Wicked Haunted: An Anthology of the New England Horror Writers

by Daniel G. Keohane

  “You never did get your glider plane back, did you?” Reggie suddenly asks—a question that has haunted him for more than three decades. The plane was a Styrofoam jet nearly two feet long, with wings and tailfins you could adjust to suit your flight plan. The glider had been a birthday gift from Kevin’s father; one which accidentally passed over the Bermuda Triangle of their creepy neighbor’s back yard. “Grady never threw it over the fence so you could have it back.”

  “Nope.” He nodded to the dying hydrangea bush, with the foam jet’s tailfins protruding toward the rear.

  In the dream the thunderclouds roll in, and in the dying daylight Kevin turns to Reggie and says, “But I think I know how we can get it back.”

  “How?”

  Kevin smiles as he espies the sleeping dog through the slats in the fence. He’s amazed at himself for never realizing just how simple it would be. “I’ll go over the fence and get Butch to chase me. If I can get a lap or two around the doghouse, that will take up enough slack on his line to keep him tied up. Then you jump the fence, grab the glider plane, and jump back over. Once you’re safe, I’ll come back over, too.”

  In the dream, Reggie flashes a grin that is both innocent and mischievous at the same time. It makes his freckled nose crinkle and his eyebrows float up his forehead until they almost touch the bushy locks of his bright red hair. It’s the same Reggie Acton that haunts Kevin every day of his life; the image of the boy while he still has his face. The sleeping Kevin Ellis is already turning and struggling in the twin-size bed, desperately wishing he could stop the dream from progressing until both children are in old man Grady’s backyard and Butch’s clothesline rope leash snaps, and…

  * * *

  The roar of thunder echoed off the walls around him, and Kevin opened his eyes. The ghost was hovering above him, its face still marred where the pitbull mauled away the flesh and cartilage. The freckles and the bright red hair were now thin white vapors of cold eternity. The ghost lifted a wavering hand into the air and placed it in front of its mouth as if to say, “Shhhhh.” Before Kevin could protest, the thing with no face waved its arm slowly, as if beckoning for him to follow.

  “Go away,” Kevin whispered. “Please, just go away!”

  The ghost peered silently for a moment, lowered its head as if in defeat, and floated out the bedroom door.

  Kevin gripped his blankets tight around his body and cried himself back to sleep. Outside the window, raindrops pelted the aluminum siding and lightning flashes turned his bedroom into unbearable moments of daylight until the thunderclaps snuffed them back out again.

  * * *

  When he awoke, the room was freezing. He’d left the air conditioner shut off before falling asleep but now it was on again, thrumming strong at sixty degrees. Kevin sat up slowly, pulled the comforter tight around his body, and walked across the room to turn it off again. He lifted his finger to press the off switch, but before he could touch it he heard the dog barking from old man Grady’s yard. He jabbed the switch, and then twisted the rod and opened the slits in the blinds.

  It was just before dawn, and the air was saturated with a wall of fog that made it nearly impossible to see. The dog continued barking, agitated at first and then falling into a slow, steady howl that resembled fear or injury. Kevin leaned closer to the glass, held his breath, and gazed harder into old man Grady’s backyard. The doghouse came into focus, like a blood-red heart just off center of the decrepit lawn. And just outside its front was the ghost of a little boy that had once been his next door neighbor. Reggie Acton was hunched over, gazing into the open front of Butch’s doorway, as if trying to call to whatever was inside. Whatever was inside whimpered and yelped in despair. Watching the scene from his window made his blood run colder than the temperature in his bedroom.

  “There is a goddamn dog in there,” he said to himself.

  He picked up his jeans off the floor and threw them on, then slipped his feet into his sneakers. The world around him felt like a dream. He crept down the stairs and slipped through the house quietly, hoping that his mother was still asleep; dreaming her own dreams in her guilt-free world where husbands didn’t suffer heart attacks from too much fatty foods and where there were no bad dogs, only bad dog-owners. The world of Faye Ellis meant making justifications and excuses while neighbors moved away after losing their child to an angry pitbull. Even after Reggie’s body was recovered and taken away, and after the police questioned Kevin over and over again about what happened, his mother never once insinuated that what happened was her son’s fault. But it was.

  It was his fault. Guilt did have a face if he was brave enough to look in the mirror and accept that what happened was because he’d convinced Reggie to jump the fence and help him get his glider plane back.

  Kevin wrapped his hand around the door handle and threw it open. The cool morning fog draped his flesh, wetting it to the touch with glistening beads. He steeled himself and marched across the back lawn until he reached the white picket fence that separated the two yards. It was time to tell Reggie Acton that he was sorry, time to finally accept responsibility for what happened. He gazed over the fence at the doghouse.

  The thing with no face was gone.

  He could feel the tears welling in the corners of his eyes. His heart pounded in his chest, and butterflies flitted and scratched at the pit of his belly.

  “I’m going crazy,” he whispered.

  From somewhere inside the doghouse, an unearthly howl responded as if to confirm the sentiment. Hearing it filled him with dread deeper than he’d ever felt, deeper even than the day Reginald Acton was buried in Shady Acres Cemetery. For one brutal moment he felt absolutely paralyzed, and he could almost see the puddle of blood that had collected where Butch had knocked his eleven-year-old friend over and ravaged his face completely off. He could almost see the weathered clothesline leash, could picture where the rope had broken away from the stake and how it slithered in the mud like a snake as Butch attacked and shook his head back and forth with Reggie’s cheeks and nose planted in its maw.

  The moment passed, and then Kevin jumped over the fence and crept up to the door of the doghouse. He drew a deep breath, held it in, and then swung around so that his face could look in to see what was hiding inside.

  The doghouse was empty, except for his Styrofoam glider plane leaning toward the back wall. The fuselage wings were bent into a crooked angle, but for the most part the toy looked unharmed.

  Kevin exhaled slowly and waited for his heart rate to slow down before falling onto all fours and pushing his way inside the doghouse. He crawled to the back, sat with his legs crossed beneath him, picked up the airplane and wept. He clutched it tight against his chest and sobbed as all the years of guilt overtook him at once. Kevin hitched and gasped for breath as he thought of his friend’s lifeless body on the ground, and the way he’d jumped the fence and ran back to his own house screaming for help, waiting to feel Butch’s fangs sink into the back of his legs and then rip him apart as well. He remembered the penetrating anger in old man Grady’s face when they removed Reggie’s body from his backyard, and the absolute hatred in his eyes when they took Butch away to put him down. Kevin remembered everything.

  “I’m sorry, Reggie,” he whispered, gazing down at the foam glider through tear-blurred eyes. “It was all my fault. I didn’t know the rope was going to break. I don’t care about the goddamn plane. I wish I could have you back again. I’m sorry I let this happen.”

  He wrapped his left arm tighter around the plane, and with his right arm he tried to scoot back to the entrance of the doghouse, and then stopped when he saw the ghost blocking the doorway. The thing with no face had trapped him, and beside it was the ghost of Butch, who had planted his haunches hard onto the ground as if ready to attack. Reggie’s face was missing, but the expression on the mauled and mottled specter still managed to exude terrible satisfaction. The slit where its mouth had once been slit open and the thing with no face shrieked in vengeance.<
br />
  Kevin closed his eyes and waited for Butch to unite them forever.

  Lost Boy

  Bracken MacLeod

  Out on the wastes of the Never Never—

  That's where the dead men lie!

  There where the heat-waves dance for ever—

  That's where the dead men lie!

  That's where the Earth's loved sons are keeping

  Endless tryst: not the west wind sweeping

  Feverish pinions can wake their sleeping—

  Out where the dead men lie!

  —Barcroft Boake, WHERE THE DEAD MEN LIE

  Sam tried to pay attention to his date, but the child at the other end of the restaurant wouldn’t stop staring at him. He looked at his plate, at his hands, at the tables to his left and right—anywhere but at the woman sitting across from him, because the gaze of the boy over her shoulder was relentless and unnerving.

  She furrowed her brow and said, “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said.”

  He held up his hands in protest. “I have. Really. You were telling me about your co-worker who strapped their ‘Fatbit’ to a ceiling fan to win a step challenge. It’s funny.” He was listening. Joye was interesting. She was smart and witty, told good stories, liked jazz and thrillers, and looked absolutely nothing like his wife.

  “What then? What is it?”

  He looked up from his hands, leaning slightly to the right to angle her head in between him and the inerrant gaze of the child. “It’s… nothing. I’m just… It’s…” He shook his head. “It’s me. I’m sorry. This is my first date in a really long time—like a decade. I’m rusty, I guess.”

  He could almost see the red flag snake up the pole in her mind and flutter in the breeze of her building judgments. Her eyes darted to his left hand resting on the tabletop. He resisted the urge to pull it back and set it in his lap. He didn’t have a tan line, but when he looked, there was still a slight indentation where he used to wear his ring.

  “Your profile doesn’t say you’re divorced.”

  “I’m not.”

  “But you’re not married, right? Right?” She smiled, but it was unconvincing. Behind her eyes, he could see she was thinking of ways to end things early. She took a big drink of her wine, and set the glass on the table a little too forcefully. The stem didn’t break, but a little of her pinot gris splashed up over the side of her glass and slipped down the side. In a few seconds, she’d polish the rest of it off, and that would be the end of their date.

  “Not anymore,” he said.

  She wiped at her mouth and folded her napkin, getting ready to push back her seat. “My profile very clearly says, no divorcées. I’m not interested in someone with—”

  “I’m not. Divorced. My wife… she died a year ago.” He looked around at the tables nearest them. No one was looking at them, but it felt like the words he spoke had resonated through the restaurant, echoing off the walls and wine glasses. Saying those words always seemed louder than anything else he ever uttered, even when he whispered them. He felt like he was sitting at the epicenter of a sonic boom and everyone was staring. But no one was. No one but the kid in the back. Still staring.

  He wanted to hold up a hand to encourage her not to leave, but instead kept them flat on the table so she wouldn’t see them shaking. He explained, “There wasn’t a box to check for ‘widower’. It seems like it should be a thing, you know, but I guess there aren’t too many of us on 30 and Flirty dot com. I’m sorry.”

  He raised his arm to signal for the check. She reached out and pushed it back down to the tabletop, leaving her hand on the back of his. Her skin was dry and cool. She had thin fingers that didn’t get enough circulation, no matter what she did. He didn’t know that for sure about Joye. That was his wife, Liv’s explanation. But, making the association felt good. Joye looked nothing like Liv, but deep down, he kind of wished she did. When he’d filled out the online questionnaire, he’d put in preferences that were opposite of the ones belonging to the person he’d married so long ago. As it turned out, a complete opposite was as much a reminder of her as someone with a resemblance.

  He enjoyed the familiar sensation of her touch. It had been a while since anyone touched him and let it linger. Still, as welcome as her touch was, it made him feel that ever familiar tinge of loss that had been in him since Liv’s last days.

  Maybe he wasn’t ready yet.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. Her face softened. He still didn’t know what to say. It’s okay? It wasn’t okay; it was killing him. He had opted for “Thank you” for the longest time, though that still felt wrong somehow.

  “Thank you.”

  Joye stared in his eyes with a look that was part sympathy and part fear. Though she was visibly relieved he wasn’t a philanderer, she didn’t seem to be fully committed to riding the night through either.

  He slipped out from under her fingers and patted the back of her wrist softly before placing his hands in his lap. He smiled, but knew it looked strange. He was still getting reacquainted with the expression. In that moment, it felt false. Like he was wearing a mask that didn’t fit quite right. A clown face drawn over a frown. He tried again, letting his mouth relax and the smile shrink a little. He tried to think of something that made him feel good. Surprisingly, the night with Joye up to this point was it. He got the expression right the second time.

  “I am not a project. I promise.” He held up his hands in defense. “And I know everyone who says, ‘I promise’ is lying, but I swear I’m not. I am not a project, and I’m not looking for someone to fix me. Soooo, you know. That.”

  She grinned, raising an eyebrow. “Well, that’s good for you, because I am shit at projects. I have a whole apartment full of half-built Ikea furniture.”

  “I can’t read their instructions. You have to have a degree in Egyptology to assemble their bookshelves.”

  Her smile grew. “I don’t take the fake families out of the frames I buy. I just prop my pictures up in front of them.”

  “I never even print out the pictures I take of my friends. That way no one can complain about how they look in them.” They laughed. He put his hand back on top of hers. She didn’t pull it away. There was a pause while they both searched for another witticism to share about their mutual inability to complete simple tasks. They laughed at the same time as if the growing silence itself was evidence of their lack of follow through.

  “See?” she said.

  It felt good to share a real joke. Not one that was forced through the filter of grief, but honest playfulness. He wanted more of it. Searching for a way to get the conversation going again, he fished for something to say, and alit upon the worst possible idea. “Seriously, though. I’m not looking for anyone to fix me.”

  “Say it again, and maybe you’ll believe it.” She winked, but he was wounded nonetheless. Her expression changed as he felt his own darken. The ghost of his wife felt like someone sitting in the next chair at their table. Joye placed her other hand over top his before he could pull it away. “It’s okay. I’m not interested in fixing you. But I am interested in you right now. Is that good enough?”

  “That’s perfect.”

  Their server approached the table and asked how they were. Joye looked at her plate. Her jambalaya was almost all gone. Sam’s salmon, by contrast, looked like it had barely been touched. He said, “Everything’s fine. Can we get—” He meant to ask for another couple of glasses of wine. Instead, Joye broke in.

  “The check, please. And a to-go box for Mr. Follow-Through’s fish.”

  “It never reheats well,” he said.

  “Like you’d even try.”

  The waiter frowned with confusion, while they laughed at the private joke. He pulled the bill folder from his apron pocket and set it on the table, saying, “Whenever you’re ready,” walking off before Sam could get his credit card out of his wallet.

  Joye said, “I know a place around the corner that serves the best cocktails. Before we go, I need to us
e the powder room. I’ll be right back.”

  “Take your time. I’m sure our waiter will.” He stuck his card in the folder and set it on the edge of the table.

  She smiled and walked off, looking over her shoulder once before disappearing into the ladies’ room.

  He turned back in his seat, to face the child still staring at him. Without Joye sitting across from him, Sam had no one to hide behind. Sam pulled his phone out of his pocket, turned sideways in his seat and opened Facebook, even though he didn’t care what anyone on the app had to say. He scrolled past all the people who hadn’t called him in months looking for something to distract him while he waited.

  Still, he felt the kid’s gaze burning through him.

  When Joye came back from the bathroom, the waiter still hadn’t been by to take the folder. Sam pulled cash out of his wallet and substituted it for his card. The tip was less than he intended to leave, and it left him with nothing to take to their next stop, but that was the price of wanting to leave in a hurry.

  “Let’s grab that cocktail!”

  “What about your fish.”

  “You’re right. I’ll never reheat it.” He probably would have eaten it eventually, but he just wanted to get out of the restaurant. And away from the kid.

  * * *

  There was a line to get into the bar, but the night air was nice and Sam didn’t mind a little wait under the stars—all three of them that could be seen from the city. The temperature had dropped a little since the start of the evening, but Sam felt a hot flush rise in his cheeks as Joye slipped her hand into his. Despite the evening chill, he felt the urge to take off his sport coat before she could see him sweating through it. But that would mean letting go of her hand to slip it off. What if she didn’t reach for him again? What if he tried to take her hand and she pulled away? He told himself he was being ridiculous—she’d reached out for him, after all—self-doubt got the better of him and he decided he’d rather sweat than break the contact.