Contents
Dedication
Closet Treats
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Epilogue
Author's Note
The Death Of Childhood
Acknowledgements
About The Author
Copyright
Also By
Dedication
This book is dedicated to Tia L Brink, her belief in my work, her endless support, and her beautiful soul. Rest well.
Closet Treats
Chapter 1
The brilliant crisp sunlight was dying. A light breeze caused the pines and oaks to wave their limbs in some incomprehensible rhythm, the occasional oak leaf separating from a branch to flail and spiral in the wind. Trey stood at the edge of the schoolyard, patiently waiting. The bell would buzz in a few moments and a tidal wave of children would burst through the school's doors.
Trey smiled to himself. Picking up Alan from school was his favorite part of the day.
He always left the house a little early. It was one of the many rituals that allowed him to retain a sense of normalcy.
Other parents had shown up. Mostly in their cars, but a few women stood at the edge of the grass. He didn't know their names. They never spoke to him, or returned his "hellos". In this day and age, ignoring your neighbors seemed to be the rule rather than the exception. He didn't move his head to look at them. He'd learned from past experience that trying to make eye contact was asking for a rebuke. What the hell ever happened to neighbor solidarity for Christ's sake?
How long until the school bell buzzed and the children came out? Trey fought the urge to pull out his phone and check the time. He normally didn't notice the minutes pass while waiting for the buzzer; only after the bell did his mental clock start keeping track of the seconds. Once, a few months ago, the buzzer had sounded and Alan didn't appear within the first couple of minutes.
The anxiety that took him that time nearly knocked him out. A steady horror film of his son, his fucking son being molested by some teacher in a back room, kept playing in his mind. He had tried to shake it off and make it go away, to end the horror loop, but it kept playing. And the longer it played in his mind, the more textured it became, sound effects of crying and chuffing, a loose belt jingling on a tile floor. Just as Trey began running for the school's backdoors, Alan appeared, turning and laughing when he saw his father. Alan had to pee before the walk home.
A cacophonous blaring of bells split the silence of the fall afternoon. Trey shook with a start. His gaze swiveled left, and his jaw dropped. Just visible through the copse of pines, a decal covered, white van sat at the road facing the playground. Two speakers jutted from the top of its roof ushering forth the brash, crisp bells.
The driver's side window was tinted black. Trey blinked and felt a stab of fear as the large van trembled slightly and a side panel door opened.
From where he stood Trey couldn't quite make out the figure inside, just a glimpse of a white uniform and pointed hat.
The school bell buzzed. As if on cue, a cheer rose from the school doors and Trey turned to watch as a mob of children poured out, book-stuffed backpacks swaying and thumping on their backs. Trey couldn't help but smile, remembering what it was like at that age to finally leave the school day behind. Looking forward to play. To dinner. To being children.
The ice cream van's bells pounded louder, silencing the children in one fell swoop. The mob stopped for a moment, as if unsure of what to do. Trey watched one of the older children, a little round across the middle, point to the van before he started running toward it. Dozens of children followed.
The mob moved off toward the van, leaving several stragglers behind. Trey was glad to see Alan was among the stragglers. His boy turned from the ice cream truck and toward his father. Alan's smile melted the tension in Trey's stomach. His boy. His son. Trey nodded to him and then Alan was in motion, his little legs pumping.
Alan jumped into Trey's waiting arms. "Hi, Dad!"
"Missed you, kiddo," Trey breathed into his ear. "You ready to walk home?"
"Yes, sir."
Trey patted him on the back and put him down. Alan raised his arm, offering his hand to Trey. Trey wrapped his son's small hand inside his own.
"Daddy?" Alan asked, "what is that?"
Trey followed Alan's outstretched free hand. He was pointing at the throng of children in front of the white van. They giggled and laughed as they shouted orders at the white clad figure.
Trey watched children digging into their pockets for change, passing coins and dollar bills into a white gloved hand.
"That," Trey said, "is the Ice Cream Man."
Alan turned to him. "But, it's getting cold for ice cream, isn't it?"
Trey laughed. "He sells candy too."
"Oh," Alan said. "But why is the music so loud?"
Trey took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Because he wants to make sure the children know he's there." Trey paused and then muttered "Them and the rest of the world."
Alan shrugged. "Candy? Ice cream?" He looked up at Trey, a half- smile on his face. "Can we get some one of these days?"
"I think we might could do that, kiddo." Trey tousled the boy's hair. "Come on," Trey said. "We've got some kart to play."
Alan giggled. "Yes, sir, I'm ready to run you over!"
"Good deal."
They began walking down the sidewalk. With each step, they moved closer to the parked van. They would be perpendicular to it when they finally crossed the street. Trey looked down at his son, happy to see the boy wasn't even looking at it. Instead, Alan was recounting his day, telling his Dad every detail.
Trey barely heard him. He couldn't stop staring at the van. Trey looked into the darkness behind the open panels. A pair of yellow eyes gleamed back at him.
Yellow eyes. They cast a baleful glow that lit a face of scales with sharp, blood-dripping fangs. The thing was smiling at him as its misshapen, gloved hands took money from the children and passed out sweets in return. Trey froze, his mind vapor-locked.
"DADDY!" Alan's yell broke through the mental scre
am rising up within him. "Daddy? Are you okay?" Alan asked, his face filled with concern.
Trey cleared his throat. He wasn't sure he could speak. "I'm--" he started and then stopped. He shook his head and refocused his eyes on his son. "I'm okay." With his free hand, he rubbed Alan's coarse, short- cropped hair. "How long?"
Alan shrugged. "Just a little while this time," Alan said. "Home?"
"Yeah," Trey agreed. He smiled at his son. "Yeah, sorry about that." He lightly squeezed the boy's hand. "You take good care of your old man."
"It's a full time job," the boy said.
Laughing, the two of them made their way past the street. Alan told Trey more about his day, occasionally asking questions about history that his teacher had glossed over. Trey did his best to keep up, although he couldn't shake the image of the thing inside the ice cream van, but he managed not to ice up again on the way home.
Chapter 2
The walk home always gave him the chance to talk to Alan without interruption or distraction. The boy rattled on about his day, asking questions, laughing at Trey's answers. It was the part of the day that made Trey smile no matter how bad the rest of it had been.
"Get out your key," Trey said . The boy stared up at him and blinked. "It's your turn to unlock the door." Alan smiled at him.
He plucked off his pack and rummaged through the front pocket.
Trey grinned. "You got toys in there too?"
Alan smirked. "No, Daddy. No toys. Just," he said as he lifted the key ring out of the pocket, "lots of pens and things."
Trey cocked an eyebrow. "Things?" he asked. "And what would those be?"
The key fit into the dead-bolt with a little resistance. He looked back at his father. Trey shrugged. With a sigh, Alan managed to turn the key until the lock clicked. "I have some change in there," Alan said as he struggled to release the key from the lock. "A little pencil sharpener." Alan grunted as the key popped out from the lock. He turned back to his father and smiled. "And the charms Mommy gave me."
"Ah," Trey said.
Alan opened the door and walked through, holding it open for his father. "Always the little gentleman." Trey grinned and followed his son inside. Alan smiled back and headed toward the living room. "Shoes, kiddo."
Alan sighed. "Yes, Daddy." With his back to Trey, he pressed down on the left shoe's heel and followed with the right.
The boy was always pushing off his shoes, ruining the heels. Alan placed his shoes on the shoe tree near the door. Trey shook his head, bending at the waist to untie his laces and removed each shoe with care. He placed them on the shoe tree next to Alan's. "Okay, kiddo. You have any homework to do?" Alan shook his head. "Go spark up some kart and I'll be there in a few."
The boy giggled. "I like playing, but you're going to lose to me again."
Trey laughed. "Give me Koopa this time. Maybe then I'll stand a chance."
Alan shook his head. "Riiiiiiiight."
Trey watched him scurry into the living room and then headed into his study. The computer screens were dark, no LEDs flashing, the room silent. Trey slowly lowered himself into the chair, and pressed the power buttons on the monitors. The dual 24" widescreen monitors flashed into life, bathing the room with an electric glow.
Trey checked his email, laughing at the responses from Bangalore. "Those guys really hate me," he said to the screen. There was an email from Dick and he opened it. The email contained a picture of Trey, wildly off-balance, his long hair flowing in the wind, as he threw a frisbee down a hill. Dick's email read "Want to get your ass kicked again tomorrow?"
Dick. Jesus. He hadn't spoken to Dick all day, and that was a rare day. He'd been so wrapped up in the code, his iPhone alarm was the only thing that had kept him from being late to meet Alan for the walk home.
Dick, the retired neighbor across the street, always kept his messenger client going, but Trey hadn't bothered to start his today. The chatter from India had gotten to the point where he just didn't want the damned thing on anymore.
He wrote back a response to Dick, promising to be ready at 10 am, but didn't respond to the smack. He knew it infuriated Dick when he didn't acknowledge the trash-talk . But every once in a while, Dick would send an email with no rude words or arrogant statements. That's when Trey would pounce, sending back all the smack he could muster.
"Daddy?" Alan called from the living room.
Trey put the computer back to sleep before turning off the monitors. The study immediately went dark. Trey turned in the chair to leave and stopped.
The closet. The closet door was partially open. A sudden chill left him goose fleshed and freezing. His heart rate rose, the sound pounding in his ears.
"Daddy?" Alan called again.
Trey froze. A green light burned in the sliver of absolute darkness. A smooth oval of emerald malevolence. It would come out of the closet. It would grab him, drag him screaming into its lair. It would--
"Daddy?" Alan appeared in the doorway.
Trey looked away from the closet to his son. The boy's face was cloaked in shadow, but Trey could see the worry lines on his forehead.
"Are you all right?"
"I--" Trey looked toward the closet. The green light was gone. "Can you turn on the light, son?" Trey's voice shook.
Alan reached out and flipped the switch. The black halogen torch in the corner of the room blazed to life and chased away the darkness.
Trey took a deep breath and then walked toward the closet door. He grasped the doorknob, let out the breath, and then opened it.
Plastic drawers with computer parts stared back at him. Cables and cords wound neatly together, hung from the door's back. There was nothing in there. No monster. Nothing.
Trey chuckled, but it sounded more like a sob. He pushed the door closed, making sure the bolt slid firm. "Okay," he breathed, "you can turn off the light now."
"Okay, Daddy." The torch went dark, driving the room back into gloom.
Trey stared at the door. The fear had left him.
"You still want to play kart?" Alan asked.
Trey turned back to look at the boy. He smiled at him. "Give me Koopa?"
Alan sighed. "Okay, Daddy. But I'm still going to kick your butt."
"Just try it," he growled and zombie-loped toward his son. Alan squealed and ran from the room, Trey's laughter following close behind.
Chapter 3
Thirty minutes of "kart," as Alan liked to call it, was enough to leave Trey feeling nauseous. Trey knew they called his gen-eration the "video game" generation, but he was one of the few that
suffered from QuIMS. 2D graphics games were fine, the kind where the world stayed relatively static. But the lifelike 3D games, where the world bounced and spun, always managed to get to him.
Alan had called him chicken for leaving the game after the third bout of races. Trey had clucked and pumped his arms up and down, laughing, as he made his way into the kitchen. It was time to cook din- ner anyway.
He pulled out the pasta, placing it on the kitchen island. With an ease borne of repetition, he opened the freezer and scooped out the white container of sauce. Another turn, another grab, and a frozen sausage sat atop the cutting board. Pasta. Sausage. Trey's famous sauce. Oh, yeah, it was going to be a good dinner.
The sauce thawed on the island, leaving him time to cut up the sausage. He reached for the CUTCO cleaver from the butcher's block and sliced neatly through the plastic package. The sausage unfolded from the wrapper with effort. Once naked and on the board, he picked up the knife and began cutting it into pieces with quick, sharp, diagonal strokes. The sausage quickly turned from coils of brown and gray meat into neat, oblong pieces.
He smiled at the sound of Alan's yell in the other room. He'd either won or lost. It didn't matter. It was Friday night, and that meant Alan was free to play.
It also meant Trey and Carolyn would be free to play.
As he prepared the water for the pasta, he looked up at the micro- wave screen. The soft, green disp
lay told him it was 5. Trey blinked at the numbers and frowned. The green. The Closet Man. He'd been seeing the Closet Man as long as he could remember. Its eyes were always the bright, verdant color of a burning emerald.
He couldn't believe he'd forgotten to close the closet. He'd managed to open it and rummage through it, but only after he'd turned on all the lights in the study and adjusted the lamp so that it lit the door and interior. God, he hated closets. But forgetting to close the door all the way... He shook his head.
One thing the meds never seemed to do was dispel the Closet Man.
Trey waited for the water to boil and walked to the pantry. Carolyn had insisted on removing the pantry door shortly after they moved in. She quickly tired of Trey jumping every time he walked into the dark kitchen and found it open.
He opened the bread-box and removed a loaf of french bread. Garlic bread. He looked back at the clock to check the time. Yeah, he thought, I have time.
Parmesan cheese. The real stuff, not the crap from the can. Roasted garlic cloves left over from preparing his last batch of sauce. Another knife from the butchers block. He minced the garlic, enjoying the smell as the water started to boil behind him. He prepared the bread, covering each side of the split loaf with cheese and then shaking the garlic over it.
Into the oven. Pasta into the kettle. Sausage into the pan. Add sauce.
"Daddy?" Alan called. "You're making me hungry!"
"Good. We'll eat as soon as Mommy gets home."
"Okay," Alan said. "But I'm going to tell her how badly I beat you."
"I'm sure you will," Trey yelled back.
Besides picking up Alan from school, the hour or so before Carolyn got home was his favorite part of every weekday. Cooking. Playing with the boy. Unwinding.
He looked back at the microwave display, watching the timer tick down. Green.
The eyes in the ice cream van. They weren't green. They had been cat's eye yellow, glowing with crimson centers. Trey frowned as he stirred the sausage, listening to it crackle in its own grease. He'd have to tell Kinkaid about that next month.
The sauce bubbled. Trey inspected the sausage, nodded to himself, and drained the pan. He combined the sausage and the sauce, stirred in some fresh oregano, and turned down the heat. Simmer. The pasta and garlic bread would be done in a few minutes.
Closet Treats Page 1