?", I asked him. "No. I got hurt last year. My Aunt Rita tripped me down the steps. She says it was an accident, but the Thing says she did it on purpose. He saw her do it." Sam was waiting for us at the bottom of the steps and I asked Jason to run along and wait for me in the kitchen. "The kid tell ya anything Richie?" "No. he was in dreamland when it happened, it was dark, he didn't see anything. It's probably better that he didn't." I thought that there was no point in telling Sam what the kid had told me. It sure as hell wasn't going to lead us to the killer or killers and I didn't want anyone leaning on        continue>

As I approached I could hear him softly singing a song that I recognized, but couldn't quite place. It sounded like a song that my mother used to sing to me as a child, but I couldn't be sure. I stood there, just outside the entrance and listened. For a moment, his song seemed to relieve the stress of that morning, and I admired his ability to momentarily forget about his plight and go on with the business of being a kid again. He noticed me there in the doorway and stopped singing. We both looked at each other and smiled. Before I left the house that day, I decided to leave a little calling card for Ms. Jacobs. "I wanna tell you something Ms. Jacobs.", I said as I pointed a finger in her face. "I don't like anything I've heard so far, especially from your nephew. I've dealt with people like you before, and your fucked up lives and I'm only gonna say this once. I think you know more than you're letting on, and, to tell you the truth, I don't really give a shit about your dirtball boyfriend or what happened to him, but if you don't start treating your nephew right, I'm gonna come after you hard." She blew smoke in my face as she closed the front door. 

Three days had passed and our investigation hadn't yielded anything substantial. Sam and I had made the rounds at Haskins' favorite haunts and questioned some of his acquaintances, but had come up empty. The coroner's report was disturbing, to say the least. It concluded that the decapitation had been the result of 'a pulling and twisting motion of such a potent force, it resulted in separation of the skull from the spinal cord.' How is that possible?, I thought to myself. Certainly, one man alone couldn't possibly do that, maybe not even two men. Equally as puzzling was the manner in which Haskins was murdered. Why not just shoot or stab him? As a result, not only could we not figure out who committed the crime, but we also could not see how it could be done, and why it was done the way it was. This case had me completely baffled. I needed to sit down and talk to Jason again. Maybe enough time had passed so that he could start to deal with the reality of the situation rather than protect himself with his fantasy world.

I was sitting at my desk reading over the rest of the report when Sam tapped me on the shoulder. "Ms. Jacobs's here, Richie. She says she wants to talk to you_says it's important. She's waitin' at the front desk with the little boy." "Thanks, Sammy", I said as I walked out to greet them. Ms. Jacobs and Jason were sitting at least five feet apart on the wooden benches in the district lobby. She had a frightened look on her face and was nervously gnawing at her thumbnail as I approached. "Detective, I need to talk to you alone", she said as her eyes shifted back and forth from Jason to me. We went into one of the interrogation rooms and left Jason in the lobby. She appeared anxious. Dark puffy circles under her eyes indicated that she hadn't been sleeping well. "Can I get you anything Ms. Jacobs? Coffee or a soda?", I asked her as we sat down. "No thank you." "Is everything ok, Ms. Jacobs? Detective Tobin said it was important." "Detective, I know that Jason told you about his friend, or this Thing, as he calls it." "Yes, he did. I really paid it no mind. I just thought that it was his way of putting a horrible situation in a context that he could understand. Children often create fantasy friends and characters. Jason's no different than any other kid. Especially when you consider the situations you've placed him in." "Please detective. I don't need no lectures", she said angrily. "Then what did you come here for?", I shouted back, hoping for a lead, maybe even a confession. "Well, last night was our first night back in the house since the murder. Jason was in his room and I heard him. He started talking to this, this Thing, and he knows that I don't like it. It's strange and creepy, and I started yelling at him. I told him to start acting like a normal boy, and stop this Thing shit. I think I lost it, and I hit him." 

I just don't know what to think or what to do with this kid anymore. Please help me." "I'll tell you what Ms. Jacobs. I've been meaning to talk to Jason again. I was hoping he'd be able to give me a little bit more information about the murder now that some time has gone by. I'll come over to your house later on this afternoon and talk to him. I'll try and see if I can get him to stop talking about this Thing, too. Hopefully, we'll get to the bottom of this whole mess." "Thank you so much.", she said. "I guess I'm just real jumpy since this happened. I'm not handling it well, and this kid scares me detective. My sister just did me a great big favor, up and dyin' like that, ya know? "Well Ms. Jacobs, I kinda think that Jason feels he was short-changed too ." 

A few hours later I pulled in to the driveway of Jason's house. I shut off the car engine and immediately heard a horrific scream coming out of the house. I drew my revolver and ran to the front door. I heard what sounded like an animal shrieking inside the house. I tried to open the door but it was locked. Again, I heard screaming coming from the house. I shot the doorknob off and kicked in the door. The house was dark inside and the late afternoon light did little to help my vision. I nearly tripped on something as I slowly walked towards the steps, my gun at the front of my outstretched arms. I looked down and the first thing I recognized was the hair, a tangled web of hair sitting on top of a bloody piece of flesh no bigger than a softball. It was all that remained of Rita Jacobs. "Jason!", I screamed. "Jason where are you?" Something moved at the top of the stairwell. I couldn't make it out in the darkness. It was large and dark and it appeared to be moving towards me. Panic took hold as my heart raced, fueled by fear and adrenaline. 

The dark apparition leapt from the top of the stairs and landed on the first step, directly in front of me. I staggered back and slipped on the blood-slicked floor, tripping over the remains of Rita Jacobs and landing on my back. The thing glided towards me. The faint late afternoon light scarcely revealed the creature that now stood over me. It was huge, at least 9 feet tall with a vaguely human shape. It had no recognizable features, at least none that I could discern, but gave the impression of a shadow that had miraculously taken form. The thing reached out for me, but I raised my gun and fired. I shot at it again and again, emptying my revolver. As the sharp echo of my final shot slowly faded, a strange and eerie silence followed. The thing began to dissipate in front of me, melding into the darkness. I laid there in the silent gloom waiting for something_for anything to happen. I momentarily thought of that fog, but the peace of that silence was in stark contrast to the fear that now gripped my entire body. My heart pounded like a drum in my ears, and my breath was straining to push through the lump in my throat. Nothing moved or could be heard in the absolute stillness and silence of that moment, and then I heard the faint sound of a child singing. 

It was that same song I heard Jason singing in the kitchen a few days before. The soft voice gradually drifted away until it could no longer be heard. It drifted off into the darkness from where it came. I'll never forget that sound as long as I live. We never did find little Jason Burke. The massive manhunt that followed his disappearance captivated the country for a while, but it's all but forgotten now. Of course, I knew that Jason would never be found, but I never said that to anyone. I told the investigators that I thought I saw someone with a gun when I entered the house and shot at him. They were baffled then, and still are to this day, because they could not find the bullets that I had shot from my revolver. If someone had been hit, where was the blood? If not, why weren't the bullets embedded in the walls? I simply told them that I couldn't explain it and stuck by my story.

 I've never even confided in my buddy Sam, who knows me well enough to understand and accept my silence. I steadily spiraled into a deep depression, luckily avoided a divorce, and eventually resigned from the police force. I'm a self-employed landscaper now, a little bit poorer perhaps, but happier nonetheless. I often wonder exactly what the Thing was, or is. Had it always been there living in the walls of that house, or did the sad, dismal existence of a little boy in his relentless desire to overcome his plight somehow transcend the physical world and create this monster? Perhaps the Thing had taken Jason, or maybe Jason had become the Thing. Maybe he always was the Thing. 

I spent countless hours alone in that house in the weeks following Jason's disappearance. Many times I cried out his name in a desperate attempt to find him, hoping to hear his voice respond to my pleas. My cries were always answered with silence. I drove by the old Jacobs house a couple of weeks ago. Judging by the bicycles and hockey sticks on the lawn, a family had moved in. A little boy was sitting on the front steps, his chin firmly planted in his cupped hands. I wanted to stop and ask him if he'd seen or heard anything strange in the house, something that seemed to come from the walls. Did he ever hear a lost voice desperately searching for someone or something to believe in, a voice that was everywhere, but seemed to come from nowhere? I wanted to ask these things, but I didn't. The little boy just stared at me as I went by. I'd seen that look before and drove off. The weather forecast was calling for a heavy fog to drift into the area that night and I was in a hurry to get home. I didn't want to get lost in that fog.   End

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