The Siren and the Specter

by Jonathan Janz

  He led the boy toward the front porch. In his periphery lightning flashed again, and though he didn’t count, the attendant thunder sounded nearer than it had previously.

  David stopped. “Wait a second. Where’s your sister?”

  “Half sister. She’s got a different daddy.”

  “Whatever.” David glanced toward the woods, the shoreline path that led to the Shelby home. “Is she…you know….”

  “No idea,” Mike Jr. said. “Ivy don’t go out of the house much.”

  “So she’s still in there. Terrific.” David imagined the girl sitting in the corner with her coloring books and her Kool-Aid stains. Goddammit….

  “We’ve got to get her,” David said. “If it’s not safe for you in there, it’s not safe for her.”

  He’d taken a few steps when a girl’s voice sounded behind him: “Where you goin’?”

  David whirled, a hand on his chest, and found Ivy sitting on the porch, clutching a light green stuffed animal. A lion, he saw upon further inspection.

  She caressed the lion’s fur. “Minty’s scared. He doesn’t like storms.”

  David approached. “I don’t blame him.”

  Now what? he wondered. He couldn’t very well keep them for the night, nor could he cast them back into that freak show.

  Child Protective Services?

  The rain was falling harder now, thick, punishing drops that matted his hair and changed Mike Jr.’s Captain America shirt from light blue to navy. Thunder rumbled over the river.

  “We gonna stand in the rain all night?” Mike Jr. asked.

  “I’m thinking,” David muttered.

  “Kinda slow at that, ain’t you?”

  David arched an eyebrow at the kid, but Mike Jr. stared impassively back.

  “Mr. Caine?” Ivy said.

  “David.”

  “Mr. David?”

  He sighed. “Yes?”

  “Minty’s hungry.”

  David looked at the little girl, took in her knobby shoulders. “Well, we better get Minty something to eat then.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Freshets of rain drilled the kitchen window. The lights kept flickering on and off. It was only a hair after eight but it was darker than soot outside. David hoped they didn’t lose power.

  “Got any pork rinds?” the boy asked.

  “If I did,” David said, slathering peanut butter on bread, “I wouldn’t give them to you.”

  “Just like my dad,” Mike Jr. said. “Gets barbeque chips, Doritos…think he shares them with me?”

  “You sneak them,” Ivy said from the kitchen table.

  “Fuck off,” Mike Jr. said.

  David dropped the butter knife with a clatter. “First off, you’re not going to cuss—” Thunder shook the earth, made the dishes and appliances rattle. “—in my house.”

  “Ain’t your house,” Mike Jr. said, chin upraised. “This here belongs to Governor Judson Alexander.”

  One mystery solved, he thought. David flipped the peanut butter-covered bread on top of the jelly slices, began the job of cutting the sandwiches diagonally. “As it currently stands,” David answered, “Judson Alexander is worm food.”

  Something solemn permeated Mike Jr.’s voice. “Shouldn’t joke about that.”

  He glanced at Mike Jr., assuming the boy was afraid of death, but what he read on the malnourished features was something deeper than normal fear.

  David placed the sandwiches before the children and asked, “What are you talking about?”

  “He chopped people up,” Mike Jr. said in a small voice.

  David glanced at Ivy, saw she was hunched over her sandwich. She was nibbling, but her shoulders were drawn in, her face even paler than usual.

  David went over to the fridge. “Maybe we shouldn’t talk about it now.”

  “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” Mike Jr. asked. “Dad says you’re going to desploit what happened here.”

  “Exploit,” David corrected. He came out with a gallon of milk and crossed to the counter. “I’m not going to exploit anything. In fact,” he said, removing a pair of glasses from the cabinet, “I’m here for the opposite reason.” He poured the milk and brought the glasses over. “You see, when a house is as old as this one, there are bound to be legends about it.”

  “Like choppin’ people up?” Mike Jr. asked.

  Ivy’s eyes were huge over the slice of sandwich.

  “Let’s forget it, okay?”

  Through a mouthful of peanut butter, Mike Jr. said, “You gonna call the cops on my folks?”

  David stared at the boy. “Has anyone done that before?”

  That snorting laugh again. “Course. We been with Granddad twice. Once we lived with…I forget what they’re—”

  “Foster parents?”

  “They was assholes.”

  David glanced at Ivy. Lightning cracked very near, the thunder rumbling a couple seconds later.

  David sat across from Ivy. “Maybe we should call your grandfather.”

  Ivy twitched and stared down at her plate.

  “Uh-uh,” Mike Jr. said.

  “But you said—”

  “He’s like Mommy and Daddy,” the boy said. “Everybody thinks he’s this great guy….”

  Ivy sipped her milk.

  David glanced from face to face. “He hit you?”

  Mike Jr.’s eyes were downcast. “He ain’t the hittin’ kind.”

  Rain splashed over the window in gouts, as if a film crew were standing outside heaving buckets at the panes.

  “You don’t feel safe there?” David asked.

  “Granddad’s always wanting one of us to stay in the bedroom with him.”

  It was only with an effort that David kept from vomiting or screaming.

  He glanced at the rain-besieged window. “Maybe we can….”

  “What?” Mike Jr. asked.

  David scowled. “Hell, I don’t know. There’s got to be something.”

  Ivy’s voice was scarcely audible. “Can we stay here?”

  How did I get into this? he wondered.

  “Ain’t stayin’ at Granddad’s,” Mike Jr. said.

  “No, I don’t suppose that would be prudent.”

  Mike Jr. tilted his head. “You sound like my teachers sometimes.”

  “I am a teacher.”

  “Thought you was a writer.”

  “I’m a writer too.”

  “Dad says all teachers is socialists.”

  “Can we stay the night, Mr. Caine?” Ivy asked.

  David looked at her, rifled through the possibilities again. Came up with nothing.

  “Maybe your parents have cooled off by now.”

  “You don’t know them,” Mike Jr. said.

  “Please don’t make us go back,” Ivy said. David noted how tightly she was clutching the sandwich, her tiny fingertips disappearing inside a snowdrift of bread.

  David sighed. “I need to tell them where you are.”

  “They won’t answer the phone,” Mike Jr. said. “Too shitfaced.”

  “Then we’ll have to go over there.”

  Thunder boomed, making all three of them jump.

  Mike Jr. stared with dread out the window, where lightning strobed in three quick flashes. “You’re gonna make us go out in that? We’ll get fried.”

  “Fine,” David said, rising. “I’ll go.”

  “Can you grab my iPad?” Mike Jr. asked.

  “No.” David started toward the doorway.

  “Mr. Caine?” Ivy said.

  “What?” he answered too brusquely. When Ivy only watched him with wide eyes, he said, more softly, “What is it?”

  “Don’t get fried,” she said.

  He nodded and went t
o leave. Paused to pluck his iPhone off the charger.

  “You got anything other than white milk?” Mike Jr. asked.

  “Water.”

  “Got any Dr. Pepper?”

  David didn’t answer.

  “Bet you got you some beer for yourself,” Mike Jr. called.

  David moved toward the door. “Drink your milk.”

  “Milk sucks ass.”

  “Watch your damned mouth.”

  Mike Jr.’s reply was lost in the sound of the screen door closing. David hustled down the steps, the rain already slanting down at him in stinging drops. He’d dragged on a black T-shirt, but it was already soggy. His shorts and underwear clung to him like Saran wrap. He resolved to take a shower and put on some clean clothes soon.

  Lightning jagged over the river. The roar of thunder came moments later, its full-throated bellow accelerating his strides. He dared not sprint – the ground was too puddled and uneven for that – but he was moving briskly, having no desire to be struck with a lightning bolt.

  FAMED DEBUNKER LAID LOW BY DIVINE JUDGMENT.

  He chugged harder, the swirling thunderheads reminding him of a sci-fi movie. Soon an alien mother ship would descend and begin blowing up buildings.

  But the only building in view was the Shelby house. The bottom story was lit up, though with the monsoon blowing, its glow was somehow muted, the downstairs windows a burnished red rather than the incandescent oranges and yellows he’d spied the night before from the kayak.

  Nearing the house, he glanced askance at the river, which churned and splashed as though superheated by underwater volcanoes. Lightning flashed over the water, created fantastical shapes that glimmered and swirled before his eyes: misshapen horses that shrieked and faceplanted, their hindquarters giving birth to Sherman tanks and prehistoric sea creatures. For a moment David glimpsed a sinister face reefed by squirming pink tendrils and was reminded of the Cthulhu mythos. Lovecraft, he decided, would have delighted in a night like this.

  Thunder crashed in the forest just as David reached the Shelbys’ yard; he made the final approach at a dead sprint. He leaped onto the porch, skidded onto the sodden welcome mat, and depressed the doorbell. No answer. While he waited, he glanced down at Mike Jr.’s grotesque chalk art and saw it had bled away in drab, defeated streaks. He rang the bell and again there was no answer.

  Lips a grim line, he tested the handle and found it unlocked.

  He went in.

  And was greeted by the sounds of Jim Morrison singing ‘Not to Touch the Earth.’ David liked the song, had always found it spooky as hell with its horror movie lyrics and its off-kilter vibe. But here, with the storm buffeting the house and the Shelby children at his place hiding, he found the music infuriating. He resolved to turn it off as soon as he located the stereo.

  He passed through the foyer, called out, but the music was too deafening.

  “Hello?” he said, louder this time. “David Caine here. I’ve got your kids.” He winced at the shady wording. “You two okay? I heard you were…”

  (Raging)

  “…in a quarrel,” he finished.

  He glanced right and left, but the dining area and sitting room were both vacant.

  “Mrs. Shelby?” he called. “Michael?”

  No answer, but then again the bass was so loud he could barely hear his own voice.

  He reached the family room and was greeted by a gangbang on the projection TV screen. Nude male figures looked on as a drugged-looking woman was rammed by a muscular man in a black leather mask. The woman’s body juddered with the man’s thrusts, but her face remained beatific, as though her mind were cavorting through fields of posies and butterflies. The film had the grainy quality of a home movie.

  David could hardly hear the shouts of the men on screen, so loud was Jim Morrison’s voice.

  “Mr. Shelby?” David called. His saliva had dried up.

  Movement from his left drew his attention.

  Michael Shelby was lying naked on his belly on the sectional couch, his hairy butt cheeks smeared with blood. He was weeping.

  Disgusted, David headed toward the kitchen.

  He found Honey spread-eagled on the tile. She wore nothing save a pink strap-on dildo the size of a junior league baseball bat. She was writhing on the floor and massaging her breasts. Her eye sockets were purpled and slightly bloodied. Her bottom lip, too, was split in half with rivulets of blood wending their way down her throat. She was wetting her fingers in the blood and working it over her nipples.

  David escaped. He still hadn’t found the source of the music, but screw it, he couldn’t remain in this place any longer. Couldn’t fathom the children walking into this. What the hell was wrong with people? How could they—

  “Mr. Caaa-aine,” a voice called.

  Shit, he thought. Honey.

  He turned in the foyer and discovered her buxom body emerging from the hallway shadows.

  “You wanna play with me until my lover arrives?” Her lips were open in a lustful grin, and as David watched, numbed by a sense of unreality, she took hold of the strap-on and waggled it.

  It took him a moment to find his voice. “I…I have your kids.”

  “Keep ’em,” she said, letting go of the strap-on and straightening, so that her full breasts poked out at him. She was ten feet away and closing. “Why don’t you warm me up, Mr. Caine? Why don’t you prime me?”

  The song barreled to its conclusion, Jim Morrison shouting ferociously She cupped her left breast, leaned down, and tongued the bloody nipple.

  “I’m calling the police,” David said.

  Honey flicked her bloody tongue at him, very close now. “Tha’s okay,” she said, and he realized she was quite drunk. “Long as you fuck me first.”

  Honey groped for his shirt, fingernails gathering the fabric. He jerked away, burst through the doorway into the darkness.

  “That’s all right, you fucking pansy!” Honey called after him. “You can’t bone me as deep as he does!”

  David loped down the shoreline path, but his limbs were heavy. Even though the rain had ebbed slightly, its onslaught was colder now. He couldn’t decide whether it was the chill or the horror show he’d just witnessed that caused him to shiver.

  He saw no way around it. He couldn’t very well return the kids to the Shelby house – certainly not tonight – and he had to inform the police.

  But providing the details, he thought as he reached the halfway point between the houses, would not only be embarrassing – it might be self-defeating. As vile and negligent as the Shelbys were, would their behavior be provable enough to get the kids removed? And if so, removed to where? The prospect of Mike Jr. and Ivy going to live with ‘Granddad’ made David want to hit someone.

  He made it to his yard. The kitchen light had been extinguished. The entire house was black.

  Splendid, he thought, hustling toward the porch. Power outage. On top of everything else. He bet Ivy was scared to death.

  David passed through the front door and called out to the kids.

  No answer.

  He stepped toward the kitchen, keenly aware of both the tomblike silence in the house and the tempest raging outside. His shoes squelched on the wooden floor, the rainwater dripping off his hair. “Ivy?” he called. “Mike Jr.?”

  He realized with a surge of self-disgust that he’d modulated his voice as if afraid of disturbing any malevolent presence in the house.

  Third night here and you’re jumping at shadows. Some professor.

  He called out again, louder this time. “Kids? You still here?”

  His voice came out at a higher volume this time, but it wasn’t stronger. In fact, he thought as he stepped into the shrouded dining room, if he were writing this scene, he’d use the word quavery to describe his voice.

  Dammit.

&n
bsp; Lightning chalked the riverside yard and the roar of thunder followed with barely a pause. The heart of the storm was upon them. He imagined it as a monolithic face floating slowly toward the house and settling there, stalling, the murderous eyes marking the gables and directing its wrath at them. He thought about an extended power outage, a night spent in utter blackness.

  A bruising thump sounded from above. David jolted, peered at the ceiling in dread.

  Ivy’s bloodcurdling scream cleaved the night.

  Chapter Sixteen

  David made the foyer in six ungainly strides. His limbs were gelatinous, his heart a racing double-bass drum. There’d only been one scream, Ivy’s, but he was certain both children were up there. Where else would Mike Jr. have gone?

  David took the stairs two at a time, gripping the banister to make sure he didn’t totter backward. He imagined ending the night with a broken neck.

  FABLED SKEPTIC DIES—

  “Shut up,” he snarled.

  He made the landing, screwed up his eyes to see which doors were open. “Ivy? Mike Jr.? Where—”

  A scraping sound from his right.

  The long bedroom. The one with four single beds. The one whose temperature had, inexplicably, plummeted when he’d ventured inside.

  The place that had scared the living shit out of him.

  David moved toward it, saw the door was closed. Had the kids locked themselves in? And if so, why?

  He tested the knob. Locked.

  “Open up, Mike!” he called.

  Thunder rumbled over the property. Had there been a whispered voice beneath it?

  David rattled the knob. “Mike, Ivy, open the door!”

  Gouts of rain assaulted the window, as though the Rappahannock had reached out a watery hand and slapped the storm-beset panes. David strove to quell the tingling in his spine. “Kids, I know you’re in there, so just unlock the damned door.”

  Nice, he told himself. Shout at them. With their psychotic parents and this cataclysmic storm, they haven’t been through enough already.

  “Kids?” he started, gentler this time. “I know you’re frightened – and I don’t blame you – but if you let me in, I’ll make sure you’re safe.”

  Ivy’s voice sounded from the other side of the door. “How do I know it’s you?”