Night in the Lonesome October

by Richard Laymon

  I wiped my lips with the back of my hand, turned away from him and broke into a run. At the end of the block, I glanced back. He was on his hands and knees on the sidewalk, looking at me.

  Chapter Fifty-four

  I cut across Fairmont, raced up a sidestreet and turned left at the next comer. The running made my head hurt worse, made it throb with pain. Also, I knew I looked conspicuous. When people run for excercise, they wear proper outfits: shorts or warm-up suits or sweatclothes, not jeans and a chamois shirt.

  Late at night, my clothes hadn’t mattered very much; almost nobody was around to see me. But this was well before the bedtime of most adults. It was also a Friday night, so many of them had probably gone out to movies or friends’ houses. Plenty had remained at home, too. Nearly every house was well lighted. Through picture windows, I glimpsed people in their living rooms. Some were watching television or reading. Others appeared to be having parties.

  Few of those inside the houses probably saw me run by. I was definitely noticed, however, by some who were outside. They seemed to be everywhere: on their way to or from cars; taking walks, alone or in couples; taking their dogs for a stroll; walking or running for exercise - in proper attire, of course; standing outside their houses while they puffed at cigarettes; driving by in cars and vans and SUVs and pickup trucks.

  It crossed my mind that Randy might drive by and recognize me, but the thought didn’t bother me much. For one thing, my head pounded so badly that I couldn’t be bothered. For another, I was more worried about being spotted by Kirkus.

  He was probably coming after me. Maybe I’d lost him, but I couldn’t count on it. I needed to get out of sight. Find a place to hide, to rest, to wait. Give Kirkus time to give up and go home.

  I stopped running. Though I panted for air and poured sweat, my head didn’t feel quite so horrible.

  If I could just lie down for a while ...

  But where?

  A few hours from now, most of the lights would be off. Most of the people would be in bed. I would be surrounded by good, dark places were I could hunker down and rest unseen. Now, however, the night seemed alive and terribly crowded.

  I’ve got to go somewhere, I thought.

  If only I knew where to find Casey. This early, she might be anywhere.

  Probably in her own house, I thought. If she has one.

  I had no idea where that might be, or whether it even existed.

  She must live somewhere.

  Doesn’t matter, I told myself. I’ll find her later. At the usual time. I hope. For now, I just need a place to hide and rest.

  Marianne’s house?

  The extra bed in her room would be wonderful. At this hour, however, her parents would probably still be up and around. Marianne might welcome me, but her parents certainly wouldn’t.

  How about the park across the street from her house? I could go to the playground area and lie down on the grass for a while.

  I remembered Casey on the grass after her jump from the swing.

  Nice to be in a place where I’d been with her.

  But then I remembered the man leaping down from the backstop and running toward us. The memory of him sent chills crawling up the back of my neck. My head began hurting worse.

  Forget the park.

  I wondered if the tequila drinking woman over on Franklin Street would let me in. I could ring her doorbell, explain that I’m Casey’s friend and need a place to rest for a while.

  No way.

  First, I would never have the guts. Second, she might not be the one to answer the door. Third, I had no idea what sort of relationship - if any - she had with Casey. Unlikely as it seemed, maybe she wasn’t even aware of Casey’s visits to her house.

  She must be aware of them. Twice, I’d seen Casey either entering or leaving the woman’s house.

  I started walking in that direction.

  Not with any intention of ringing the doorbell or attempting to enter. But it was where I would probably start looking for Casey later on, so why not go there now? I was just as likely to find a hiding place near that house as anywhere else. Maybe in the backyard, or behind a neighbor’s house, or across the street.

  It seemed like a fine idea.

  It was a long way off, though. Could I go that far without Kirkus spotting me? And with such a stiff neck and throbbing head?

  If I could just take something for the headache and lie down for a while!

  No doubt Casey would be able to get me some aspirin.

  Hours from now.

  So many hours, I suddenly realized, that I could walk back to my apartment, take some aspirin, lie down for a while, and be back out on the streets in plenty of time to start searching for her.

  Only two problems with that: Kirkus and Eileen. Kirkus might intercept me. At my apartment, Eileen might already be awake. Or she might wake up before I could leave again.

  Better to live with the headache than to risk losing a night with Casey.

  A couple of minutes later, grimacing and rubbing my neck and turning my head, I looked toward a house and realized it had no lights on. All the windows were dark and so was the porch.

  No cars were parked in the driveway. The stretch of curb in front of the house was also empty.

  By all appearances, nobody was home.

  In my imagination, I saw a medicine cabinet loaded with pain relievers. I saw a bedroom with a king-sized bed.

  If nobody is home ...

  Don’t even think about it, I told myself.

  Casey would do it.

  By the time I reached the front porch, I was so frightened that my heart was thudding wildly and my head felt as if it might explode.

  The area near the welcome mat was littered with fliers and brochures. They looked as if they’d been piling up for several days, maybe longer.

  Nobody is home.

  Just to make sure, I pressed the doorbell button. From inside the house came a faint sound of ringing.

  Nothing more.

  I rang again, waited a while longer, then reached forward and found the screen door’s handle. I pulled and the door swung toward me. Bracing it with my body, I reached for the handle of the main door.

  What if Casey opens it from the inside? I thought. And comes out and says, House inspector.

  The memory made me smile.

  Of course, Casey didn’t come out of this house. Its door was locked.

  Good, I thought. That’s that. I wanted aspirin and a bed so badly that I might’ve gone in, had the door been unlocked, but I certainly wouldn’t break in.

  It’s not exactly breaking in if I use a key, I thought.

  Not that I’ll find one.

  I didn’t find the key under the doormat.

  I did find it on a thin ledge above the door.

  Why anyone would lock a house then leave its key near the front door is beyond me. But some people do. Maybe they have an overpowering fear of locking themselves out. Who knows? People do plenty of strange and foolish things.

  Hand trembling, I pushed the key into the lock and turned it. The latch clacked back, very loud. I flinched. Then I waited, listening. No sounds came from inside the house or from anywhere nearby. I heard only my own quick breathing, my own pounding heart. So I eased open the door and looked in.

  Darkness.

  Nobody’s home, I told myself again. I can just walk in, find the medicine cabinet and help myself to a couple of aspirin.

  It’s no big crime.

  Take some aspirin. Forget about lying down, just take the aspirin and get out fast before someone comes home. In and out in two or three minutes.

  But I couldn’t move. I just kept standing there, staring into the darkness.

  Do it, I told myself. Don’t be such a chicken. The place is empty.

  What if someone comes back?

  I’ll be in and gone in two minutes.

  I can’t do it. It’s wrong.

  Not that wrong. If Casey were here, she would’ve gone in b
y now.

  Whatever, I’d better stop standing here on the porch thinking about it. Someone’ll come along and see me.

  The tension was making my head throb with pain.

  I really need some aspirin!

  I imagined Casey smiling at me, shaking her head, saying, You could’ve been in and out in the amount of time you’ve been standing here worrying about it.

  Chapter Fifty-five

  I entered the house, shut the door, stood motionless and listened. Silence except for some electrical hums and a quiet, clicking sound that probably came from a clock.

  The air felt warmer than outside. Much warmer.

  Apparently, the owners had forgotten to turn down the thermostat before going away.

  Unless someone’s here.

  The thought made my head hurt worse.

  Nobody’s here, I told myself.

  I pulled the Maglite out of my pocket, but didn’t turn it on. Even if the house were empty, someone outside might notice my light if I used it.

  But I kept it in my hand, just in case, and started walking slowly through the house. Because of dim light coming in through windows, I could make out the general shapes of things well enough to avoid falling over furniture. And well enough to find doorways.

  I made my way through the living room. Here and there, small dots glowed in the darkness from the television, the cable box, the VCR. Bright green numbers near the floor showed 9:20.

  What if they’ve got an alarm?

  Again, pain soared into my head.

  Half the people in this town don’t even lock their doors. The odds of anyone having an alarm ...

  Just get it done and get out!

  At the rear of the living room, I hurried through the dark rectangle of an entryway. In almost total darkness, I twisted the head of my flashlight and the bright, narrow beam leaped out. I was in a hall with doorways on both sides. Framed pictures hung on the walls.

  The nearest loomed near my shoulder. I glanced at it and saw a hideous face. For just an instant, I doubted it was just a painting. I gasped and leaped away. Then I found it with my flashlight.

  Wild red fright-wig, enormous crimson nose, white-painted skin and a gawdy, scarlet smile. A clown face. It looked demented.

  I hurried forward, glimpsed another clown painting, then swept my light through a doorway and discovered a bathroom. I ducked inside and closed the door.

  And felt - stupidly - as if I’d shut it to keep the clowns out.

  Trembling, I stepped away from the door, turned around and swept the bathroom with my flashlight: toilet, tub with shower doors, counters, and a mirror above the sink. The mirror reflected the flashlight beam and my haggard face. They swung away when I pulled at one side of the mirror and it opened on hinges.

  Behind it was the medicine cabinet. Shelves lined with medications and ointments. Including Tylenol and Extra Strength Bufferin.

  I snatched down the Bufferin, fought open its ‘child-proof’ cap and shook a couple of tablets into my trembling hand.

  Holding them, I closed the plastic bottle and returned it to the shelf. I shut the medicine cabinet, then turned the cold water on.

  What if somebody can hear it?

  Nobody’s in the house, I told myself again. Nobody but me.

  (And those damn clowns.)

  I tossed the pills into my mouth. Bent over the sink. Cupped water into my mouth and swallowed them.

  After they were down, I drank more water. Then I shut off the faucet. I dried my hands on my jeans. I wiped my wet mouth on my sleeve. And sighed. Still frightened, but pleased with myself.

  Now get out of here fast.

  Turning away from the sink, I realized I needed to urinate.

  It’s not that urgent, I told myself. Just hold it and go later.

  I’m in a bathroom, for Pete’s sake!

  Last night, I’d been in worse shape but I’d refused to use the toilet in Marianne’s house.

  That was different. That house had people in it.

  I stepped over to the toilet and lifted its lid and seat. The bowl looked reasonably clean. Holding the flashlight in my teeth, I unzipped and pulled out and started to go. It sounded very loud in the silence. Like Casey last night.

  Is anybody listening?

  Stop it. Are you trying to scare yourself?

  Done and zippered shut, I considered leaving the toilet unflushed. It was sure to make a lot of noise. But I’d already made plenty of noise, so why worry about a little more? Besides, it would be crude not to flush.

  I wanted to leave the house exactly as I had found it - minus a couple of Bufferins.

  So I pushed the handle down. With an explosive gush of water, the toilet flushed.

  Time to get!

  I took the flashlight out of my mouth. Holding it in my left hand, I opened the bathroom door with my right. I stepped out and looked both ways. To my right were the living room, the foyer and the front door. To my left, the hall continued on another twenty feet or so. More doorways in that direction. And more wooden picture frames on the walls.

  Did every frame contain a painting of a clown?

  Take a look and see.

  Oh, sure.

  I was tempted, though. And excited by the idea of not fleeing from the house.

  I’m already in, I told myself. I’ve taken care of business. I can leave any time I want. So why not check the place out for a minute or two?

  At least check the rest of the paintings, I thought. See if they’re all clowns. I can tell Casey about it. I can write about it.

  (What sort of person collects clown paintings? A clown, himself. Or a circus fan. Or a John Wayne Gacy fan.)

  Heart thudding fresh waves of pain into my head, I turned to the left and made my way silently up the hallway. Each time I approached a painting, I aimed my light at it. Every painting depicted a different clown. They all looked slightly mad.

  Afraid of making noise, I didn’t try to open either of the closed doors that I came upon. Two more doors, however, stood wide open.

  I stepped into the first doorway, shined my light around and felt as if I’d entered a one-room museum devoted entirely to clowns. In one comer stood a life-size mannequin in full clown makeup and costume. Along the walls were glass-fronted cases displaying clown dolls, circus posters, old newspaper articles, and items of clown gear such as wigs and rubber noses and floppy shoes and baggy trousers. I made my way quickly along the cases, shining my light through the glass, excited by this strange discovery.

  Most of the newspaper clippings, brown with age, had to do with Clement O’Toole, who portrayed a clown called Sunny Boy. None of the hallway paintings had shown Sunny Boy. He was a large, fat clown. Wearing a straw hat and baggy overalls, he resembled an oversized Tom Sawyer. He had the standard enormous red nose, but his white-painted face had yellow streaks radiating away from his eyes and mouth - the rays of Sunny Boy’s sun, I suppose.

  The clippings had dates from the 1950s through the 1980s. Not daring to stop and read them, I only glanced at some of the headlines and dates. Clement must’ve been a real star. But in 1988, he’d nearly died in a circus tent fire. He’d survived his burns, but was horribly disfigured and Sunny Boy never put in another appearance under the Big Top.

  Clement must be at least seventy by now, I thought. If he’s still alive.

  Almost ready to move on, I turned my flashlight to the mannequin in the corner of the room. It was dressed and made up to look like Clement’s Sunny Boy.

  Someone had gone to a lot of trouble and expense.

  Sunny Boy looked as good as what you might see in an actual wax museum, except something seemed to be wrong with its face. Some of the wax had apparently melted, bubbled, flowed into odd shapes.

  Too much heat somewhere along the line, I thought. A shame. It wasn’t very noticeable from a distance, but up close ...

  And up close, the dummy’s eyes looked old and bloodshot.

  Goosebumps started creeping up my spine. Ke
eping my flashlight on the dummy, I backed toward the door. I wanted to whirl around and run, but was afraid to take my eyes off it.

  Don’t be ridiculous. It’s just a dummy. A very lifelike dummy.

  In the hallway, I swung my light out of the room and walked away.

  Enough of this place.

  I was almost to the living room when a frail, reedy voice - like the voice of an old, old man - tremored down the hallway from behind me. It quietly sang, ‘Oh, Sunny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling ... from glen to glen, and down the mountainside ...’

  Chapter Fifty-six

  I ran through the house, somehow managing not to crash into furniture or walls. Outside, I leaped off the porch, ran to the street and across the street, and kept on running. I raced around a comer, crossed another street, turned another comer, kept on running, and finally, in a neighborhood of expensive-looking homes, came upon a two-story house with a lighted porch but dark windows.

  The area behind the house was enclosed by a fence, but the gate wasn’t locked. Quietly, I entered. Then I crept alongside the house. In back, I found a swimming pool.

  The pool wasn’t lighted. Neither was the patio or any rear window of the house.

  The patio had a barbecue grill, a glass-topped table surrounded by iron chairs, a couple of aluminum patio chairs, and a lounge with a small table beside it. On that table was a drinking glass. I picked it up. It was made of sturdy plastic, and had a puddle of liquid in the bottom. Probably from melted ice cubes. Someone must’ve enjoyed a cocktail out here earlier.

  Had he or she also gone swimming? It had been a nice, sunny day, warm for October.

  Bending over, I swept a hand over the plastic tubing of the lounge. It felt smooth and cool and dry. The tubing sank under my weight as I sat on it. I lowered the backrest and lay down.

  Pale, moonlit shreds of clouds were scooting across the sky. The night breeze carried a chimney scent of burning wood.

  This is nice, I thought.

  Hands folded on my belly, I shut my eyes.

  Though the breeze felt cool against my face, I was snug in jeans and my thick, soft shirt.

  The tightness and pain began to drain away.