by C.G. Banks
Chapter 17: Subtle Changes
On June 16, 1995, Patsy Standish had been living in her new home for almost three weeks. In that period of time she’d already seen her dead daughter once, been accosted (sort of, she told herself) by two other unknown ghostly children several times, contemplated suicide, been frightened witless on one of the subdivision’s trails, and for the first time in her life actually sought out the help of a psychologist. If someone had read off this tally sheet and laid money on the odds, it would have most assuredly remained in the bank, drawing interest. However, time ran in one direction and what was done was done. That much was anathema. What she didn’t know was that she wasn’t alone.
A pall had fallen as of late. The darkness was soon to descend.
Elizabeth Tanksley had taken to resting in her chair at night rather than waste away her restlessness in bed. She had not slept in ten nights, at least not for more than an hour at a time. And when she did, her sleep was haunted by fires and smoke; screams that could have come from the bottom of deep wells or the hollows of forbidden caves. Her ears had sharpened too, and just on the verge of her perception were growing whispers, a steady stream of gibberish that seemed to take on meaning as each day passed.
In the Simmons’ home over on Brighten Street no one had been seen for a week. The one car the family owned had been sitting in the carport collecting dust, but still, no one living nearby saw any cause for alarm. They were a strange bunch, were the Simmons. Neither the husband nor wife worked, at anything. Not even in the yard. They had a man who handled that end and his check was always mailed. Always. When they’d moved in (one of the first in the new neighborhood) they’d quickly installed thick curtains at every window and these were never drawn. They had two kids (home schooled, the ones who chose to guess probably suspected) but they were never seen either. Sometimes young voices could be heard from behind the wood fence that encircled the backyard but it never went any further than that. No one had ever seen them. No one ever would now either. Alive anyway. Three nights before and with the air conditioner set at 72 degrees, the heater had suddenly kicked to life. Even though the unit was comparatively new there was a malfunction. It had poured carbon monoxide into every room before the oppressive, encroaching heat could rouse the family, and they had all slowly died, poisoned in their sleep. The heater had just as unexplainably kicked off several hours later with the temperature hovering at a stifling 97 degrees and all four of the inhabitants as dead as coffin nails in their beds. That had been a Monday. Today was Friday. They would not be discovered for another six days, and then only after the Pikrens, who lived next door, called to report a strange lingering smell in the air.
In one dark little house on Maple, a woman, Gretchen Mobley, had gone to work for the last four days in a state of shock. So far, no one had noticed anything because she handled shipping for a small steal fabricating plant just outside Angle Sides. She too, had taken to hearing voices at night, but these had soon developed into full-blown conversations between whatever it was and her. Nothing had been shipped to where it needed to be since the first of last week and from the looks of it, nothing would until her snafu was discovered later in this one. She wore long-sleeved blouses to work and her arms were criss-crossed in the tangled lines she’d carved in both forearms with her rather long, incredibly strong, fingernails. She was careful to keep them bandaged so no one would notice any seepage through her clothes.
One of the crucial beams in the treehouse near where Jester Johnson had taken his lunch twisted out of true during a short summer squall a couple of days before, and was a waiting deathtrap for any children who might happen along.
Tomas Lopez had called in the last two days running, complaining of excruciating headaches, though he never took the time to call a doctor and set an appointment. His eyes had become super-sensitive to the light (as if he’d stared straight into a welding arch without protection). He was living off Codeine and whiskey.
Four dogs and nine cats had disappeared and the Lost posters were just beginning to pop up on selected STOP signs and nearby convenience store bulletin boards.
One of the five generators used to power the neighborhood (this one located far back in the woods just west of the defunct bridge and on the site where a torture/suicide had occurred more than thirty years before), had begun to send odd readings and was scheduled for a maintenance check in the next cycle.
A whole nest of squirrels had become infected with rabies and ravenously patrolled the neighborhood and surrounding vicinity for water and relief from their agony.
Tempers were short, revenge seductive. Temperatures had begun to fall five to eight degrees lower on Leszno’s Acres during the night than the area forecasters were aware of. Blood ran freely from a hole in the ground not fifty feet from where Patsy had spotted the two strange figures several weeks before. Phone calls were not getting through. Television channels were often fuzzy for hours at a stretch, though never when a service man was on hand. Figures began to move unbidden in the wooded stretches that surrounded the neighborhood.
A great unsettling prepared itself.