The Winter People

by Bret Tallent

  In that moment, as Heather watched her brother sucked out the hole in the door, there was no sound at all. There was only the pounding of her own heart in her ears. Then she broke the silence and screamed, covering her face with her hands. But her scream paled beside the cry she heard from beyond the door. The terrifying agonized scream of her brother echoed through the house for a second, and then stopped suddenly. It was replaced with snarls and grunts and howls, all gleeful, all a part of the wind.

  Terror rose up in Heather's throat and her eyes became as full moons. She jumped up from the rocker, holding the afghan tight, and ran. She ran in a blind panic towards the back of the house, towards the kitchen door. In the room she had just left she heard a thunderous crash, the front door, registered somewhere in her mind but was lost in the horrific confusion there.

  She fumbled for the kitchen door knob with a quivering hand while the other still held the afghan tight around her neck. She turned the knob and the door flew inward, knocking her back a step. Wind and snow blew in the opening and assaulted her, stinging her face and eyes. The cold of the outside was an awakening slap and she was grateful for it. In an instant she considered her options then decided upon a course.

  Heather plowed into the drift that had leaned up against the doorway, and headed out into the storm. She was tiny and frail but her fear carried her like an Amazon. She ran through the deep snow, heart pounding, legs aching, hands and feet quickly growing numb. Her eyes ran and every breath was very nearly sucked away from her by the brutal wind, and still she ran. She ran to the only place she could, the safest place she could think of, she ran to Hayden's house.

  ***

  The room was awash in an ethereal orange glow and smelled of apple and cinnamon. Since she was unable to go to work today, Vivian Brice had decided to make the most of the day and do some baking. She knew that Hayden wouldn't expect her in, not in this weather. He wouldn't really need her either, he seldom did, but he always did his best to make her feel useful.

  With her baking chores out of the way, Vivian decided to curl up with a warm comforter and "The Good Book". She sank into the big padded armchair and tucked the comforter in around her, its pastel floral prints washed out from the light of the fire, its worn edges lost beneath the cushions.

  An aged and trembling hand came out from beneath the covering and moved slowly towards a light tree beside the chair. Her skin was soft and pale and mottled with brown age spots. The veins beneath stood up and showed through a pale blue, resembling the "Human Body" dolls with the skin cut away. She clicked on a single light and allowed her old and tired eyes to adjust to it.

  They were once dark brown eyes, large and flashing. But now they were paled with time, clouded by the cataracts that were devouring them. Horned rimmed glasses sat clumsily on her round and sagging face, the black of the frames a stark contrast to the pallor of her complexion. Vivian stared down her nose through the glasses at the Bible on her lap. It was as old and worn as she was, its corners frayed from years of use, its cover cracked and faded.

  She opened to the marker, an old strip of cloth with a dull gold cross embossed upon it and a tassel on one end that dangled from the bottom of the book. Vivian flattened the well read pages and continued her reading of Isaiah. Strangely, she found her eyes drawn down the page to quote 49:9, "They shall feed in the ways, and their pastures shall be in all high places."

  Vivian stared at the passage, her eyes transfixed. There was something vague in the back of her mind. Something she should remember. It all seemed to be a part of a bad dream that she couldn't quite recall, and the passage meant something. At least that's the feeling that Vivian got as she stared at the words, these words that played with her subconscious and wouldn't let go.

  Suddenly, Vivian was ripped from her daze by an ungodly scream. Her head jerked heedfully and gooseflesh rose on her doughy skin. The scream stopped as suddenly as it began, but that wasn't what started her to praying; praying for the Jenkins, her nearest neighbors, and praying for herself. It was the snickering.

  There were demons, dancing their devilish dances all around the house, pounding on the doors and windows wanting in, wanting her. They were all around her home; she could hear them, whispering their evil words. The Devil's spawn and they wanted her soul. But Vivian would be ready to meet them, ready with the Lord and his words, and his book.

  Vivian held the Bible tight up against her bosom with one trembling hand and stroked the crucifix around her neck with the other. She closed her eyes and quoted from memory, His word.

  "And thou, son of man, be not afraid of them, neither be afraid of their words nor be dismayed at their looks.", and with that, Vivian was ready to meet them.

  And meet them she would.

  ***

  The basement was dank and musty and cold and Gary didn't really find anything of any interest there. He saw a few stacks of old newspapers, an old instant hot chocolate machine, and some broken chairs. All in all, a pretty boring dungeon he thought. Except for the several times that same eerie feeling had come over him, the feeling that something evil had passed nearby. He tried to shrug it off to the ambience of the basement, but that didn't quite work.

  Finally, he decided that he was just being jittery, a stupid kid afraid of the dark. Gary laughed at himself, half-heartedly. Somewhere deep inside, a part of him didn't feel that stupid. Somewhere deep inside, a part of him said, "Be afraid." Gary trembled for a moment then decided to head upstairs to find his mom. He knew that he was early, but there was nothing else for him to do.

  He grabbed the cross-bow, snowshoes and bag of bolts and stashed them in between two stacks of papers at the base of the coal chute. Then he moved toward the stairs beyond the old furnace. As he neared the furnace, there was something he hadn't noticed before. Probably because of the wind, he surmised. But, if he listened very carefully, he could hear voices. Muffled and far away, but they were voices none the less.

  Gary circled the furnace, intrigued. There might be something interesting down here after all, he mused. He found a coal door on the far side, facing the stairs. The furnace was huge, some monster from another time, and stood a good eight feet high. The door was three by three and held in place by massive hinges and a slide down latch.

  Gary had to kick at the latch to get it to move, but it finally gave way in a squeal of protest. The door was another story. It was heavy and rusted and he couldn't budge it. He looked around but already knew that there was nothing to help, so he turned again to his cross-bow. He dug it out of the papers and wedged one end under the latch.

  Remembering his fat lip from the last time, Gary eased pressure onto it this time. Slowly, begrudgingly, the door began to open. It squealed loudly and Gary stopped abruptly, biting his lower lip. But the muffled drone of voices continued so he let out a sigh and continued. Another agonizing squeal and he had the door open about five inches. Just enough room to get a good grip and some leverage.

  Gary sat the bow down and hooked his hands in on the inside lip of the door. Holding onto it, he pulled his feet up to the side of furnace and pushed off. Had anyone seen him, they might have laughed out loud. He looked like a bug squatting on the side of a wall, butt stuck up in the air. But Gary didn't care, he was intent. He was going to open this damned thing if he pulled every muscle he owned.

  He gave a mighty heave, the door screeched and jerked open about two feet. It wasn't much but Gary knew that he could fit through, and he didn't think he could take another heave. Not and have clean underwear, he joked to himself. It was open enough though and the voices were much clearer. He instantly recognized one as his mom. Although he couldn't make out exactly what she was saying, he could tell it was her.

  Excited, and a little nervous, Gary slid himself through the door into the furnace. It smelled oily and dirty and he wrinkled his nose in distaste. Surprisingly, there was a fair amount of light in the thing. It looked like the inside of the thing had been gutted long ago, and holes were all that was
left of its duct work. There were still a couple of ducts intact, and that was where the voices were coming from.

  Gary climbed out of the furnace and traced the ducts from it. One came out about four feet and ended, but the other ran along the ceiling and ended at a floor grate past the stairs on the far wall. Now Gary was really getting excited, in that "I know I'm not supposed to but I gotta do it anyway 'cause this is going to be fun" kind of way.

  He pulled up some of the broken chairs and piled them up so that he could reach the duct. It was loose enough, and with little effort, he managed to pull the duct from the base box of the grate. Gary eased the duct down onto the floor, careful of any sounds he might make. Ray and his mom might be able to hear him now. With that thought, his heart started to pound in his chest and his mouth went dry.

  The voices were clear now, still somewhat muffled, but easily discernable. Like a fly on the wall, Gary listened in.

  "So what d'ya say sugar, let's close up this place and keep each other warm?” a man's voice prompted. Gary knew it was Ray's.

  "I think you're warm enough Ray.” Mardell fended.

  "Asshole.", Gary thought.

  "C'mon over here and let me show you how warm I am."

  "Fucking asshole."

  "That's okay, I can tell from here. Besides, I'm busy."

  "Busy doin' what? We ain't seen crap of a customer all mornin'."

  "I'm working on my budget.” Mardell replied flatly

  "I've got your budget right here.” Ray prompted again.

  "That fucking asshole.” Gary thought. He hated Ray, the man was a pig. But just listening wasn't enough, Gary wanted to see to. He wanted to see what the pig was doing; he wanted to see his mother. So he climbed a little more on the chairs and was able to get his head up near the opening left by the duct he'd taken off.

  While his mother fended off more remarks, Gary struggled to get his face in the opening. Balanced precariously on the chairs, he was able to get part of his head and face into the hole. Once there, he could see into the diner. The cast-iron grate was all that separated him from them. But from his angle he could see little, the end of the counter, the base of a stool, and his mother's legs from the knees down. He couldn't see Ray at all, and that was just as well.

  Suddenly, Gary got that eerie feeling again. Something very bad was coming. For a moment, he'd forgotten about his mother and Ray, until he heard the screams…first Ray’s, then his mother’s. He saw her legs scramble out of view, and then she screamed again. It was bone chilling and it caught Gary's heart in his throat. Frozen, he stood there and peered out the grate. The room beyond was another world, a surreal world, a fantasy.

  But Ray's scream was no fantasy. It was a horrible pleading scream, and Gary heard something else too. It was a wailing cry, loud and fierce. It was a part of the wind, but separate. It was many and it was one. It was more than his mind could comprehend. But his mind could comprehend the terror, the terror in the room above, and himself.

  A second after it had started, Ray's scream stopped with a gurgle, pop! Then his mother screamed again and Gary wanted to go to her, to help her, but he couldn't move. No part of him wanted to move. She screamed again, an agonizing sound that wrenched at his guts, but he still couldn't move. Then her screams turned into sobs and seemed far away. Gary swallowed hard and strained to see out, but could see no more.

  Suddenly, Ray's body fell down in front of him. His head was twisted around to face his back and one arm was gone, ripped out of the socket. The dull stare of death was on him and blood gurgled out the corner of his mouth and flowed easily from his mangled shoulder. Gary let out a small "eep", then bit his tongue and pulled his face back as far as he could and still see.

  The lump that was Ray abruptly jumped up and out of view and fell with a crash somewhere in the distance. A white blur took its place and Gary found himself looking back into the eyes of hell. Black and soulless, they peered into the grate. Squinting, straining, and seeing what was there. Gary didn't breath, he didn't dare.

  The eyes were looking right at him, he was sure of it. But somehow, hadn't seen him. Gary stared back at them and waited. In an instant they were gone, and in the room beyond Gary could hear sounds. Sick sounds that made his stomach churn. It almost sounded like pigs being slopped, but he knew what it really was. One look in those eyes told him what it really was.

  Then he thought of his mother; what of her? Almost just as if to answer his question, she screamed again. This time, it was followed by a ripping, popping, snapping sound. Then her voice trailed off and was silent. Gary tried to scream but his terror took the sound before he made it. He shut his eyes and his mind. He didn't want to see any more, he didn't want to hear any more, especially now. So Gary shut it all out, even the laughter.

  ***

  Dave Burke leaned forward over the scratched glass counter top, propped on his elbows. Between them sat his once white coffee cup, now yellowed from age and strong coffee, smudged with greasy black finger prints. Below this, housed in the glass case, was a variety of motoring necessities. From several quarts of Havoline oil, to cardboard air-fresheners that resembled their particular scents, to bottle opener key rings.

  Dave stared out past the sign that promised the lowest price for Prestone, out past the oil additive stacked neatly against the front window, out past the storm itself. He stared across the street to where the barely perceptible yellow glow of light from the diner broke through the murk. Yes, there was a light on, but that was all he could tell; that, and that the rest of the street was empty. He strained his eyes but still was unable to make out any other lights down fourteen, except for his and the diner.

  "Damn storm.” Dave mumbled under his breath then picked up the cup and slurped from it. "And it don't look like Jesse's comin' in today either.” he added. "Damn him,” Dave thought, "he knew we had to finish that rebuild." With that thought, Dave turned to look out the window into the bays where an old blue Buick was perched on a lift. He pushed the grungy Evenrude cap back on his head and scowled.

  "This wasn't like Jesse at all", Dave thought, "he was always here, rain or shine…And damned if the phones weren't out too." The large furnace in the garage kicked on just then and caused Dave to jump, spilling his coffee.

  "Damn!” he sputtered, "That Jesse better have a damn good excuse! And I'm sick of shit hearing about his sister." But then Dave calmed down quickly, he knew there would be a good reason, this just wasn't like Jesse. He sat the cup down on the end of the counter with a dull clink and brushed the liquid off of his dark blue coveralls with his hands. Then Dave looked down at his feet and shook one grease covered boot several times. Satisfied, he wiped his hands on his back pockets then stuffed them into his front ones.

  He just stood there, hands in pockets, staring out at the Buick in the garage. There was a look of contemplation on his weathered face, buried beneath the wrinkles and sun darkened skin. Dave toyed with the idea of just closing up shop for the day, and then quickly brushed it aside. He hadn't been closed a day in thirty years and he sure as shit wouldn't do it today, no matter what the weather and the rest of the town were doing.

  Dave was a gruff man and appeared callous and cantankerous, but beneath it all he would give you the shirt off his back to spite the cold. In his late fifties, he had never married, but that didn't even bother him. Dave realized that not too many women wanted to settle down with an aged grease-monkey who constantly smelled of gasoline and had permanent black outlines around the fingernails. But that was okay too, Dave was satisfied with his life, if not totally happy with it.

  He shrugged and turned to look out the plate glass window towards the diner again. He wondered briefly if Mardell was working today. Though he had never really pursued her, he'd pondered a time or two. In Dave's eye, she was by far the best dish in the diner, kid and all. He sighed heavily then and pursed his lips, staring blankly out the window. He was bored too, bored and lonely.

  Dave watched curiously as the light
from the diner winked out. That one little action made him feel even more alone. It was strange, he knew, but it made him feel like the last man on earth. Dave trembled at the thought then brushed it aside. "Looks like ain't no one stayin' open today.” he said to himself, as much for the comfort of his own voice as for the observation.

  He just then realized how empty the whole town felt. Here it was, close to noon, and there wasn't a soul on the street. In fact, he hadn't seen anything except for that damn fool snowmobile that whipped by like a bat outta hell a little earlier. Jesse not comin' in, the phones down, and not being able to see the diner anymore gave Dave the creeps all of the sudden. He trembled involuntarily again for an instance then jumped as the heater in the shop kicked on again.

  "What the...?” Dave mumbled as he turned to the bays again, his lined face showing puzzlement. "Why's that damn thing kickin' on, I ain't had a door open all mornin'?", he said under his breath and began walking the few steps to the door to the shop. Behind him a gust of wind pelted the window and rattled it in its frame. The top can of oil additive fell with a heavy thud onto the tile floor. Dave only glanced back over his shoulder at the sound but continued towards the door.

  He reached out for the door knob, grabbed it, and then jerked his hand away from it, "Jesus!"

  Better prepared for its cold, he grabbed it again and pushed the door open. The cold in the room hit him squarely in the face and caused him to break out in gooseflesh beneath his coveralls. Dave took several steps into the shop, followed closely by his own breath, hanging heavy around him. The room was like a deep freeze he thought, puzzled.