by John Rector
The sweepers come at night.
Megan wanted to hide.
She stepped back from the window, but then she saw a man come out of Rachel’s house and stand on the porch. He pointed to the white van in the driveway, and one of the men opened the side door as two other men walked out of the house carrying what looked like a long black body bag between them.
The bag was heavy, and it sagged in the middle.
“Oh my God.”
Megan’s voice was a whisper, but her thoughts were screaming.
She’s dead.
They found her, and she’s dead.
Megan could feel herself start to spiral, and she ran through everything that would happen next. There would be an investigation, people would talk, the questions would start, and then they’d get to her.
And then—
She stopped.
The man she’d seen walking along her street was now standing in front of her house, watching her, his face hidden by shadow. He was holding the glowing blue device in front of him, close enough for her to see it clearly.
It looked like a small glass pyramid.
Megan tried to step away from the window, but she couldn’t move. She wanted to yell out, wanted to wake Tyler, but she had no voice.
Outside, the man lifted the pyramid, and the blue light passed over her. She felt a sudden rush of cold that sank into her skin, squeezing her, pulling at her.
Then it was gone, and there was only darkness.
16
When Megan woke up, she was lying on the couch. The sun was shining, but the light coming through the windows was wrong. Her glass from the night before was still on the coffee table, and there was a red cashmere blanket draped over her.
She sat up slowly, glanced at the grandfather clock.
It was almost six o’clock.
Megan stared at the clock for a long time, not believing what she was seeing. Then she leaned forward and rested her head in her hands, waiting for her thoughts to clear, and for everything to make sense.
I slept all day?
When she looked up again, she saw a note sitting on the table next to her glass. She picked it up and read:
Megan,
You fell asleep on the couch, and I couldn’t bring myself to wake you up. Coffee is ready to go. See you tonight.
Love,
T.
Slowly, the fog began to lift, and the night before came back to her. Megan got up and hurried to the window and looked out at Rachel’s house. Mr. Addison’s Cadillac was in the driveway, and for the first time in days, all the curtains in the house were open. There were no police cars out front, no ambulances, and no white vans.
Only the Cadillac and the roses and the sunshine.
It was a dream.
The idea made sense, but as much as Megan wanted it to be true, she knew it wasn’t. What she saw last night had been too vivid to be a dream, too real.
She stayed at the window, watching Rachel’s house. She was about to turn away when the front door opened and Mr. Addison stepped outside. He stood on the porch for a moment, stretched, then walked down the steps and along the walkway toward his car in the driveway.
She watched him stop behind the car and flip through a set of keys. Then he unlocked the trunk and took out a heavy black suitcase. He closed the trunk, spun the keys on his finger, and headed back to the house.
There was such a casual joy in the way he walked that Megan began to wonder if she’d been wrong. Maybe what she saw the night before had been a dream after all. And this time, she found it harder to convince herself that it wasn’t.
Megan glanced at the clock again and frowned.
The day was gone, and Tyler would be home soon. He still thought they were going to see Rachel, but Megan was no longer sure what they’d find, and that was a problem.
Tyler needed to see her.
Megan turned away from the window and ran upstairs to get dressed. When she came back down, she slipped on her red Chuck Taylors and headed for Rachel’s house.
Mr. Addison opened the front door as she came up the steps, as if he’d been waiting. When he saw her, his face lifted into a wide, slightly confused smile.
“Hello, Mrs. Stokes.”
Megan stopped at the top of the steps. “Sorry to drop in on you like this. Is it a bad time?”
“Not at all, what can I do for you?”
Megan tried to look past him into the house, but he blocked her view, and all she could see were shadows.
“Mrs. Stokes?”
She looked at him, and his smile wavered.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t—”
“Is everything okay?” he asked. “You look a bit pale.”
“I’m fine.” She tried her best to smile. “I got lost there for a minute. I’m okay, really.”
Mr. Addison watched her, and she could tell he didn’t believe her, but he played along.
“Would you like to come inside? I can make some tea, or we have coffee if you’d rather—”
“Actually, I came by to talk to Rachel about the Ashland Renovation Project. I was thinking about taking part this year, and I wanted to ask her if—”
“They invited you?”
There was a hint of skepticism in his voice, but Megan didn’t let it sway her.
“Not exactly,” she said. “Fiona Matheson mentioned it, and I don’t have much going on right now. I thought if I could be useful, I might as well help out.”
Mr. Addison leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest. His stomach was large, and it fell in a thick roll over his belt.
“They don’t normally let new residents take part in the renovations.”
“Why not?”
The question seemed to surprise him, but he recovered quickly. “I really don’t know. That’s something you should probably ask Fiona. I’m sure she’d be able to explain how it works better than I can.”
“I’ll ask her next time I see her,” Megan said. “But since I’m here, is Rachel home? I might as well talk to someone who’s done it in the past.”
“I’m afraid you missed her,” he said. “She left this morning to visit her sister in San Francisco.”
“She’s gone?”
“She’ll be back in a few days,” he said. “I’m sure she’ll be happy to talk to you about the project, although she hasn’t taken part in a while.”
Megan stepped back from the door, then turned and glanced up the street toward her house. There was a dull buzz behind her eyes, and she could tell something was wrong. The sky seemed too bright, too far away, and the world felt like it was spinning around her.
For a second she was gone.
Then there was a hand on her arm, steadying her.
Mr. Addison was next to her, one hand on her elbow, the other on her shoulder. “Mrs. Stokes, are you okay?”
She nodded, but she didn’t say anything.
“Why don’t you come inside and sit for a while,” he said. “Get out of the sun. Rest for a minute.”
Megan shook her head, trying to clear it. Then she took her arm back and said, “Thank you, but I’ll be okay.”
“Please,” he said. “I insist.”
She started to argue, but then the muscles in her legs went weak. She reached for the railing, steadying herself, but at that moment she wasn’t sure if she’d be able to make it home.
“Maybe a glass of water,” she said. “You don’t mind?”
“Of course not.” He led her toward the door, motioning her inside. “You can have a seat in the dining room. I’ll bring it to you.”
Megan thanked him, then stepped in and looked around.
When she’d seen the house through the window, it’d been destroyed, rooms torn apart, furniture broken and scattered. But now, everything looked perfect.
Immaculate.
“Would you like ice?”
His voice brought her back. “Yes, thank you.”
Mr. Addison motione
d to the dining room table. “Have a seat. I’ll be right there.”
Megan pulled a chair away from the table and sat down. She glanced around the room, searching for anything damaged or out of place.
There was nothing.
She thought about how the room looked when she’d seen it through the window, and again, she couldn’t help but wonder if it’d all been in her head.
There was no other way to explain it.
And if she’d imagined what she saw inside the house, what else had she imagined?
Maybe Tyler had been right all along.
Behind her, she heard Mr. Addison dropping ice cubes into a glass before turning on the faucet. Megan closed her eyes and tried to slow her thoughts. She needed to get out, to go back and figure out what was happening before Tyler got home.
She pushed away from the table, and as she stood up, she noticed a shine on the wall next to the window. She moved closer and reached down, touching the spot.
Her fingers came away wet.
Fresh paint.
“Here you go.” Mr. Addison came into the room with two glasses of ice water. He saw her fingers and looked past her toward the wall and frowned. “Is everything okay? How are you—”
Megan cut him off. “You know, I’m actually feeling better. I should probably head back. My husband will be home soon.”
Mr. Addison watched her, silent.
“Thank you for letting me rest a minute,” Megan said. “I think it helped.”
The kindness in his face was gone, replaced by a look she didn’t like. For a second, she was afraid of what he might do, but he just nodded and said, “I’ll make sure to tell Rachel you stopped by.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“It’s not a problem,” he said. “I’m going to call her tonight and check on her anyway.”
“Is she okay?”
“She’s fine,” he said. “At least she was before she left, but that was before seeing her sister. Now all bets are off. You know how it is with family.”
“How has she been lately?” she asked. “You haven’t noticed anything strange about her, or the way she’s been—”
“What do you mean?”
His eyes turned sharp, and she stopped talking.
They were both quiet.
When he spoke again, the tone of his voice had changed, become hard, unwavering. “Rachel is fine, Mrs. Stokes. Are we clear on that?”
Megan felt a shiver start at the base of her spine and spread through her. “I’m sorry, I just—”
“I’ll make sure she knows you stopped by.”
She thanked him, and he led her out.
As she walked down the path toward the sidewalk, Megan could feel him staring at her, and when she reached the street, she crossed over quickly, moving toward her house.
Behind her, she heard his front door slam shut.
17
Megan took her coat from the closet and the car keys from the bowl by the door. Then she walked out to the garage and dropped her coat in the trunk next to the bag she’d left there a couple days earlier.
This time, she didn’t think about whether she was making the right choice. She was beyond that. Something was happening in Willow Ridge, and all she knew was that she was completely alone.
Leaving was her only choice.
She shut the trunk and walked around to the driver’s side and climbed in. Her hands were shaking, and it took a few tries to get the key into the ignition. Eventually, the key went in, and she started the engine.
She put the car in reverse, but she didn’t back out.
Megan squeezed the steering wheel, trying to relax. She knew that if she left, she wouldn’t be coming back, but she also didn’t see any other way.
With Rachel gone, Tyler would never believe her. If she kept pushing, things would only get worse between them, and sooner or later, they’d break.
And then it would be too late.
Her only option was to leave.
Megan checked her mirror and backed out of the garage. As she drove through the neighborhood toward the highway, she didn’t look back once. She told herself that when she got to Chicago, she would call Tyler and try to explain. She would tell him she changed her mind, and that she just couldn’t stay.
Maybe, she thought, he’d even forgive her.
County Road 11, between Willow Ridge and Ashland, cut a long two-lane scar through a seemingly endless stretch of shimmering green cornfields.
Megan drove fast.
Outside her window, the sun sat low on the horizon, turning the sky a depthless red, and casting long shadows over the road ahead.
When she’d first moved to Willow Ridge, she loved the drive into Ashland. There was a calm beauty to the land that she’d never seen before, and it’d surprised her. Now, when she looked out at the deep, rolling fields passing outside her window, all she saw was emptiness, isolation, and the endless passage of time.
But not for long.
Soon she’d be home.
She was still two miles outside Ashland when the rattle in the engine started again. The sound sent a chill through her that started in the center of her chest and spread down her arms and into her hands.
“Oh no,” she whispered. “Please don’t.”
She listened for a while, hoping the rattle would stop. Then she looked out at the darkening sky and tried to decide what to do. She could keep driving, but I-80 was another twenty-five miles away, and by the time she made it that far, if she made it that far, it would be well into night.
Her only other option was Ashland.
She remembered seeing a gas station with a garage in town, and she thought she might be able to make it there. She hoped they could fix the engine on the spot, or better yet, tell her the rattle wasn’t anything serious and she could keep going.
Megan wanted to believe that the noise wasn’t serious, but she couldn’t take the chance. She hadn’t seen another car since leaving Willow Ridge, and the last thing she wanted was to break down at night on a deserted highway in the middle of nowhere.
She had to stop.
Up ahead she saw a familiar sun-faded sign on the side of the road showing a poorly drawn vanilla ice-cream cone. The line under the cone said:
ASHLAND CREAMERY—1 MILE
HURRY IN BEFORE YOU MELT
Megan never understood that tagline, or why the Ashland Creamery would go with it for their sign. She felt a pang of annoyance over it, but then the engine made a loud cracking sound, and the car lurched around her.
The sign was forgotten.
The Corsica’s steering wheel began to shudder, vibrating up her arms, and the rattle in the engine grew louder, like a handful of loose coins spinning in a dryer.
The air smelled like burning oil.
“Shit.”
The idea occurred to her that she might end up stuck in Ashland, and for a second she considered turning around and trying to go back, but it was too late for that. Willow Ridge was miles behind her.
Ashland was her only choice.
As she got close to town, the speed limit changed from fifty-five to thirty. Megan slowed down and noticed dark smoke leaking out from under the hood. She glanced out at the silos and barns rising up along both sides of the road and said a silent prayer to anyone listening that she’d make it the rest of the way into town.
When she saw the sign for downtown Ashland, she turned off CR-11, rumbled over a set of railroad tracks, and drove past several small wooden houses and tree-lined streets toward the center of town. The rattle in the engine shook the entire car, and Megan squeezed the steering wheel so tight that the muscles in her arms cramped.
Then the houses disappeared, replaced by two-story brick buildings on both sides of Main Street, each with storefronts below and smaller windows above.
The one streetlight in town, where First Avenue crossed Main, hung lifeless and forgotten over the intersection. Megan drove through, passing the market and the bank. Th
e garage was a few blocks down, across from a public park filled with ash trees. She could just see the top of the station’s A-frame roof, and as she got closer, a thought hit her, making her stomach drop.
What if it’s closed?
She ignored the possibility, but the fear never left her. And when she pulled in next to the two gas pumps, that fear came rushing in and she couldn’t fight it.
“No, no, no . . .”
Behind the pumps, the station’s amber windows reflected the glow of the evening light. There was a piece of plywood nailed over the front door, and several rusted skeletons of old cars were parked along the side of the building next to a weatherworn two-port garage.
Megan stopped out front, feeling her stomach twist. She tried to think about what to do next, but the garage had been her only hope, and now it was gone.
She started to pull out of the lot, but then she saw movement behind the glass and felt a sharp glimmer of hope.
Someone was inside.
Megan pulled around and parked in front of the garage. When she shut off the engine, the car gave one final metallic shudder, and a rolling cloud of black smoke lifted into the air from the exhaust.
Then nothing.
Megan leaned back, exhaled slowly, and got out. The wind outside was strong and cold. She took her coat from the trunk and put it on as she moved across the lot toward the main building.
As she walked, she glanced over at the ash trees in the park across the street and watched them sway in the wind. She could hear the nervous rustle of their leaves. The sound was loud, like the chittering of insects.
When she reached the front of the building, a part of her was sure it would be locked. But then she pulled the handle, and the door swung open easily.
A delicate chime sounded above her head as she stepped inside.
The room was small, and the air smelled like grease and dust. There was a vending machine in one corner and a white pegboard along the far wall. Most of the hooks were empty except for a few plastic-wrapped air fresheners and a line of bungee cords.