Yesterday's Gone | Novel | October's Gone

by Platt, Sean

  “I boarded up the window in the living room.”

  “You did?” That was surprising. “Where did you get the wood and the tools?”

  “They were in the shed.”

  “Oh? Where was the key?”

  “Will you cuddle me, Mommy?” Junior asked.

  She hesitated, then felt a flare of guilt for her hesitation. But then, “Of course, baby.”

  Liz cuddled him as he lay next to her.

  She felt wide awake. But soon enough, Liz was sound asleep.

  * * *

  Liz woke up in the middle of the night, alone in bed.

  “Junior?” Softly once, then another three times, louder with every fresh attempt.

  Still no answer.

  She got up, putting weight down on her right knee carefully. The pain had subsided, meaning it was more likely a sprain or a minor tear, and not a full-blown shredded ligament.

  She took a step, carefully hugging the bed in case she needed to fall. So long as she limped carefully and clung to the walls, she could make her way out of her room.

  As she passed her window, she looked outside. No sign of a storm, or what time of day it might be. The sky was mostly black, but with pink and purple smears warring for dominance among the stars.

  “Junior!”

  He looked up as Liz hobbled into the kitchen.

  “Hi, Mommy.” Zero inflection or acknowledgment that his mom had been looking all over the house for him. He was in his pajamas, his hair mussed and slightly wet. But more baffling, his feet were covered in mud. He was halfway through another PB&J. Seeing her son eat made Liz realize she was starving.

  “Where have you been?”

  “Nowhere,” Junior said, clearly a lie.

  But how could she press him? The way he was slowly chewing while staring at nowhere, doing so wouldn’t get her any answers right now. The wrong question could shut him down for the day, if not a few of them.

  He finished his sandwich and turned to Liz. “Would you like me to make you a sandwich, Mommy?”

  “No, thank you, sweetie.”

  “I’m good at making sandwiches.”

  She smiled. “I’m not hungry.”

  “I’ll just make you one.”

  Then he stood and went back to the cupboard for the supplies he must have already put away and meticulously made his mommy a sandwich. Once done, he poured her a glass of warm water and offered them both with an absence of fanfare.

  “Here you go, Mommy. Food and water. Eat, and then we can sleep.”

  So Liz ate her sticky sandwich, drank her warm water, then made him wash off his feet in the tub as she went back to bed.

  Soon after, he climbed in next to her, hugging against her like when he was little.

  Just as she was drifting off, Junior said, “I told you not to call me that.”

  “Call you what?” she asked.

  “Junior,” he said.

  * * *

  It was finally morning for real when Liz woke up again. Early enough for the light to still be at war with the dark.

  To her relief, Junior was still asleep. She spent a long minute, easing away so as not to wake him.

  Liz limped her way slowly into the bathroom and was almost entirely spent by the time she sat on the toilet. Her bladder had been emptied for at least five minutes, but she was still trying to work up the strength to stand again when a loud rattle came from outside.

  Or a scratch or a clatter or bang.

  But at least the sound was coming from outside where it couldn’t hurt her.

  That’s what Liz kept telling herself, over and over as the noises kept coming closer. As a scraping fell in step with the other sounds.

  It was no longer just outside, but just outside the bathroom with just one thin cabin wall and just one small window separating her from whatever was waiting outside to kill them.

  Liz was terrified but tried to tell herself that she wasn’t. That was hard when she was stuck on the toilet and at the mercy of anything that might want to break in.

  Harder when a dull shadow crossed right in front of the window. A silhouette that felt somehow familiar without any explanation, which Liz saw as another piece of evidence that she was hallucinating right now. Her mind playing tricks — that’s what this absolutely had to be.

  Moonlight made the shape look like someone was standing directly in front of her. The glass was frosted, and the bathroom lights were out, so they couldn’t see in, even if they were. Liz was almost certain she could hear whatever it was breathing in and out.

  Surely it could smell her cowering on the other side of the wall.

  She stayed frozen on the toilet, waiting for the creature to leave, wondering if Junior would wake up and come in to check on her.

  Maybe the thing outside wasn’t human or animal. Maybe it was some sort of impossible beast from her imagination. Maybe Anderson hadn’t actually drowned or run off or got himself into trouble.

  Maybe someone, or something, had hurt him.

  And maybe that someone, or something, was coming for her and Junior next.

  An eternity passed before the shape finally moved away.

  A new fear gripped her. Junior said he’d repaired the broken window by putting a board over it. She hadn’t checked whether he’d secured it. What if the thing outside was able to tear it off and get in?

  She stood up from the toilet and hobbled as quickly as she could without risk of falling or worsening her injury, back into the bedroom. Junior was still sleeping. She wasn’t sure if that was good or bad, but Liz left him alone.

  She limped to the living room, checking the windows and door to make sure the place was all locked up and sealed tight. Junior’s work was impressive; Anderson couldn’t have done it better.

  She looked in the kitchen next.

  Heard a crunching on the ground outside the back door.

  Froze as a shadow fell across the kitchen window, with only a sheer white curtain between her and whatever was on the other side of the glass.

  It’s only a bear.

  It’s only a bear.

  It’s only a bear.

  Liz leaned against the cupboard, then slowly, painfully, slid down to the floor and pressed herself against the linoleum, terrified that the bear, or whatever it was, could see her through the gaps in the curtain.

  Maybe the creature was hungry.

  She watched, petrified as the shadow drifted across the opposite wall.

  It’s only a bear.

  It’s only a bear.

  It’s only a bear.

  The shadow finally moved away from the window, toward the door.

  She thought of Junior’s dirty feet when she’d woken. He’d been outside. Had he locked the door?

  Fear knotted in her throat.

  Liz reached up and opened the closest kitchen drawer, the one with all the knives, and fumbled around until her hand closed on the hilt of something that felt heavy enough to keep her alive.

  She slowly withdrew her hand, but she wasn’t steady enough.

  The drawer slipped off the tracks and CRASHED to the ground, metal clanging as it scattered across the kitchen floor.

  She saw the shadow scurry away.

  She yelped in surprise.

  Then she waited on the floor, her heart a hurried metronome, to see if the creature would return, or if Junior would wake up to come in and check on her.

  Neither happened.

  Liz put the knife on the counter above her, then slowly pulled herself up, grabbed the blade, then limped to the back door.

  To her horror, she found it unlocked.

  She quickly turned the lock.

  Liz was about to leave when she peered out the small window beside the door.

  The moon was shining on the shed, its door wide open.

  Why is it open? Did Junior open the shed? Or did whatever was in there get out on its own?

  Something inside her turned gnarled and black. She wanted to go out and see what
was in the shed. If Anderson was sleeping out there. But she was too afraid of whatever had been skulking about outside.

  She brought the knife back to bed and put it on the nightstand.

  Then she slid in next to Junior and closed her eyes, reciting an internal mantra to lubricate her sleep. Over and over, she told herself:

  It was only a bear.

  It was only a bear.

  It was only a bear.

  Six

  Two years ago …

  “So you’re saying our kid’s been creeping people out?” Anderson asked the principal.

  Liz looked from Principal Richter to her husband, then back to the principal.

  Mr. Richter shook his head, but only barely. “That’s not what I’m saying at all, Mr. Coombs. I’m saying that—”

  “He’s weird, and nobody likes him. You really think we haven’t heard this before?”

  He stared at Mr. Richter, waiting for the tired man to back down. Anderson resented being here and had been clear about that before they left the house. You’re always sticking up for E.T., then you should be the one having to deal with Mission Control. He’d started the meeting defensive, quickly becoming aggressive.

  Liz expected the principal to take off his glasses and start rubbing them. Instead, the man sighed, appearing to steel himself, then cleared his throat and spoke with resolve.

  “I am sure that, like all parents, you two have had your share of difficulties. I am also sure that And—”

  “Junior—”

  “Yes, sorry, that Junior has offered you some rather unique opportunities to—”

  “They’re not opportunities,” Anderson cut him off again. “Enough with the bureaucratic double-talk. You think I don’t get enough of that crap at work? You want my full attention, I’d appreciate it if you could speak straight. Difficulties, not opportunities.”

  “Honey …” Liz finally spoke, putting her hand on Anderson’s forearm. “Why don’t we hear what Mr. Richter has to say?”

  Anderson threw her a withering look that made Liz worry for her future self, but the understanding in Richter’s eyes was a salve.

  “Then speaking frankly, Mr. Coombs, your son is expressing himself in some ways that are frightening to some of the other children around him.”

  Anderson turned to Liz. “He thinks that’s speaking frankly.”

  “Honey …”

  “These are some of Junior’s drawings.” Mr. Richter slid a folder toward them. Anderson snatched it from the table. “He’s been sketching these during class.”

  Liz looked over at the now-open folder, studying each of the drawings as best she could in the second or two she had before Anderson flipped to the next one.

  The art was both horrifying and beautiful. Skilled, as if sketched by a darker and more mature hand than her son’s. A dozen drawings total, getting worse as they went.

  A page filled with nothing but ones and zeroes and fives. There seemed to be twice as many ones as zeroes and fives, but every digit was the color of a fresh bruise, and all the red Junior had put behind the characters made it look like they were boiling in blood.

  A small boy on a tricycle, furiously riding toward a black rainbow.

  Their home in Warson Woods, but overgrown and drooping, the whole house sagging like a frown. Same as the neighboring homes on either side.

  A tornado tearing a crowd of people to tatters.

  A man with the face of a wolf, with bloody eyes and long black teeth. Most horrifying, the wolf man seemed to be smiling at some invisible camera.

  Skyscrapers and monsters.

  Piles of neatly stacked bodies.

  A cabin in the woods, with a trio of headstones and all three of their names: Anderson Coombs, Elizabeth Coombs, and Anderson Coombs Jr.

  More monsters made of liquid shadows.

  A bloody baseball bat, and yet another pile of bodies.

  A big man in front of a small church, with many people screaming.

  What looked like an entire planet on fire.

  Anderson closed the folder and tossed the folder back onto Mr. Richter’s desk. “I had no idea the kid was that talented. Maybe we should be focused on that.”

  “That’s not the point, Anderson,” Liz said.

  “You are correct, Mr. Coombs. Your son is extremely gifted. It is our aim to help Junior sharpen his natural strengths, and work on those areas where he needs the most—”

  “You mean you need to work on his being a weirdo,” Anderson finished.

  “I’m sure you understand that there is only so much we can do here.” Mr. Richter leaned ever so slightly forward. “I highly recommend that we here at Kettering Elementary support the efforts of an occupational therapist outside of—”

  “He’s not seeing a shrink, and we sure as hell aren’t paying for it.”

  “Mr. Coombs—”

  “Don’t you, Mr. Coombs me, Richter.” Anderson leaned forward too, but there was nothing slight about the motion. “You think I don’t know about the shit your wife gets up to?”

  Liz had no idea what Anderson was talking about, but the principal clearly did. The man was several shades paler and red-faced. Embarrassed maybe, definitely nervous, but also … something worse.

  The silence was long, and Liz didn’t dare interrupt it.

  Mr. Richter stole a glance, meeting her eyes for less than a second, silently begging Liz to do something. But she didn’t know what to do. It was unsettling how much her husband was scaring her and the principal. She’d never seen him throw his weight around like that.

  More disturbing was how comfortable he seemed, looming over the principal, enjoying the way the smaller man was now cowering.

  Was this how Anderson was on the job? Did he threaten people like this at work all the time, just because he could? For all of his faults, Liz thought of Anderson as a lousy husband but a decent cop. Maybe she was wrong about that, too. Maybe he was dirty. Maybe even evil.

  “What do you want from me?” Mr. Richter finally asked.

  Anderson grunted. “To keep your beady little eyes where they belong. That means out of our business, and at least ten miles away from suggesting that anyone in this family would be better off with therapy. Are we clear?”

  “I understand, Mr. Coombs.”

  “Glad to hear it.” Still gruff, Anderson stood with another grunt, then stomped out of the room, expecting for Liz to follow.

  Because, of course, she would.

  And of course, she did.

  Mr. Richter eyed her with a lost expression. She looked back with apologetic solidarity and a tiny nod as she backed out of the room.

  They grabbed Junior from the front office on their way, without a single word spoken. Not as they walked to the car, not as they left the parking lot, and not for the first ten minutes of their fifteen-minute drive home.

  Liz was dying to discuss what had happened. Both with Junior’s drawings and with Anderson coercing her into that little game of Good Cop/Bad Cop. But there was no way to bring up the second topic without Anderson exploding, and she didn’t want the detonation in front of Junior. So she focused on the first, thinking about the different ways she could bring up the drawings.

  But Anderson went first. Five minutes from home, he said, “So, you want to tell us about your little doodles, Picasso?”

  “They’re nothing.”

  “Bullshit, they’re nothing. We’re driving home from the principal’s office. I had to sit in there just now like it was my ass back in the fourth grade.”

  Silence.

  Again, Anderson filled it. “Other kids are having problems with your little pictures, so that means your principal has a problem with them, too. And guess what, Junior? If your principal has a problem with them, then that means me and your mother have a problem with you. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Liz kept watching her son in the rearview, not wanting the reprimand that would come later if she dared to turn around while Anderson was sti
ll scolding him.

  Junior nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “So, why are you drawing that shit?”

  “It’s just stuff in my head.”

  “It comes from somewhere. What are you watching that we don’t know about?”

  “Nothing. It’s just stuff in my head. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “It’s that neighbor, Jimmy, ain’t it? Fucking stoner. I don’t want you talking to him anymore.”

  “I don’t talk to him.”

  “I’ve seen you talking to him.”

  Junior shook his head. “I talked to him nine times this year. Starting on January 29 when—”

  “I don’t need the agenda. Point is—”

  “—he asked if I wanted his old GameCube. You said I couldn’t have it.”

  “What have I told you about interrupting me?”

  “Anderson …” Liz touched his forearm, hoping to soothe him.

  “I don’t want you talking to that kid anymore, you got it? Jimmy ain’t nothing but trouble.”

  “Jimmy ain’t nothing but trouble,” Junior repeated.

  Junior’s way of agreeing, and mercifully, this time Anderson took it.

  Liz exhaled as they pulled into their driveway, dreading what was coming.

  They still had to discuss what had happened. I don’t want you hanging out with Jimmy was hardly the solution to Junior’s drawings, and Liz was sick of Anderson’s avoidant behavior. They needed to solve this, and her husband should be helping to find a solution instead of always impeding their progress.

  And as worrying as Junior’s drawings were, Liz was equally concerned about Anderson’s demeanor with Mr. Richter. The more she thought about it, the more upset she became.

  So Liz psyched herself up to say something. As they got out of the car; while preparing dinner, before and after they ate, as they got into bed, even with a door ajar between them, while she was already under the sheets and he was still brushing his teeth.

  She stalled every time, picturing all the ways he would slap her down, then dreading the aftermath if she had the audacity to stick up for herself.

  But all through the rest of that afternoon and night, the timing never seemed right. Or, Liz realized as she finally started being honest with herself in those few steady breaths before sleep finally came for her, she was a coward who didn’t know how to stand up for herself, no matter how awful her husband was being.