Steph sat next to her, with Ted taking the chair on her other side. Shaun sat beside him, giving Debbie the chair at the opposite end of the table.
There were no menus, just a napkin holder that needed to be filled and ketchup and mustard bottles with slimy clots coming from the necks of the bottles where the caps were screwed on.
“My kind of place,” said Ted.
Though someone might mistake Ted’s comment as being snarky, he was very serious. The smile on his face couldn’t be more evident of how excited he was.
A couple minutes passed before Shaun said, “So, do we have to go up there to place our order or what?”
As if his question was the cue she needed, the woman from the counter approached them, balancing a tray of coffee mugs. She stepped between Heather and Steph, smacking the tray on the table. The mugs rattled on their saucer plates.
“Coffee’s free, anything else other than water costs extra.”
“Is the coffee strong?” asked Ted.
The woman looked at him, deadpan. “It’ll make your engine run smooth for a week.”
“Just the way I like it,” he said, nodding.
“I’m Florence,” said the woman, tapping the name tag pinned above a massive breast. The curly lettering was faded. “Do you guys know what you want to eat?”
“Are there menus?” asked Steph.
Florence laughed. “Sure. At lunch and dinner. Why would you need a menu for breakfast?”
“We make our own menu?” asked Ted.
“Give the man a cookie,” said Florence.
“You have cookies?” he asked.
Ignoring him, Florence raised her notepad, then pulled a short pencil from behind her ear. “All right, cookie boy. You first. What’s your poison?”
Erin
“What the hell were you thinking? Inviting him along…” Lawrence made a coughing sound at the back of his throat, wincing as if he’d licked a lemon. “Really?”
“Relax,” said Erin, raising the lighter to her cigarette. She puffed on the filter, pulling the flame against the tip. She inhaled. Smoke swirled into her lungs like an old friend. “It’s just a quick trip. Plus, it’ll get him to open up to us, to trust us. We can’t do a story on the house now with a new owner, unless we want to rehash the same old shit.”
Lawrence, steering the van with one hand while using the other to ruffle the hair at the back of his head, groaned. “The whole thing’s a shitty idea to me. What are we going to write about, really? Didn’t the people in town say they heard they were opening up some kind of halfway house or something?”
“Yeah…”
“That sounds exciting! Nothing sells books like shit like that!”
Erin let Lawrence’s snide remarks slide. She knew he was only acting like this because he wanted a drink. Three months sober and he was at the make-it-or-break-it stage. He’d damn near lost his job last summer. Showing up to work drunk, reeking of vodka and sweat. Hal should have fired him on the spot, but that wasn’t their boss’s style. Instead, he’d gotten Lawrence the help he needed. So far it was working. Hopefully it would last.
I might have sent him running to a full bottle by inviting Randy.
“Besides,” she said. “He owns the land that Mystic Lane runs through. We need his permission now.”
“There’s ways around it.”
“What? By sneaking around? We couldn’t use any new pictures without his signature, anyway. Besides, I don’t know about you, but I do not feel like trekking through the woods with the possibility of snow in a pair of Converse.”
“And the possibility of Haunchies,” he said, smiling in a way that made him look devilish. It was the moustache, how it curled upward like a cartoon villain.
“Please. Don’t start the Haunchy bullshit again.”
Lawrence laughed. “Well, it is our job. You can’t hear as much as we have and not believe some of it.”
“Yes I can, and I have.”
“Always the cynic.”
Erin smirked. She didn’t want to repeat their routine argument of whether or not Haunchies truly existed. “So, you agree he should come along then?”
“No. I’ll never agree. But I see your point. I just hate having to babysit him while we try to do our thing.”
“Don’t give me that. He’ll be so overwhelmed by what he sees he’ll have us over for dinner to learn more.”
“Ooh, a free meal opportunity? Sounds great to me.”
Erin playfully swatted Lawrence on the shoulder. “You’ll see, smart-ass. It can’t hurt.”
“Famous last words.”
They’d parked the van in a clear spot on the verge of the driveway. As long as the driveway was, it had its own road name: Raimi Road. She’d learned while reading over town documents that the name had come from Carlson’s mother. It was her maiden name. Word was that she’d called it that as a tribute to her father.
For whatever reason, that creeped Erin out.
And now poor Randy had bought it. There was a fat stack of money he’d never recoup.
Last she’d heard, the county was trying to sweep the property under the rug. She’d even heard rumors of it being bulldozed and turned into a baseball field. Those reports fell flat, though, when no contractor could be dug up. And she had really tried to find one.
She’d expected the place to just sit there, rotting, until anyone with knowledge of the mystery from three years ago was dead.
When Erin peered out her window, she realized they were no longer in Doverton. She could see the hotel’s tall sign up ahead. Even from here, it was obvious the parking lot was empty without the van parked there.
Lawrence pulled into the space in front of their rooms, which were next to each other. She still felt a little odd having Lawrence on the other side of the wall, but it was better than sharing a room with him. It wasn’t their first time bunking so close together, and though he’d never acted in any way that should cause her stress, she still wanted her privacy.
“What are you in the mood for?” he asked.
At first Erin wasn’t sure what he was implying.
Get a grip. He’s hungry.
“Lunch?” she asked.
He nodded.
“Lawrence, it’s not even close to lunchtime.”
“True, but we didn’t eat breakfast.” Lawrence looked out his window. “How about I grab us something from our favorite little pit over there?
Erin groaned. “Always makes my stomach feel like it’s trying to digest a tire.”
Lawrence closed his eyes and sighed. “Just like Mom’s cooking.”
“Then that’s nothing to brag about.” She shrugged. “Well, it wins by default.” She threw her door open. “See you soon.”
Inside her room, she shut the door behind her and threw the tongue of the door’s bolt lock into place. It felt quiet and lonely in here, with Lawrence nowhere around. He was the closest she had to an actual friend, and realizing this made her even more depressed.
I could start dating again.
Oh yeah? Who?
She thought about her date with Michael over Labor Day weekend. Remembering him with her wine streaming down his face made her heart start hammering. She felt an embarrassing squirm inside her.
Served him right for saying what he did.
Still, she’d felt awful ever since. A few times she’d even been tempted to call him and apologize for how she’d reacted to his direct way of suggesting they have sex.
“Up for fucking later?” she muttered as she walked over to her bed.
She wasn’t a neurotic person. Far from it, actually. She liked when a guy skipped all the unnecessary games and got to the point. It was Michael she didn’t like. Erin had only been there as a favor for Hal. He was friends with Michael’s father and together they’d worked up a
nice game plan to get Michael and her together. Obviously, that concept had blown up in their faces.
She’d expected Hal to fire her when he’d marched into her office after Labor Day, his cheeks rosy from anger. After sharing what Michael had said, Hal’s face lost its rosy hue and became a pallid smear.
That’s me. I send them all away. Doesn’t matter how big a bastard they are, or if they’re fantastic, or how much money they make, or what car they drive. They’re not good enough for me.
Smirking at the thought, Erin plopped down on the edge of the mattress. She’d left the blankets in a heap at the foot of the mattress. Now they were smoothed out, neatly tucked under the pillows, evidence of the cleaning service doing its job.
On the floor beside the bed were two stacks of folders. The Haunchy stash, she called it. The folders contained everything she’d collected regarding the Haunchies during her research. And there was a lot. Some accounts dated back thirty years.
She’d written about them so many times it almost felt as if she’d been the one who’d created the legend, and that every story ever told about them had come from her imagination. She had them all memorized, like bad poetry.
Leaning over, she hefted a stack from the floor and dropped it on the bed. The mattress shook when the heavy folders slapped down. She scrabbled through papers until finding what she was looking for.
The front page of a special edition of the Doverton Quarterly News mailer. Being such a small town, a daily periodical wasn’t essential, so twice a month each resident got a news flier in their mailbox. This edition was released a week early, with a headline in garish bold print stating: Two Girls Missing! Teenage Boy Found Dead!
Skimming over the article, she felt that same uneasiness stir inside of her. A feeling she’d never admit to Lawrence. This was the only article that had caused her to consider the possibility such a tribe of creatures could be real.
It was the most recent and the last that indicated Haunchy activity.
And she had to wonder: If not Haunchies, then what could possibly be to blame?
Perverts. Serial killers. Perverted serial killers.
Yesterday she’d visited the parents of Brooke and Maggie Brown.
The mother was sleeping and either couldn’t or wouldn’t get out of bed. The father told Erin she’d suffered a mental collapse shortly after the abductions and hadn’t recovered. He feared she never would, unless their girls were brought home safe.
He took Erin to the bedrooms, told her how Maggie’s window had been open and the screen removed. Authorities believed the intruders had gotten in that way, and that Maggie was the one who had let them in.
He told her about the broken photo frames scattered through the hallway, the busted light upstairs and the smashed patio door. Showed her where Thomas Hanson’s body had been found. The old couch had been hauled away, and they’d replaced it with a new one. He even told her where he’d gotten it and that the furniture store owner was a nice man and would give you the shirt off his back if you needed it.
Erin felt wet dots in her eyes many times during the bleak tour. The sadness wasn’t just inside the parents, it had become a presence that you felt the moment you walked in the house. It covered you like a blanket of sorrow, sapping your energy and making you realize that bad things really did happen to good people, more often than not.
“Want to see the nest?” he said.
Erin, dabbing a fresh tear with the back of her finger, turned to Mr. Brown. “I’m sorry?”
“The nest.”
Erin looked at Lawrence, who’d been unusually quiet the entire time. She figured he’d been infected by the same cold sting she had. He shrugged at her, obviously having no idea what Mr. Brown was referencing.
Erin turned back to the man who looked twenty years older than the photos she’d seen of him. “What nest?”
“I found it in August. Never told anybody about it, especially not the girls’ mother. I don’t know why I kept it a secret, but I did. Maybe I just didn’t want the girls to be associated with all the other Doverton nonsense.”
They already were associated with it, but Erin wasn’t going to tell him that. “Sure,” she said. “You can show us the nest.”
The Browns’ backyard wasn’t much wider than the house but it was extensive and flat, disappearing into the woods behind it. The grass was brittle under their shoes, making soft scratching sounds as they walked. Erin and Lawrence, walking abreast, followed Mr. Brown. Nobody spoke. Erin could see the plumes of smoke from Mr. Brown’s breaths curling over his shoulder.
Finally they reached the woods. Just beyond the curtain of trees was an old shack. The wood had rotted, the roof caving into the slanted walls. Huge wounds left by termites were spread throughout the planks. She could see the woods on the other side, through one of the gaps. Dying vines curled all over the dilapidated building, reaching into the windows and slithering out through the gapped opening where the roof had once been.
The scary eyesore caused Erin to shiver inside.
“Is it around here?” Lawrence asked.
“No. Farther back.” Mr. Brown entered the woods. Dead leaves crackled under his shoes. “One day I just decided to take a walk and clear my head. Ellen was sleeping, as usual, and I needed to get out of the house. Didn’t want to go too far, in case she happened to wake up and I wasn’t there.”
Erin ducked under a drooping branch. They left the old shack, but she could sense it behind them as they walked away. She just knew if she turned around, it would somehow be right on top of them.
“And the crazy thing is,” Mr. Brown continued, “I didn’t see it on my way out. Damn thing was right there and I walked right by it. Hard to tell how long it’s been here.”
He took a right, turning sideways to step between a stand of pines. He vanished behind the wall of thick green fibers.
Lawrence went next, waiting for Erin as she squeezed through.
Mr. Brown was standing before a fallen tree. It looked ancient in its size and condition. The massive tentacle-like roots were clumped together by a pier of hardened dirt. Below them was a wide crater that stretched like baseball diamond away from the tree. A tent of sticks and leaves had been assembled over the hole, either for camouflage or protection from the weather. The shelter was nearly flawless in its design, tightly entwined together in an impressive pattern.
“Whoa,” Lawrence muttered, raising his camera. He snapped a few quick shots.
“Yeah,” Mr. Brown agreed. “See my point? How could I have missed this?”
Erin could see how the mistake was made. The improvised shelter did a great job of making it look like a bush, especially from a distance.
“But check this out,” Mr. Brown said, stepping around the cover and crouching at the hole. He reached inside and tapped the dark soil that filled the hole. It made a hollow knocking sound, like rapping a knuckle against a cardboard box.
Erin frowned.
“The dirt’s fake. I don’t know what the hell it’s made out of, but it feels like papier-mâché.”
“Unreal,” said Erin.
She walked past Lawrence. In the corner of her eye she noticed him reach for her and pull his hand back at the last moment, as if thinking better of it. Stepping beside Mr. Brown, Erin squatted.
She reached into the hole, rubbing her finger across the lumpy texture. “It does feel like papier-mâché, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah. Like a rat’s nest. How they take whatever they can find, chew it up and sculpt out their homes from it.”
“Ew. Is that what rats do?”
“I’m an exterminator; I’ve seen it millions of times.”
“But what could be living in this?”
“Not in it.”
Erin frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Look.”
Erin watched him slip
his hand behind the rim of the hole. From this angle it almost looked like he was sticking his fingers into dirt. The dirt’s not moving. The ridges remained how they had been, undisturbed as Mr. Brown’s hand sank to the wrist.
Then he lifted his hand back out, raising the ground with him.
Erin jerked rigid with a gasp. “What the hell?”
“A trapdoor,” he said, thrusting it over with a grunt. The lid landed topside down on the ground. Connected by wooden hinges, it was not unlike a manhole cover or the top to a submarine’s hatch.
Erin heard the soft crunches of Lawrence’s footsteps as he appeared next to her. He whistled. “Wow. Dark, isn’t it?”
Like a puddle of oil, so dark she thought she might be able to see her reflection.
There was a click behind her. A disc of light appeared against the ribbed sidewall of the chasm that looked like the bumpy body of a worm. Looking up, she saw Mr. Brown aiming a flashlight into the spherical darkness.
“Just keeps going, doesn’t it?” he asked.
Erin saw no end to its depths.
Lawrence fired off a few more pictures, the flash hardly illuminating the shadowy abyss. “Let me test something,” he said, crouching. He dug a small rock out of the grass. In his hand, it looked nearly the size of a saltine cracker. “Just something I saw in a movie once, I think. Test how deep it is.” He held his arm over the hole. “Bottoms up.”
Erin half expected a slimy beast to lunge out of the hole and snatch his arm.
Nothing did.
He let go of the rock.
No one heard it land.
“Wow,” Lawrence whispered.
“Have you ever tried going down there?” asked Erin.
“Hell no,” Mr. Brown answered, shutting off the light. He dropped the flashlight on the ground behind him, leaned over and gripped the lid. “I have a feeling if I ever attempted something so foolish, I’d never make it back.”
The Lurking Season Page 5