She would have preferred to go alone, but Megan begged to go with her. She too had found the contractors to be crude and obnoxious, especially those who had the annoying habit of referring other as ‘sweetheart’ or ‘good-looking.’ Tommy, on the other hand, seemed fascinated by the work going on around him and elected to remain behind to help his father supervise the workers. The eight-year-old was all grins when one of the workers allowed him to carry his hammer.
The trip to the supermarket started out rather routine. Holly chose the Kroger store at the east end of Main Street
, over the rival IGA, because it was larger and more modern. It also had a rather nice deli section, something the other store lacked.
Pushing a shopping cart before them, Holly selected an assortment of easy-to-fix items. She also replenished her stock of cleaning supplies, wondering if there would ever be an end to the scrubbing, dusting, and mopping back at their new house. She sincerely hoped so, because — despite wearing rubber gloves for most of the cleaning jobs — her hands were starting to look like something out of a really bad fright movie. How she longed for a nice manicure, a quiet dinner, and a good glass of red wine.
Stop dreaming. The good life is past. You're a hardworking country girl now. You can't buck hay bales, plow the fields, and milk the cows with manicured nails.
As they shopped, Holly developed a peculiar feeling that she and Megan were being watched. At first she thought nothing of it, attributing it to fatigue and little else, but several times while selecting a particular item from a shelf she turned to find one of the other customers watching her. Some of those she caught staring quickly averted their gazes, as though they had been caught looking at something they shouldn't. Others continued to stare openly.
"Mom, what's wrong?" Megan asked, apparently seeing the look of concern on her mother's face.
"What?" She looked at her daughter and shook her head. "Oh, nothing dear. I was just a little distracted, thinking about what to cook for dinner tonight, that's all."
"But why is everyone staring at us?"
"Staring? What do you mean?" Holly asked, looking around as though she hadn't noticed anyone was staring at them.
"They keep looking at us like they think we're going to shoplift something. And it's not just the employees. The customers are looking at us funny too."
Holly forced a laugh. "Maybe they're just looking at us because we're new in town. Or maybe they're wondering where two such absolutely beautiful women could possibly come from. I'm sure it's nothing. Just ignore them."
"It gives me the creeps."
"No harm ever came from looking at someone. And if they stare too hard, then stare back."
Megan smiled and went back to loading the shopping cart. Holly relaxed, glad to have put her daughter's mind at ease. Growing up in New York City, she was used to the strangeness of others, almost expected it at times, but that was New York. A small town in central Missouri should have been different. A little friendlier. Perhaps the locals were just curious about the new faces in town. Maybe a fairly attractive mother and daughter were worth taking a peek at. Whatever it was, by the time they got to the checkout she was starting to get spooked by all the stares they were receiving.
Placing the groceries on the counter, Holly started to write a check, but then she remembered they would probably not take a check drawn on an out-of-town bank. She had planned to open a new checking account with a bank in town, but with all of the cleaning it had completely slipped her mind. A flash of panic surged through her as she dropped the checkbook back into her purse and started searching for enough cash to pay for the groceries. It was too late to put anything back, because the cashier was already ringing up the items.
"Shoot," she said under her breath, pushing aside her powder case to open the hidden side compartment in her bag.
"What's wrong, Mom?" Megan asked, putting down the TV Guide she had been glancing through.
"Oh, nothing dear. I just forgot they probably won't take an out-of-state check here. I may not have enough money to pay for everything."
"I've got some money," Megan said, opening her purse and withdrawing a wrinkled twenty-dollar bill and a couple of ones. "Will this help?"
"Yes, dear. Thank you." Holly took the bills out of her daughter's hand, suddenly aware she was the center of attention at the checkout. The stares she was receiving were open now, no attempt by anyone to hid them. She felt a flush of embarrassment warm her face as she pulled the rest of her money from her purse, adding it to what Megan had already given her. Twenty. Thirty. Thirty-five. Forty. Forty-eight dollars. More than enough to pay for the items she had purchased.
Thank God, she thought, resisting the urge to yell at the other customers to quit staring. Her face still flushed, Holly waited for the cashier to total up her bill. Handing the girl two twenties and a five, she waited for her change and the receipt. She then helped to load the bags into her cart and headed for the doors, not daring to look behind her for she still felt the penetrating gazes of the other customers on her back.
Holly felt instantly better once she got outside. It was foolish to let a few curious looks upset her, but she couldn’t help it. She did not like being stared at, especially when she didn't know why everyone was staring. Had she a rip in her pants large enough to show her ass, or bright purple hair, she could have understood the looks, but there just wasn't any reason for them that she could figure out. Just to be sure, she ran her hand quickly over the back of her pants. Nope. No rip.
To the right of the double exit doors there was a newspaper bin containing the newest issue of the Braddock Tribune, the town's weekly newspaper. Rummaging around in her coin purse for fifty cents, Holly purchased a copy of the paper. Both she and Mike were anxious to learn more about the new community they called home, and there was no better place to start learning than in the pages of the local newspaper.
She had started to stick the newspaper into one of the grocery bags when she noticed a publicity photo of her and Mike on the back page. The photo was accompanied by an article about the best-selling author and his family moving into the area.
"Jesus. No wonder everyone was staring at us."
"Let me see," Megan said, stepping closer to see the picture. Holly tilted the paper to show her daughter the photo, then quickly read what had been written about her husband.
The article was fairly basic, nothing more than what had been written about Mike in the past. Neither she nor her husband had been contacted about the article, so she had a suspicion that most of the information had been obtained from articles written about Mike in other periodicals. The article did mention that Mike had once lived in HudsonCounty, and that his grandmother had been a longtime resident of the area, something no other newspaper had ever said about him, but it probably wasn't news to the locals.
"They could have at least put the photo on the front page," she said with a smile, folding the newspaper and putting it into one of the grocery bags. She turned to Megan. "How does it feel to be a celebrity?"
"It sucks," her daughter replied.
Holly laughed. "Well, get used to it. A town this small probably doesn't have too many famous people to talk about."
"Or stare at."
Casting a final glance back at the grocery store, Holly pushed the shopping cart across the parking lot. She was halfway to the van when she spotted an old man walking rapidly toward her. He was thin and dark skinned, his face wrinkled from the sun, with long gray hair that fell about his shoulders. Around his neck he wore a strand of silver beads, while turquoise rings adorned most of his fingers. His clothes were soiled and wrinkled, and it looked like he had slept in them. As he approached, the man spoke aloud to himself, making sharp gestures with his hands and head. He appeared to be a homeless derelict, perhaps an Indian, and maybe crazy. He could be dangerous.
Never taking her eyes off the approaching man, Holly pushed the cart faster, hurrying to get to the van. Still there was no way she and Megan could
get the groceries loaded and drive away before he reached them.
"Shit," Holly whispered. She tossed Megan the keys. Get inside and lock the doors."
"What? Why?" Megan hadn't seen the derelict, but turning around she did now. A look of fear crossed her face as she spotted the old man moving rapidly toward them.
"What about you, Mom?" Megan asked, looking beyond her mother to the grimy old man.
"Just do what I say."
Megan did as she was told. She unlocked the passenger door of the van, then climbed in and locked the door behind her. Knowing her daughter was safe, Holly wheeled to face the approaching man. Her hands fumbled into one of the grocery bags in the cart beside her, searching for a weapon to defend herself if need be.
The old man stopped a few feet away from her and stood staring, his head cocked slightly to one side.
"What do you want?" Holly asked him, hoping the customers inside the store could see her if anything bad happened.
"What do I want? What do I want?" the old man repeated, mocking her. He ran a grimy hand through his hair and then swiped at the air. "The question is what do they want?"
"Who?" Holly asked.
"The boogers, that's who," he answered, looking quickly behind him as though he were being followed. "What do they want? What do they always want? That's the question. It is. It is."
The old man waved his arms above his head. Holly took a step back. "You'll see. You'll see," he said. "You'll find out the question, but not the answer. Just ask Sam Tochi. He knows. Sam knows all about the boogers, but they won't believe me. Nope. Nope. But you'll see. You will. You have their house."
With that he staggered past her, leaving Holly dazed and confused. Turning, she watched him cross the parking lot and turn left at the sidewalk, continuing down the street. She watched until he disappeared from sight, and then shook her head and breathed a sigh of relief.
Braddock was proving to be quite a place. First a house filled with garbage and riddled with bullet holes, and now staring customers and a crazy old Indian talking about boogers. Insanity at its finest. There had to be something in the local water supply. Just had to be.
Looking down, Holly saw that she had clutched a cucumber in her right hand for protection, although she didn't remember grabbing it out of the bag. A cucumber for protection? She laughed.
"I do believe I'm getting just as crazy as the rest of them."
4
Their furniture arrived the following morning, the big Mayflower moving truck squeezing between the trees at the bottom of the driveway. The truck was a welcome sight, but Mike and Holly refused to get too happy, fearing that half of their household belongings had been broken or damaged during the long trip from New York.
The contractors had already finished painting and recarpeting the rooms on the bottom floor, so all of the furniture and boxes could be unloaded. They showed the movers where to put the bigger items, then lent a hand carrying boxes. The children helped too, although they only carried the boxes with their names on them. Even Pinky joined in to help, the big tomcat carefully inspecting each item as it was carried into the house. Holly shooed him a dozen times, worried he would trip one of the workers, but he kept coming back.
By noon the truck was completely unloaded, with most of the items in the rooms where they were supposed to go. Holly made sandwiches for everyone, then went back to unpacking boxes. The movers left after eating, a check for $1,200 in the driver's shirt pocket.
The spare room connected to the library was to be Mike's office. The room appeared to have ample space when empty, but now looked rather crowded with the addition of a walnut desk, computer station, four filing cabinets, typewriter stand, additional bookcases, two office chairs, and a small wooden table used to hold a coffeemaker and a fax machine. The desk and other furniture were barely visible beneath the brown cardboard boxes containing manuscripts, copies of his novels, and assorted important paperwork.
Moving two boxes from the secretarial chair, Mike sat down and looked around him, trying to get a feel for the new workspace. He had positioned the desk in front of the window that faced out the back of the house, looking over the apple orchard and forest beyond. He wondered if the view would be a distraction when he was trying to write, but decided he would rather have the view than face a blank wall. Besides, if he got to daydreaming too much, he could always close the curtains.
His Gateway 2000 computer sat in its protective cartons atop the desk. More than anything he wanted to put his system together, for his office just wasn’t a real office without it. But he knew if he hooked up the computer he would have the urge to sit down and write, and there was just too much work yet to be done. Besides it would be selfish to arrange his office first while ignoring the rest of the house. Of course he knew that at that very moment, the children were upstairs concentrating on getting their rooms in order, and Holly was across the hall in the room that was to be her art studio.
He smiled. Maybe what they all needed was some time alone in their own rooms to bring a little order back into their lives. Thing had been rather hectic the past two weeks, and none of them had much time alone. Still, he felt rather guilty about setting up his office knowing it would be a day or two before he was able to get back to his writing. Let the kids do their own things, he would start unpacking in the family rooms.
Leaving the office, he stopped across the hall to see how Holly's studio was coming. Since the room was to be used for the painting of canvasses, new carpeting had not been installed over the wooden floor. It was much easier to wipe spilled oils and acrylics off wood than to try and scrub it out of a carpet.
Stepping into the room, he saw that his wife had wasted little time in getting organized. Her work-station had already been placed against the wall opposite the window, where it would get the best natural light. The swivel lamp clamped to the wooden workstation provided illumination when Mother Nature was not at her best.
Outside of the workstation, and a few shelves to hold supplies, there really wasn’t a lot more that needed to be set up. She still needed to unpack her tubes and jars of paints, pigments, and sealers, lining up the brushes and sponges in their proper places. One set of shelves would be used to hold Holly's collection of art books and magazines, while the closet would provide storage space for many of her paintings.
"Gee, it looks like you're just about ready to go."
Holly turned around and flashed him a smile. "I wish. I still have to unpack all of my supplies, and I can't remember which box is which. I knew I should have written more on the boxes than just ‘art supplies’ when I packed everything away."
Mike grinned. "Just think of all the fun you're going to have when you open the boxes. Not knowing what's inside makes each one of them a new surprise."
"Some surprise," she said. "How's your office? All set up and ready to write the next great novel?"
"Not hardly. I haven't even started," he said. "I'm kind of like you: I just don't know where to begin."
Holly laughed. "That's easy. You unpack the coffeemaker first. You know you can't put two words together unless you have a cup of caffeine first."
"The coffeemaker will be the first thing I unpack, but I'm not sure what to tackle after that. I thought about hooking up my computer, but that takes time and there's so much other work that needs to be done first. I think I'll leave the office alone until I get the living room and upstairs taken care of."
Holly looked around. "I'll give you a hand as soon as I get some of this stuff put away. It won't take me long."
"Take your time," he replied. "The last thing we need in this house is a fidgety artist."
"Fidgety? Who's fidgety?" she asked, wringing her hands together in a nervous motion. She smiled and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. "I'll be there to help you in a minute."
"Sure you will." He grinned as he left the room.
Knowing if he went upstairs one of the kids would enlist his aid in putting up decorations, he decided to s
tart working in the living room. The movers had positioned the hutch, television, and furniture where Holly wanted it, so there really wasn't much left to do but sort through the boxes, dividing them up between those that stayed downstairs and those that went upstairs.
The boxes staying in the living room were, for the most part, decorations: family pictures and portraits, paintings, Holly's crystal dragon collection, his collection of antique banks, and other assorted knickknacks and curios.
He looked around, spotting the one box that meant more to him than all the others containing living room items. The word “Stoker” adorned all sides of the box, carefully written in the heavy black letters of a Magic Marker. He held his breath as he opened the box, praying the item inside had survived its long journey without being damaged.
Mike let out a sigh of relief when he saw the trophy the box contained had come through the trip without a scratch. The Bram Stoker Award was shaped like a miniature haunted house, complete with gargoyles and other spooky effects. The brainchild of fellow writer Harlan Ellison, the award was given annually by the voting members of the Horror Writers Association. Mike's novel Zero Hour had won the award two years ago, beating out three other finalists. He was quite proud of winning, because the Stoker was the only literary award he had ever received.
Lifting the statue carefully out of the box, he crossed the room and set it on the hutch. He couldn't resist the urge to open the haunted house's tiny front door, although he had already done so hundreds of times in the past. The door opened to reveal a brass plaque which read:
Superior Achievement
Novel
Zero Hour
By
Michael Anthony
A smile unfolded on his face as he read the plaque. Being recognized by his fellow writers of horror and dark fantasy was one of the highlights of his literary career. Too bad winning the award had no effect on the money he received for his novels. Now if he won the Nobel Peace Prize...
Darker Than Night Page 4