Exposition of the Undead, Part 1

                                    

                                          

Hector
His friend constantly pounded on the door with both hands.  The sweat beaded down the sides of his temples.  Tension broke through his muscles as he tried to break down the basement door but to no avail.  He had to make it down there because he knew what was on the other side had to be an abomination of some kind.  For the last couple of nights, he thought something had been off.  Something menacing was wreaking havoc when ignored his friend's warning.  He tried to prepare for what might happen next, but he shrugged it off like a stupid rant coming from a dear friend.  Let alone he was here now and what his friend had told him came true.  Oh, how we wished he could take it back calling his best friend a moron.
            The door refused to budge due to an object wedged between the basement doorframe.  This made him question only one thing, the basement was never locked from that end.  The only way one could lock it was from the back door hallway which was between the kitchen and the family room.  There was no possible way for anyone to lock it.  Unless they were something else, something sinister and wicked and not of this world keeping him from getting down there.  Someone...anyone...could have come in and installed a deadbolt from the inside out.  This thought only made the horror intensify beyond recognition.  
            He could hear the panting behind the bolted door and stormed out the back door towards the garage.  Stumbling over some boxes containing his mother's pots and pans, and his dad's pictures of his family, he opened his old man's workbench.  He grabbed a saw and the crowbar, dusting off any access debris, but in this case, it wasn't necessary and wondered why he would do such a thing.  I guess that's how he was raised to respect other people's property; it was something his dad instilled in him ever since grammar school.  
            Scurrying back inside his home he stopped in his tracks.  A putrid rotting smell scorched his nostrils as if inhaling battery acid.  His eyes began to tear, feeling a sense of morbid tenacity grow.  It began to grow heavy as if he couldn't breathe.  The constant fear rattled his brains through and through.  He thought he noticed another person in the window that was stationed above the back porch, but when he shook his head, the vision subsided.  No one could be inside the house, at least he didn't think so.  He didn't remember if he left the front door open let alone any windows the night before.  And why would there be a person in his house?  Unless it had been one of them that his friend warned him about.  But there was no time for that now, the only important thing was to get his parents out of the basement, and fast.
            When he reached the basement door he tried using the crowbar.  Digging the point end between the door and the frame and put all of his weight into it.  The force of his body met with pushback from the other side.  Someone slammed the wooden door which made it buckle and splinter a little.  A silent laugh came from the other side and it made him furious, "You leave them alone, asshole!  You hear me!"  But still the cackling laugh echoed and he swore whoever was behind the door was smiling with devilish intent.
            That was when he heard a window break coming from the family room.  He didn't know what to do except to arm himself with the crowbar he had in hand.  The house became deathly silent even a pin drop would have remorse.  The sounds coming from the basement subsided as the sound of his parents and whoever held them captive downstairs barely uttered a peep.  It was almost as if time stood still, and his lungs heaved in and out sporadically.  If there was tension and fear before now it doubled in its veracity.  That putrid smell was back coming in full force as he held the crowbar as a batter would at home plate. 
            He tried not to make a sound as he tiptoed into the interior of the kitchen, jutting his eyes around the corner to see if he could notice the assailant that made the noise.  Gripping the crowbar tightly, his knuckles began to pulse with anger.  Whoever it may be was going to get a crowbar across the jaw, just imagining it becoming dislodged put a smile on his face.  His footsteps were as silent as the cavernous echoes of the nothingness surrounding him.  This time it was personal, and the only thought radiating through his busy head was "I should have listened to my friend.  He knew I was in danger, and I didn't listen.  If all this had to happen, it should have happened to me and not my parents.'