The cop froze, lifting his head as if he’d heard the words.
His expression was alert but filled with panic, like a deer who had just heard the crunch of a heavy footfall in the woods. It didn’t last. The drunken glaze stole over it and the tense lips grew rubbery and slack. The cop hauled himself to a sitting position with his back to the tree, and the effort winded him so that he sat panting like a dog, his face greasy with sweat. Behind the alcohol haze, something dark and ugly and lost moved in his eyes.
Crow recognized it. The same shapeless thing moved behind his own eyes every time he looked in the mirror. Especially after a beating. But the shape in his eyes was smaller than this, less sharply defined. His usually held more panic, and there was none at all here. Panic, he would later understand, was a quality of hope, even of wounded hope. In the cop’s eyes, there was only fear. Not fear of death — Crow was experienced enough with fear to understand that much. No, this was the fear that, as terrible as this was, life was as good as it would ever be again. All that was left was the slide downhill.
“No…” murmured Crow, because he knew what was going to happen.
The cop’s fingers twitched like worms waiting for the hook. They crawled along his thigh, over his hip bone. They found the leather holster and the gnarled handle of the Smith and Wesson.
Crow could not bear to watch. He needed to not see this. A scream tried to break from him, and he wanted it to break. A scream could break chains. A scream could push the boogeyman away. A scream could shatter this mirror.
But Crow could not scream.
Instead he watched as those white, trembling fingers curled around the handle of the gun and pulled it slowly from the holster.
He still could not turn… but now his hands could move. A little and with a terrible sluggishness, but they moved. His own fingers crawled along his thigh, felt for his pocket, wormed their way inside.
The click of the hammer being pulled back was impossibly loud.
Crow’s fingers curled around the stone. It was cold and hard and so… real.
He watched the cylinder of the pistol rotate as the cop’s thumb pulled the hammer all the way back.
Tears burned like acid in Crow’s eyes and he summoned every ounce of will to pull the stone from his pocket. It came so slowly. It took a thousand years.
But it came out.
The cop lifted the barrel of the pistol and put it under his chin. His eyes were squeezed shut.
Crow raised his fist, and the harder he squeezed the stone the more power he had in his arm.
“I’m sorry…” Crow said, mumbling the two words through lips bubbling with spit.
The cop’s finger slipped inside the curled trigger guard.
“I’m so sorry…”
Crow threw the stone at the same moment the cop pulled the trigger.
The stone struck the mirror a microsecond before the firing pin punched a hole in the world.
There was a sound. It wasn’t the smash of mirror glass and it wasn’t the bang of a pistol. It was something vast and black and impossible and it was the loudest sound Crow would ever hear. It was so monstrously loud that it broke the world.
Shards of mirror glass razored through the air around Crow, slashing him, digging deep into his flesh, gouging burning wounds in his mind. As each one cut him, the world shifted around Crow, buffeting him into different places, into different lives.
* * *
He saw Terry. The adult Terry, but now he was even older than the one who had been laughing with Val. It was crazy weird, but somehow Crow knew that this was as real as anything in his world.
Terry’s face was lined with pain, his body crisscrossed with tiny cuts. Pieces of a broken mirror lay scattered around him. Each separate piece reflected Terry, but none of them were the Terry who stood in the midst of the debris. Each reflection was a distortion, a funhouse twist of Terry’s face. Some were laughing — harsh and loud and fractured. Some were weeping. Some were glazed and catatonic. And one, a single large piece, showed a face that was more monster than man. Lupine and snarling and so completely wrong. The Terry who stood above the broken pieces screamed and if there was any sanity left in his mind it did not shine out through his blue eyes. Crow saw a version of his best friend who was completely and irretrievably lost.
Terry screamed and screamed, and then he spun around, ran straight across the room and threw himself headfirst out of the window. Crow fell with him. Together they screamed all the way down to the garden flagstones.
* * *
The impact shoved Crow into another place.
He was there with Val. They were in the cornfields behind Val’s house. A black rain hammered down, the sky veined with red lightning. Val was older… maybe forty years old. She ran through the corn, skidding, slipping in the mud. Running toward a figure that lay sprawled on the ground.
“Dad!” screamed Val.
Mr. Guthrie lay on his stomach, his face pressed into the muck. In the brightness of the lightning, Crow could see a neat round bullet hole between his shoulder blades, the cloth washed clean of blood by the downpour.
“No!” shrieked Val. She dropped to her knees and clawed her father into her arms. His big old body resisted her, fighting her with limpness and weight and sopping clothes, but eventually Val found the strength to turn him onto his back.
“Daddy… Daddy…?”
His face was totally slack, streaked with mud that clumped on his mustache and caught in his bushy eyebrows.
Val wiped the mud off his face and shook him very gently.
“Daddy… please …”
The lightning never stopped, and the thunder bellowed insanely. A freak eddy of wind brought sounds from the highway. The high, lonely wail of a police siren, but Crow knew that the cops would be too late. They were already too late.
* * *
Crow spun out of that moment and into another. There were police sirens here, too, and the flashing red and blue lights, but no rain. This was a different place, a different moment. A different horror.
He was there.
He was a cop.
He was sober. Was he younger or older? He prayed that this was him as an older man, just as Val and Terry had been older.
Older. Sober.
Alive.
But the moment was not offering any mercies.
Stick was there. He was on his knees and Crow was bent over him, forcing handcuffs onto his friend’s wrists. They were both speaking, saying the same things over and over again.
“What did you do? Christ, Stick, what did you do?”
“I’m sorry,” Stick said. “I’m sorry.”
On the porch of the house a female cop and an EMT were supporting a ten year old girl toward a waiting ambulance. The girl looked a lot like Janie and Kim, Stick’s sisters, but Crow knew that she wasn’t. He knew that this girl was Stick’s daughter. Her face was bruised. Her clothes were torn. There was blood on her thighs.
“What did you do, Stick, what did you do?”
“I’m sorry,” wept Stick. His mouth bled from where Crow had punched him. “I’m sorry.”
* * *
Crow saw other images.
People he did not know. Some dressed in clothes from long ago, some dressed like everyone else. He stepped into sick rooms and cells, he crawled through the shattered windows of wrecked cars and staggered coughing through the smoke of burning houses.
Crow squeezed his eyes shut and clapped his hands over his ears. He screamed and screamed.
The house exhaled its liquor stink of breath at him.
-8-
Crow heard Val yell. Not the woman, but the girl.
He opened his eyes and saw the Morgan silver dollar leave her outstretched hand. It flew past him and he turned to see it strike the mirror. The same mirror he’d shattered with his lucky stone.
For just a moment he caught that same image of her kneeling in the rain, but then the glass detonated.
Then he was running.
&n
bsp; He wasn’t conscious of when he was able to run. When he was allowed to run.
But he was running.
They were all running.
As Crow scrambled for the door he cast a single desperate look back to see that the mirror was undamaged by either stone or coin. All of the restraints that had earlier held his limbs were gone, as if the house, glutted on his pain, ejected the table scraps.
And so they ran.
Terry shoved Stick so hard that it knocked his ball-cap off of his head. No one stooped to pick it up. They crowded into the vestibule and burst out onto the porch and ran for their bikes. They were all screaming.
They screamed as they ran and they screamed as they got on their bikes.
Their screams dwindled as the house faded behind its screen of withered trees.
The four of them tore down the dirt road and burst onto the access road, and turned toward town, pumping as hard as they could. They raced as hard and as fast as they could.
Only when they reached the edge of the pumpkin patch on the far side of the Guthrie farm did they slow and finally stop.
Panting, bathed in sweat, trembling, they huddled over their bikes, looking down at the frames, at their sneakered feet, at the dirt.
Not at each other.
Crow did not know if the others had seen the same things he’d seen. Or perhaps their own horrors.
Beside him, Terry seemed to be the first to recover. He reached into his pocket for his comb, but it wasn’t there. He took a deep breath and let it out, then dragged trembling fingers through his hair.
“It must be dinner time,” he said, and he turned his bike toward town and pedaled off. Terry did not look back.
Stick dragged his forearm across his face and looked at the smear, just as he had done before. Was he looking for tears? Or for the blood that had leaked from the corners of his mouth when the older Crow had punched him? A single sob broke in his chest, and he shook his head. Crow thought he saw Stick mouth those same two terrible words. I’m sorry.
Stick rode away.
That was the last time he went anywhere with Crow, Val, or Terry. During the rest of that summer and well into the fall, Stick went deep inside of himself. Eight years later, Crow read in the papers that George Stickler had swallowed an entire bottle of sleeping pills, though he was not yet as old as he had been in the vision. Crow was heartbroken but he was not surprised, and he wondered what the line was between the cowardice of suicide and an act of bravery.
For five long minutes Crow and Val sat on their bikes, one foot each braced on the ground. Val looked at the cornfields in the distance and Crow looked at her. Then, without saying a word, Val got off her bike and walked it down the lane toward her house. Crow sat there for almost half an hour before he could work up the courage to go home.
None of them ever spoke about that day. They never mentioned the Croft house. They never asked what the others had seen.
Not once.
The only thing that ever came up was the Morgan silver dollar. One evening Crow and Terry looked it up in a coin collector’s book. In mint condition it was valued at forty-eight thousand dollars. In poor condition it was still worth twenty thousand.
That coin probably still lay on the Croft house living room floor.
Crow and Terry looked at each other for a long time. Crow knew that they were both thinking about that coin. Twenty thousand dollars, just lying there. Right there.
It might as well have been on the dark side of the moon.
Terry closed his coin book and set it aside. As far as Crow knew, Terry never collected coins after that summer. He also knew that neither of them would ever go back for that silver dollar. Not for ten thousand dollars. Not for ten million. Like everything else they’d seen there — the wallet, the pill bottle, the diaper, all of it — the coin belonged to the house. Like Terry’s pocket comb. Like Stick’s ball-cap. And Crow’s lucky stone.
And what belonged to the house would stay there.
The house kept its trophies.
Crow went to the library and looked through the back issues of newspapers, through obituaries, but try as he might he found no records at all of anyone ever having died there.
Somehow, it didn’t surprise him.
There weren’t ghosts in the Croft house. It wasn’t that kind of thing.
He remembered what he’d thought when he first saw the old place.
The house is hungry.
-9-
Later, after Crow came home from Terry’s house, he sat in his room long into the night, watching the moon and stars rise from behind the trees and carve their scars across the sky. He sat with his window open, arms wrapped around his shins, shivering despite a hot breeze.
It was ten days since they’d gone running from the house.
Ten days and ten nights. Crow was exhausted. He’d barely slept, and when he did there were nightmares. Never — not once in any of those dreams — was there a monster or a ghoul chasing him. They weren’t those kinds of dreams. Instead he saw the image that he’d seen in the mirror. The older him.
The drunk.
The fool.
Crow wept for that man.
For the man he knew that he was going to become.
He wept and he did not sleep. He tried, but even though his eyes burned with fatigue, sleep simply would not come. Crow knew that it wouldn’t come. Not tonight, and maybe not any night. Not as long as he could remember that house.
And he knew he could never forget it.
Around three in the morning, when his father’s snores banged off the walls and rattled his bedroom door, Crow got up and, silent as a ghost, went into the hall and downstairs. Down to the kitchen, to the cupboard. The bottles stood in a row. Canadian Club. Mogen David 20/20. Thunderbird. And a bottle of vodka without a label. Cheap stuff, but a lot of it.
Crow stood staring at the bottles for a long time. Maybe half an hour.
“No,” he told himself.
No, agreed his inner voice.
No, screamed the drunken man in his memory.
No.
Crow reached up and took down the vodka bottle. He poured some into a Dixie cup.
“No,” he said.
And drank it.
About the Author
Jonathan Maberry is a NY Times bestselling author, multiple Bram Stoker Award winner, and Marvel Comics writer. He’s the author of many novels including Assassin’s Code, Flesh & Bone Dead of Night, Patient Zero and Rot & Ruin; and the editor of V-Wars: A Chronicle of the Vampire Wars. His nonfiction books on topics ranging from martial arts to zombie pop-culture. Since 1978 he has sold more than 1200 magazine feature articles, 3000 columns, two plays, greeting cards, song lyrics, poetry, and textbooks. Jonathan continues to teach the celebrated Experimental Writing for Teens class, which he created. He founded the Writers Coffeehouse and co-founded The Liars Club; and is a frequent speaker at schools and libraries, as well as a keynote speaker and guest of honor at major writers and genre conferences.
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