The Lurking Season

by Kristopher Rufty

  When the bacon was done, Piper scooped out the four soggy strips and laid them straight on a paper plate. He cracked one of the eggs, slowly spilling the yolk into the puddle of grease the bacon left behind. He watched the oily white form into a thin halo.

  Within weeks of the fire, Piper transferred to Doverton. That was three years ago, and to Piper, it felt as if he’d always been here. As if life before he’d become the Watcher was only something he’d dreamed about and was quickly forgetting with time.

  Nobody in town had any idea he was secretly in cahoots with those Haunchy bastards. It had happened by accident, one day while searching the woods for their hiding spots. He’d walked into a trap—a net that had been spread across the ground and concealed by leaves. It had closed around him and jerked him up.

  When they came to see what they’d caught, he was already pitching deals at them. Finally, they admitted they needed someone who could help them, a new Watcher. Piper gladly volunteered.

  Now, he spent the majority of his time here at this old shoe store that had been converted into a Mayberry-type police station. Only a CB radio that he listened to constantly was proof something existed outside the hell he’d signed up for.

  But it was his hell. Nobody else’s. He was in charge here.

  That was how he preferred it.

  He cooked the rest of his breakfast without thinking of anything, his mind a blank curtain that had draped over his thoughts like furniture inside an abandoned house.

  He sat at the table and ate. His eyes gazed across the room, not seeing the wall, but looking through it to Brooke on the other side, cuffed and naked, spread and ready.

  Erin

  Doverton, Erin believed, was too stubborn to die. Like an ailing person the doctor’s removed from life support, but whose heart just continues to beat, as if only to give a giant middle finger to those wishing it would stop.

  As Lawrence steered the van past acres of flat farmland where cornstalks stood in endless rows of withered canes, Erin gazed out her window. She wondered when someone would finally take the small town into the field and put a bullet in its head.

  With the first book, she’d been eager to come here. Now, she loathed it. There was just something in the air now, a foreboding sense of gloom, as if something bad was going to happen and the remaining residents knew they were powerless to stop it.

  Nothing had changed. There had been no rebuilding or moving on.

  Though she knew she should feel a smidge of sympathy for Doverton’s enduring citizens, she couldn’t. They were too sad for compassion, to the point it just pissed her off. A fire burned some of their fields—big deal. It was an accident. Clear out the mess and get over it. Tiny, fiendish creatures were not the cause of it.

  No more for Erin, thanks. She’d had her fill of Doverton. In a couple days, they would head out to Mystic Lane, then back to Green Bay. She’d take the weekend off, then on Monday start writing the damn book. When she turned in the manuscript, she would tell Hal that she wanted off the Fable Wisconsin series.

  “Why?” he’d say.

  “I’m over it,” she’d tell him.

  He might try to talk her out of it, but, then again, he probably wouldn’t. He’d known her too long, and would realize he couldn’t get her to change her mind. The series would continue without her and would sell just as well in her absence.

  But what the hell am I going to do without it?

  Hal can assign me something, and in the downtime, I can finally write my novel.

  An erotic novel she’d had in her head for a couple years now. The idea had been there so long it no longer felt fresh. However, it did nothing to dampen its need to be told. The composition book she’d written her ideas in was waiting in the drawer of her desk. Get that book out of the way, and she could move on to the next. That idea was still fresh, exciting—a married person with a secret lover.

  “You’re quiet this morning,” said Lawrence. “Feeling all right?”

  “Didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Couldn’t sleep either?”

  “I got some, just not much.”

  He slowed the van enough to make the turn onto Cob Road, though Erin still felt the van shifting sideways with the tires sighing on the blacktop. Then his foot was back down on the gas and the speed returned to ten miles over like it had been.

  They were on their way to the Hamilton farm. If there was such a thing as a Doverton weird-shit timeline, it would begin at the Hamilton’s farm a little over three years ago. Hank Hamilton’s dead body was just one of many discovered without flames having touched them. Pathology reports stated that he had also been dead the longest. His wife, Nancy, still hadn’t been found. Some thought she’d butchered him and run off with another man. Others thought…well, it wasn’t hard to figure out what those select others thought.

  Lawrence smiled. “Wouldn’t happen to have a certain person on your mind, would you?”

  Erin felt heat in her cheeks. “Stop it! Taking Randy out to the Mystic Lane site has nothing to do with that!”

  “What?” Lawrence frowned. “Oh him? I was talking about me!”

  Smacking his shoulder, Erin laughed. “You’re impossible.”

  “No, I’m easy. You’re impossible.”

  Erin nodded. “You know, if Hal heard you talking like that he’d fire you.”

  “Shit no. He’d probably give me a raise.”

  Though there was no attraction felt for Lawrence, she blushed fiercely. It was the comment about Randy Bishop that had really caused it.

  Randy is cute.

  Yes, cute, but not her type.

  Did she really even have a type?

  “But seriously,” said Lawrence, “why are we taking him with us? Makes no sense.”

  “I told you…”

  “Right. If we show it to him, he might become less uptight and let us back onto the Carlson property.”

  “Well, it’s working, isn’t it? He’s letting us go to Mystic Lane. If he didn’t, we’d only be able to explore burned-up trees.”

  “That’s all there is all over this shithole.”

  “Just drop it, okay?”

  “You got it.”

  The engine lowered in volume, the van slowing down. Erin turned as the crooked mailbox appeared on the left, its tin shell layered in corrosion. The flag was up like a flat, waving arm, bent slightly so it remained locked in the upright position. The mouth hung open, ancient weather-damaged mail concreted the inside. There looked to be some kind of nest sitting on top of the old mail like a hat made of twigs. Weeds grew up around the post, their fuzzy tips nearly tickling the underside of the mailbox. There was no longer a driveway, just more tall weeds that made the driveway look as if it had never been there at all.

  “Honey, we’re home,” declared Lawrence.

  The tires bounced when they left the road and came down on the gravel hidden under the khaki-colored weeds. Erin jerked in her seat.

  “Don’t remind me,” she said, adjusting herself.

  “You really are in a mood today, aren’t you?”

  “I’m always in a mood. You should know that.”

  Lawrence held up a hand as if thwarting an argument. Erin felt bad. Her comment had been snappy, though she hadn’t meant it to be. Maybe she should just keep her mouth shut.

  They drove slowly in silence. Rocks crackled and popped under the tires. The tops of the weeds fanned Erin’s window.

  They passed the barn first. It had been a year since she’d seen it last and it looked four years older. The foundation was dipping to the side, tilting the roof at an awkward angle. The wood, faded and warped, bowed out like ribbons. She was glad when it was no longer in her line of sight. But when she checked the side-view mirror, there it stood, like a rotted monster at the gates o
f hell. It almost looked to be smiling.

  Lawrence drove around to where the driveway once curled in front of the house, and parked. He killed the engine and put the keys in his pocket. He peered at the house from his seat, probably feeling the same uneasiness as Erin.

  The two-story home was in bad shape. The screen door lay halfway down the porch steps. The door inside looked okay, though the paint was peeling. Most of the shutters had fallen. Some still hung on, dangling over the windows like visors.

  “Still a creepy fucking place, isn’t it?” asked Lawrence.

  “Let’s just get this over with.”

  “This might make a great splash for the title page. Couldn’t you see it? Put the title above the photo, our names below it.” His eyebrows wiggled. “Scary stuff.”

  He opened his door and hopped out. Erin gave the house another glance, shuddered and climbed out of the van.

  What’s wrong with me?

  All morning she’d had a chill in her bones that wouldn’t go away. Maybe she was coming down with something? Most likely she was tired. Burned out. She’d feel much better when she got home.

  She heard the rear doors of the van open, followed by some shuffling sounds as Lawrence dug out his camera equipment. Heather looked up at the sky. The clouds blanketing the sky were the color of cigarette ash and hung low over the fields.

  Erin took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. She walked around to the front of the van and waited for Lawrence. He joined her, screwing the lens onto the camera body. He looked up at the sky, squinting. “An overcast day makes for good pictures,” he said.

  Lawrence raised the camera, focused and snapped a few quick shots of the house.

  “Yeah, if you want them to look bleak.”

  Lowering the camera, he looked at her. “Well, you don’t expect them to be joyful, do you?”

  “Come on,” she said, walking toward the house. She tucked her hands into the pockets of her coat.

  She heard Lawrence mumble something behind her. Probably about her attitude, no doubt. Sighing, she decided to drop whatever it was that had her annoyed. Taking it out on Lawrence would accomplish nothing.

  A bitter wind stirred her hair. Her eyes felt dry from the cold air stealing their moisture. “Help me with this?” she asked, nudging the fallen screen door with the toe of her shoe.

  “Hold this and I’ll get it.” He held out the camera.

  Taking it, she stepped aside and let him pass. Lawrence grabbed the upper rim of the screen door, lifting it until it stood in front of him. Then he chucked it over the railing. Its landing was muffled by the tall grass. When Lawrence turned around, his face was red and winded. He held out his hand, and Erin set the camera in it.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “Sure.”

  He marched up the stairs. The wood groaned under him.

  “Be careful,” she said.

  “Yes, Mom,” he said, walking onto the porch. There she could see the wooden flooring sag under his steps.

  “Seriously. That wood is pretty old and you might fa—”

  The splintery sound of breaking wood cut her off. She watched Lawrence’s right leg vanish into the porch up to his knee. He let out a “Shiiit!” before falling back and landing hard on his rump. The camera, flying out of his hand, hit the porch and slid away from him.

  “God-mother-fucking-damn!” Lawrence shouted. He slammed his fist down on the porch.

  “Are you okay?” said Erin, wincing.

  “Damn!”

  She looked at the camera on the porch. She couldn’t tell if it was broken. Hopefully not. Lawrence would lose his mind if it was. He’d bragged often about how the camera retailed at three grand but he managed to talk the dealer down to twenty-five hundred.

  Actually, she kind of hoped it was broken. Then they could leave.

  He’s got his backup camera in the van. No luck there.

  Erin stopped on the top step. “Is it broken?”

  Lawrence was turning the camera over in his hand, examining it with furious intensity. “I don’t think so.” He turned it on, raised the viewer to his eye and snapped off two quick photos. Lowering it, he folded out the LCD monitor and viewed the pictures. “Lens seems okay too. We’re in luck.”

  “No thanks to you.”

  “Glad to know you care.”

  “I warned you it would break.”

  “No you didn’t. You were starting to warn me, but the porch beat you to it. Should’ve been quicker.”

  The corner of Erin’s mouth arched. “Whatever. Is your leg hurt?”

  “A little skinned up, but it’ll be all right.”

  “Good. Get up so we can get moving.”

  Lawrence raised his foot out of the hole he’d made in the porch. The plank was severed, each side slanting like ramps. His pants leg, flaked with wood shavings and dust, was shoved up to his knee, leaving a pale segment of skin down to the black band of his sock. Putting his foot flat on the porch, he pushed the pants leg back down. He thrust himself up with a groan.

  His forehead was lined with sweat. Now his entire face matched the red shade of his cheeks. He huffed out a breath that rattled his lips. “That was strenuous.”

  It bothered her how out of shape Lawrence was. He wasn’t overweight by any means, but he definitely needed to exercise more. “I can tell. Ready to head inside?”

  “Got the key?”

  She dangled the single key, the ring slipped over her finger like a wedding band. Lawrence nodded, then ushered her forward with the swipe of a hand.

  Erin carefully approached the door. Though she felt the wood wobble beneath her, it didn’t break. She slid the key into the lock.

  Lawrence laughed without humor. “How much you want to bet the door’s swollen and won’t open?”

  “Come on, we couldn’t be that lucky.”

  Lawrence chuckled.

  Erin twisted the key, gripped the knob, and turned.

  The door opened just fine, even without a groan.

  Erin

  The house was just as creepy as it had always been. Beer cans, empty potato-chip bags, old pizza boxes, bags from multiple fast-food restaurants and some sunflower seed shells littered the floors.

  A few sleeping bags were spread out in some of the rooms. On one she saw a torn pair of panties and a used condom that had withered into a stiff, yellowed strip.

  Teenager’s Fuck Palace.

  At first she wasn’t sure how the kids were getting in. The front and back doors were both locked. When she followed Lawrence down into the cellar and saw the spill of gray light piling down from the busted storm doors, she knew how. They’d broken the lock on the outside and for the past year had been using it as their secret place.

  She smiled at that. She’d had her own spot as a kid. An isolated clearing out in the woods by Miller’s Pond. During the summer she’d go with her friends to swim and drink beer when they weren’t supposed to. Sometimes guys would be there, other times not. Didn’t matter. They always had a good time.

  God, she’d had so much fun back then.

  So much had changed since those nights. Some good, mostly bad. What she wouldn’t give to have that innocent excitement back.

  “I think we’ve covered the house enough,” said Lawrence on his way to the stairs that led to the yard.

  “I think you’re right. Get any good pictures?”

  “Oh sure. Documenting the fornicating adolescence.”

  “Such a poet.”

  “I try.”

  Lawrence started up the stairs first. “I knew these places would eventually become cherry-popping hidey-holes.”

  “You’d think kids wouldn’t want to come out here.”

  Lawrence was outside now, peering down at her. “Are you serious? Places like this are the perfect place to
get laid. The idea of anything scary lurking in the dark gets girls in the mood quicker than cocaine.”

  Erin grimaced. Lawrence was apparently speaking from experience and that was gross. She climbed the stairs, squinting when she stepped onto the grass. Looking up at the painful glare of the sky, she couldn’t spot the sun. Buried somewhere under the canopy of dark clouds.

  “We should probably stroll around the yard,” she said. “Never know what we might find.”

  “Yeah, but let’s make it quick. Don’t want to be stuck out here when it starts snowing.”

  “Afraid of getting stranded with Haunchies?”

  Lawrence didn’t answer. His look told her that he was afraid of that very possibility. Seeing the grim gleam of his eyes brought out a slight shudder in Erin’s spine.

  Relax. This place is creepy. He’s just ready to get out of here as much as you are.

  The backyard could no longer be considered one. Weed-choked and brown, the high grass looked more like a nurtured hayfield ready for plowing. Downy tips brushed Erin’s fingers as she walked through, parting a path that immediately swayed shut behind her.

  Lawrence took pictures here and there of nothing particular. He got some of the backside of the house, which looked even worse than the front. A deck that had probably once been used for cookouts and social gatherings had collapsed against the house. The railings tilted down like gutters. The actual gutters had broken away from the paneling, barely clinging on by the fasteners up high.

  Erin walked over to where the cornfield used to be. She saw a few patches of wild corn that had grown without a farmer’s aid, jutting up from a frizzy landscape of weeds. Dead now, they looked like collections of emaciated spears pointing at the sky. A gentle wind swayed the field in a synchronized current.

  To either side of the field were endless terrains of trees that still looked too thick to penetrate, even without the leaves on the branches.

  No other houses could be located from here. She knew of at least one beyond those woods. The Carlson place. It was much farther out, but it was still out there. Somewhere.