Night in the Lonesome October

by Richard Laymon

  Looked good on paper ...

  In fact, she might not be gone. There was a good chance she would continue to walk north on Franklin for a while.

  Not if I try to circle around. I’ll lose her for sure.

  Better just to hold back and follow her at a safe distance. See what happens. With any luck, maybe she’ll lead me to her home.

  A few minutes later, she crossed Franklin Street.

  Good thing I’d decided not to circle around. She would’ve been gone, just as I’d suspected.

  Leaving Franklin behind, she headed westward on the sidestreet. After she walked out of sight, I ran across Franklin. I slowed to a casual stroll as I approached the corner. When I came to the end of the block, I casually turned my head to the right, then to the left.

  The sidewalk was clear.

  I lost her?

  Before I had time for dismay, a stir of motion drew my eyes to her. She was crossing the street, almost to the other side. Fearing she might glance back, I looked for cover. The streetlamp posts were too narrow. So was the trunk of the nearest tree. But a car was parked at the curb, so I rushed over and crouched beside it.

  A lousy place to hide. It offered me concealment from the girl, but from not much else.

  Peering over its hood, I saw her walk across the front lawn of an old, two-story house by the alley. No lights shone in any of the windows. The porch, too, was dark.

  In the glow of the streetlights, she climbed the porch stairs. Then the shadows consumed her. I watched for the front door of the house to open. Perhaps a strip of gray would appear and widen, such as I’d observed on Monday night.

  Perhaps not.

  I detected no sign of the door being opened or shut.

  There would be nothing to see, I told myself, if the house is as dark inside as the porch.

  Maybe, however, she didn’t open the door at all.

  What if she’s still on the porch?

  Maybe this isn’t where she lives, and she’s hiding on the porch because she fears she’s being followed.

  ‘Because she knows, a frightful fiend

  Doth close behind her tread.’

  Caught a glimpse of me following her, maybe, and thinks I’m a fiend.

  It made me feel ashamed.

  I’m not a fiend, I told her in my mind. I would never do anything to hurt you. There’s no reason in the world for you to be afraid of me.

  Sure, I thought. Right. No reason? How about I’m stalking her? Why shouldn’t she be afraid of me? For all she knows, I might be hoping to abduct her ... take her into the woods somewhere (or under a bridge), and rip off her clothes and do things to make her scream.

  I imagined her in a dark place, hanging by her wrists, naked and writhing.

  I would never do that, I told her in my mind.

  But she had no way of knowing. She couldn’t be blamed for fearing me.

  Is she watching from the porch?

  I felt terribly vulnerable, crouched beside the car. Somebody might come along. Even now, someone in a nearby house might be watching me. Maybe the cops had already been called.

  If they don’t come out for bloody murder under a bridge, I thought, they won’t come looking for me.

  Think not?

  I needed to find a better place to hide. But if the girl was watching from the porch, she would see me abandon my place by the car and her worst fears would seem justified. I would lose any chance of befriending her.

  She’s probably in the house, I told myself. I missed her opening the door, that’s all.

  But if she’s on the porch...

  I heard a car coming. It sounded far away. I couldn’t figure out which direction it was coming from.

  Just what I need!

  Anyone driving by on Franklin to my right or on the north-south street to my left (its name escaped me) would have a chance to see me hiding behind the parked car.

  But if I run off, she might see me.

  What’ll I do?

  The sound of the engine grew louder.

  Shit oh shit!

  The parked car giving me such limited shelter was low and close to the curb. I couldn’t possibly crawl under it, not from this side.

  As headlights brightened the intersection of Franklin Street, I lay down flat on the grass by the car and lowered my face against my crossed arms.

  Along with the engine sounds and the hiss of the tires on the pavement, I heard familiar music. Warren Zevon. ‘Excitable Boy.’ The sounds grew louder as the car moved through the intersection.

  I raised my head.

  A small, pale pickup truck just like Randy’s.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  I dropped my head and shut my eyes. The pickup continued through the intersection, heading south on Franklin.

  It might not be Randy’s, I told myself. I hadn’t seen the driver, and he probably hadn’t seen me. There must be lots of compact, light-colored pickup trucks in a town the size of Willmington.

  It was Randy, all right. He’s cruising the streets, looking for me. Looking for Eileen.

  How about the mystery girl? I wondered. Would she do?

  It sickened me to think of what Randy might do to the girl if he ever got the chance.

  Does she know about him? Does she watch out for him? She probably watches out for everybody ... including me.

  Suddenly realizing that Randy (if that was him) might circle the block and come for me, I shoved myself up and ran. I ran across the street and across the lawn and up the porch stairs. Breathless, heart thudding, I halted in the darkness of the porch.

  The girl didn’t seem to be there. Remembering the old man who’d frightened me so badly, however, I tiptoed around and checked the porch swing and in all the patches of blackness where a person might be hiding. Nobody was on the porch except me.

  Afraid that Randy might drive by at any moment, I sank down in a dark comer with my back to the railings.

  He’ll never see me here.

  Listening for the approach of his pickup, I heard only a faint shhhh that might’ve been the noise of distant engines. The sounds were so indistinct that some might not be coming from cars or trucks or vans. Perhaps an airplane was going by, high and far away. Perhaps some of the sound was the hiss of breezes passing through treetops all over town.

  Randy’s pickup was certainly nowhere nearby.

  Unless he’d killed the engine.

  Maybe he did see me and he’s coming back on foot.

  I wished I hadn’t thought of that.

  I sat motionless and frightened for a while, hardly daring to breathe. After maybe ten minutes, however, it began to seem that Randy wouldn’t show up.

  He probably hadn’t seen me, after all. Maybe the pickup truck wasn’t even his.

  As my fears of Randy faded, I turned my mind to thoughts of the girl. She had gone into this very house. She was somewhere inside it at this very moment.

  If the walls and floors were invisible, she would be in plain sight. Upstairs, probably. Maybe in the bathroom, or maybe in her bed.

  Had she gone to bed without washing her face? Or brushing her teeth? Or going to the toilet?

  From my comer of the porch, I should have been able to hear water running through the pipes. I’d heard nothing of the sort.

  Maybe she finished in the bathroom before I came over. I’d watched the porch from across the street for at least five minutes, maybe even ten. Plenty of time to scrub the face, brush the teeth and use the toilet. She could’ve done all that before I arrived.

  While I’d been searching the porch and sitting in a comer and worring about Randy, she might’ve gone into her dark bedroom, taken off her clothes, put on whatever she liked to sleep in, and climbed into her bed.

  She’s probably in bed right now, I thought. Curled on her side, covered to the shoulders by a sheet and blanket. Wearing what? She didn’t seem like the sort to go for a frilly nightgown or teddy. More likely, she wore pajamas or a simple cotton nightshirt.


  How about nothing at all?

  A little chilly for that.

  And so I imagined her under the covers in a white nightshirt. I could see her under there. The way she was curled on her side, half her face was buried in her pillow and her rear end showed below the nightshirt’s hem.

  If I were invisible, I would sneak into the house and find her bedroom. I would stand by her bed and watch her sleep and listen to her breathing. I might even draw the blanket and sheet carefully down her body, let them drift to the floor at the foot of the bed in order to see her uncovered.

  Her white nightshirt almost glows in the darkness. Her skin looks dusky. I can see the curves of her bare buttocks, the shadowy cleft between them.

  Maybe she doesn’t sleep in a nightshirt, after all. Maybe she sleeps in the nude.

  Much better.

  Moaning in her sleep, she rolls onto her back.

  As if stumbling out of my fantasy, I suddenly wondered if the front door was locked.

  The girl might’ve forgotten to lock it after sneaking in. Also, from what I’d heard and read, a fairly large percentage of people rarely lock the doors of their cars or homes at night. Especially in small towns.

  What if this door isn’t locked?

  I could open it and sneak in. In the darkness of the house, I would be almost invisible. I could go to the girl’s bedroom and stand by her bed and ...

  Not a chance. Not me.

  But I could.

  I could do plenty, I thought. But I’m not going to. I must be losing my mind to even think about it. For one thing, I might get caught. For another, I wouldn’t do it even if there were no chance whatsoever of being caught.

  Is that so? I thought. Then why the fantasies about being invisible? The only reason to be invisible is to do whatever you want without getting caught.

  Well, I’m not invisible. If I go sneaking into the house, somebody might catch me in the act. Clobber me. Shoot me. Hold me for the police. And what’ll the girl think? She’ll figure I’m a criminal or a pervert. She’ll never have anything to do with me after that.

  But if everyone is sleeping and I’m very quiet ...

  Again, I imagined myself standing over the girl’s bed, staring down at her.

  I’m not going in, I told myself. Besides, the door’s probably locked.

  If it’s locked, that settles it.

  That would settle it, all right. Opening someone’s unlocked door was one thing - and maybe within the realm of possibility - but breaking in was totally out of the question.

  Just see.

  My fear and excitement began to grow.

  No big deal, I thought. Just get up and go to the door and see if it’s locked. Why not? What’s the worst that can happen? If I get caught at it, I can play drunk or confused and pretend I’m at the wrong house. Anyway, it’s probably not a crime to try a door.

  No crime, but wrong. I knew it was wrong, knew it was a bad idea (like going under the bridge last night), but got to my feet anyway. Standing motionless in my comer of the porch, I looked around the neighborhood. Here and there, the streets were well lighted. Trees, however, cast shadows on the pavement and lawns. In every direction, the lighted places were surrounded by motes of darkness.

  Anyone might be lurking in those dark places, watching. Or watching from behind a parked car. Or from behind bushes. Or from inside a house across the street.

  I was in darkness myself, however, and probably almost unseeable.

  So I made my way toward the front door, walking slowly, putting my feet down gently. A couple of times, floorboards creaked under my weight. The sounds made me cringe, though they were so quiet that nobody else could’ve heard them.

  I’m not really doing this, I thought.

  And yet, I was.

  My journey to the door seemed to take ages. I couldn’t even see it, though I had a general idea of where it ought to be ... a straight shot from the top of the porch stairs.

  Reaching through the darkness with one hand, I touched a stiff. tight screen.

  Two doors, not just one. Doubles my chance of being locked out.

  Feeling my way downward and sideways, I found the handle of the screen door.

  Don’t do it.

  I pulled gently and the screen door swung toward me. Its hinges, apparently well lubricated, made almost no sound at all.

  One down, one to go.

  What am I doing?

  Propping the screen door open with my shoulder, I touched the inner door. Smooth wood, slick with layers of varnish. Its handle felt like thick, cool brass. With my thumb, I pressed down slowly on the lock release. It sank down and down and I heard the bolt slide back.

  I pushed forward slightly. The door eased away an inch or two.

  Holy shit, it opens!

  Now shut it and get the hell out of here!

  I pushed the door open a few more inches. Though I knew it was open, I couldn’t see the jamb, the door, or the gap between them.

  Dark as hell in there.

  I really would be invisible.

  Don’t even think about it.

  I had never in my life entered anyone’s place without being invited. I had never cheated, never shoplifted, never driven a car through a stoplight (on purpose), never told a major lie, never bullied anyone, never started a fight, never in fact done anything particularly immoral, unethical or illegal ...

  Oh, yeah, killed that guy last night.

  If I did kill him, it was self-defense. Stabbing Randy in the leg had been self-defense, too.

  Oh, yeah, and I spied on the tequila woman. That was pretty bad. Not nearly as bad, however, as sneaking into a stranger’s house in the middle of the night.

  Do this, I thought, and I’m really crossing a line. And where will it end? Maybe it won’t stop with watching the girl sleep. Maybe I’ll feel compelled to remove her covers, and after that I’ll ...

  No! All I’ll do is look.

  Don’t even do that! Shut the door right now and get the hell out of here!

  Before I could pull it shut - or open it wide - the handle was jerked from my grip.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  I gasped with suprise. So did someone inside the house and close in front of me.

  The girl?

  A low, husky voice murmured, ‘House inspector.’

  ‘Huh?’ I asked.

  A hand pressed against my chest. ‘No need to be alarmed,’ the girl said, pushing me aside. As she stepped by me, she added, ‘You passed with flying colors.’ Then she lurched forward, raced across the porch and leaped from the top of the stairs. Silhouetted by the streetlights, she seemed to hang in midair for a moment, arms spread out wide, her right leg thrown forward, her ponytail high behind her head. As she dropped, her sweatshirt lifted, baring her midriff.

  The screen door banged shut.

  Her sneakers clapped against the walkway and she took off running for the street.

  I didn’t leap from the porch, but descended the stairs in a couple of quick bounds and sprinted after her - chasing her, but also fleeing from the house because someone must’ve heard the door slam.

  The girl was fast. Not as fast as me, though.

  I narrowed the gap between us, but didn’t try to stop her. We were still too close to the house.

  We raced across a street, dashed around a comer, ran down a sidewalk, cut across another street in the middle of a block, then ran down another stretch of sidewalk.

  I remained four or five strides behind her, listening as she panted for breath, hearing the smack of her sneakers, watching her ponytail leap and swing, her bulky sweatshirt flop, her arms pump, her legs fly out one after the other.

  It was wonderful to be chasing her. But awful, too. She must’ve been terrified.

  ‘Hey,’ I said.

  ‘I didn’t steal anything.’

  ‘I’m not chasing you,’ I blurted. ‘We’re just ... fleeing in the ... same direction.’

  ‘I didn’t hurt ... anyone.’
>
  ‘I just ... want to talk.’

  ‘Leave me alone.’

  ‘Stop running. Please.’

  ‘Get outa here.’

  I stayed a few strides behind her until she ran into the next street. Then I picked up speed, caught up to her and ran alongside her. She turned her head and scowled at me.

  Even in the poor glow of the streetlights, I could see that she looked younger than me. Maybe eighteen, maybe as young as fifteen or sixteen. And far more beautiful than I’d imagined.

  ‘Can’t we ... just talk?’ I asked.

  Matching strides, we leaped over the next curb. The narrow sidewalk forced me closer to her.

  ‘Stop, okay?’ I asked. ‘You can’t ... outrun me. Why not just—?’

  She rammed me with her shoulder. As the impact knocked me to the right, I reached out and grabbed a handful of her sweatshirt. I kept hold of it as I raced off the edge of the sidewalk. My feet hit the lawn. My legs crossed. Then came a wild, twisting dive.

  My side slammed the damp grass. I slid, tumbling, holding on tight to the girl’s sweatshirt, bringing her down with me. She landed on me, squirmed and rolled off. I scrambled onto her, sat on her and pinned her arms to the ground. She grunted and writhed. I held on.

  ‘Not... gonna hurt you,’ I said.

  ‘Get off.’

  ‘Calm down. Please. Just... lie still.’

  She thrashed and bucked, but couldn’t throw me. Finally, she stopped. She lay beneath me, chest rising and falling as she fiercely panted for air.

  ‘Just... take it easy,’ I said. ‘Okay? Not gonna hurt you.’

  Gradually, she regained control of her breathing.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I asked.

  ‘Let me up.’ ‘You’ll make me chase you again.’

  ‘I’ve had enough running.’

  ‘So you won’t try to run away?’ I asked.

  ‘You’re too fast for me, anyhow.’

  I was too fast for her, but she would probably try to run again, anyway, if I let her up. We were in the front yard of a house, however, quite close to the sidewalk and street. We weren’t in shadows, either.

  ‘Look,’ I said, ‘we can’t stay here. Somebody’ll see us.’

  ‘So let me up.’