Black Valley

by Jim Brown

  What? He examined the frame and saw the culprit. The chain lock was in place. For once, Ava had actually heeded his advice. Good for her, bad for him. He called her name through the crack in the door. Warm air rushed past his face like hyperactive children eager to play in the snow.

  “Ava?” The house was quiet.

  “Ava?” No television. No radio.

  “Damn.”

  He rang the bell. A brisk wind broke over the porch banisters, licking him with a wet, icy tongue.

  The house remained silent.

  Turning up the collar of his Gore-Tex jacket, he hunkered down and stomped back out into the storm. His steps left deep imprints in the snow, which quickly began to fill even as he walked.

  The back porch was a two-step, concrete platform. There was no awning. He unlocked the door with the same key, turned the knob, and pushed – thunk.

  The back door was chained as well.

  “Shit!” He pounded on the door and called her name. He felt a new cold, this one internal, starting at his heart and radiating outward. “Ava?” Infinitely colder than the harshest Arctic wind.

  “Ava?” This time a whisper.

  Something was wrong. Her car was in the garage. The power was still on, so there was no need to abandon the house. Besides, she wouldn’t have gone out on a night like this.

  He had a brief image of how she had been dressed when he last saw her. How simple and helpless she had been. “Ava?”

  Nathan Perkins was a slight man. Thin as a rail, all bones, his skin sprayed on like metallic paint. A hundred forty pounds, if you counted his clothes. But when he hit the door, striking with his gaunt right shoulder, it was with the force of a man twice his size, and on the second try the doorframe splintered, ripping the chain lock from its berth.

  The inside of the house was just as he had left it – only different.

  Nathan walked through the kitchen, then the den. A People Magazine lay open on the arm of the couch. A half glass of Diet Coke sat unfinished on a silver coaster. The artificial fire burned brightly, flames dancing, encouraged into a tribal frenzy by the hustling air.

  Atop the handcrafted mantel laced with detailed molding stood a pair of red, unused candles in glass holders, their wicks virgin white. Next to that, a wedding picture. Ava smiling and Nathan, who looked like a little boy playing dress-up in the stiff black tuxedo.

  But it was the center of the mantel that drew his attention – the centerpiece that held his eyes and stalled his breath. An anniversary clock, a glass-ensconced face with visible workings, a trio of brass balls turning slowly beneath it, designed to mark time, tick by tick by tick. The hands on the clock face were spinning, while beneath them the three brass balls revolved like a cyclone. Tiny, hair-thin, blue sparks snapped between the brass and clockwork.

  Sparks?

  What was happening here?

  He called her name, again and again, his voice rising an octave with each cry.

  The spinning clock mirroring his thoughts. Spinning, spinning, spinning.

  Leaving the den, he went into the hallway.

  The door to the master bedroom stood open like an invitation. Suddenly, Nathan Perkins wasn’t in such a hurry. Maybe he didn’t want to see what was in that room.Maybe?

  His Apple Watch inexplicably began to flash. The alarms intended to mark appointments began to beep. Thin hairs of blue electricity like the sparks in the anniversary clock flickered and pricked his skin.

  Nathan rushed into the bedroom. Only one light was on – a small, shaded lamp that cast a hoop of yellow, leaving the rest of the room in shadows. And in the center – his wife’s shredded nightgown.

  Shredded.

  Ava.

  His watched beeped incessantly.

  Somewhere in the dark, refuged in the shadows, something moved. A muffled cry drew his attention. In the corner, against the wall, he saw her – shadow on shadow. Her body covered by another, a man.

  “Ava!” he screamed.

  The man turned, then yelped in surprise and pain. Ava had bitten the hand that covered her mouth.

  “Nathan,” she shrieked.

  In the silence of the dark Nathan Perkins cocked the pistol.

  The man-shadow moved quickly, too quickly. The lamp suddenly hurled across the room. Nathan ducked in the new darkness as it struck doorway, showering him with ceramic shrapnel.

  He recovered quickly, muscles fueled by fear. He slapped for the wall, found the light switch, and flicked it on. Ava lay naked on the floor, blinking in the new, blinding light, eyes wide with fear but miraculously unhurt and –

  Alone?

  The man-shadow – her attacker – was gone, leaving Nathan with a single, vague impression of white hair.

  White hair.

  16

  Dean Truman did something he had never done before. He took down a bottle of Valium from his medicine chest, threw two pills in his mouth, and chewed them like candy. Twenty minutes later he took two more, planning to continue the process until he slept or overdosed.

  Even with the pills, sleep was slow in coming – but deep and hard when it arrived. “How’s it hanging, Jimmy Dean?” Whitey Dobbs was alive and grinning in his dreams.

  “Ninety-nine Einstein,” He waved, then reached out from the Polaroid, his arm expanding in distorted proportions, becoming normal size. Grabbing Dean by the collar. Gripping the fabric in his fist. “Ninety-nine Einstein, ninety-nine Einstein, ninety-nine Einstein,” he repeated. Then he laughed. The sound of a thousand baby bones being dropped into a giant metal pail.

  Ninety-nine Einstein.

  Dean woke gasping for air, his face veiled in sweat. He opened his eyes, trying to climb from sleep. The room was dark and still and – being visited.

  Someone was in the room.

  The thought was primal – undeniable. He wanted to call out, to scream, but his mouth wouldn’t work. The Valium held his muscles. His mind was thick and slow. Was he dreaming? Another hallucination? His eyes adjusted to the dark; he could just make out a figure, a shape, an outline. He strained, almost able to see a face . . . almost.

  It was as if someone had slapped him, and slapped him hard. Dean was fully awake, brought around by the harsh realization that he was not alone, not fantasizing. Someone was in the house. His house. Did the intruder know?

  Baby bones.

  Not just in the house, in the room. Someone was in his room. A figure . . . in the dark . . . at the foot of the bed. Adrenaline rushed through his body, obliterating the effects of the Valium. He snatched the heavy, wind up Big Ben clock from the nightstand and heaved it with all his might.

  “Jesus . . . , “ cursed the dark, ducking the ballistic time piece.

  How can anyone move that fast? Dean asked himself. No, they aren’t moving fast, I’m moving slow.

  “Calm down, just calm down,” said the shadow in the dark. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  “Dobbs?” Dean asked, his voice raspy, dry, the sound of sandpaper on a hardwood floor.

  “Who?”

  “I’ve got a phone,” he yelled at the shadow-figure.

  “Good, we can order pizza.”

  Pizza?

  “Turn on the light, Doc.”

  Pizza? Dean awkwardly reached out for the lamp. His thick fingers found the neck and traced it to the switch. He turned it on. The white glow doused the room, revealing his visitor. “Piper?”

  She was wearing a ratty leather jacket, corduroys, and black Doc Martens. A black-and-navy stocking cap covered her head. Her eyes were too wide, her cheeks too pale.

  “Sorry to scare you, Doc. But you didn’t answer the doorbell.” She was fidgeting, wringing her gloved hands, glancing over her shoulder.

  “I was only half kidding about that pizza. Too bad nobody is delivering in this weather.” She
checked her watch. “Or at this time of night.”

  “I’ve got leftovers in the kitchen.”

  “Good, I’m starving. I haven’t eaten since this morning.”

  Dean got out of bed, forgetting he was wearing only his night shirt and boxers.

  He snatched a robe off the back of a chair, but not before Piper saw enough to make her grin.

  “Give it to me again,” Dean said, running his fingers through his thick brown hair.

  Piper had been hungry. She had already consumed half a portion of sweet-and-sour chicken and a plate of rice, and was now working on a can of Campbell’s Chunky Vegetable Beef.

  “See, I knew you would think I’m crazy. Got any crackers?”

  He got up, took a pack of saltines from the box, and placed them by her bowl.

  “Thanks. You should be the last person I go to – I mean, you being Mr. Science and all. But maybe that’s why I came.”

  She split open the pack of saltines, removed three, and crushed them in her hand, dusting the remains into her bowl. “Maybe I want you to tell me I’m crazy. No, to prove to me it’s all in my head.”

  Dean was silent.

  Over the sink hung a black-and-white Felix the Cat clock, bought by Judy when she and Dean were first married. The tail swung like a pendulum while the eyes ticked right to left, left to right.

  “It reminds me of you,” Judy had said, mounting the cartoon clock on the kitchen wall. He suspected it was just a ploy to win his approval of the silly thing. “Back and forth, back and forth, always trying to look at both sides.”

  Back and forth.

  Was that what he was doing now? Was that why he had not summarily dismissed Piper’s assertions out of hand? That and an impossible, moving photograph. That and a message carved into a chalkboard by a seven-inch blade, the exact length of Whitey Dobbs’ beloved switchblade.

  “How did you get in?”

  “Back door.”

  “It was locked.”

  “I unlocked it.”

  Dean frowned. His eyes involuntarily looked to the living room, where the bookcase hid the basement door. Baby bones. He didn’t like company. Even Piper’s company. Not here. Not in his house. Not this close to the basement.

  “Doc? I am crazy, right?”

  “You want to be?” He meant it as a joke, but she held the question and studied it.

  “It’s better than living in a world where someone can cut off a person’s hand while they’re still alive, where bricks fly through walls, and people can be slashed to pieces by an impossible storm of flying glass.”

  They were quiet for a moment. Piper’s spoon remained resting in the bowl of soup.

  “Something’s wrong with me, Doc. I feel like I have spiders crawling on the inside of my skin. And it’s getting worse.” She shook her head. She had removed the stocking cap, but her short, dark hair remained plastered to her skull, except for a few defiant sprouts. “If I’m not crazy, then something really weird is going on. Something bad. Don’t ask me how I know. I just do.”

  She reached out and grabbed his arm. Her hands were still cold despite the gloves she had been wearing. He met her eyes. They were beautiful eyes, sensuous eyes. If it were possible to see the impossible, it would be with these eyes.

  Crazy. Was she? Was he?

  “No.” He laid a hand atop hers. “No. You’re not crazy.”

  “Then?” The word trembled.

  “Listen to me.” Dean said. “It’s not just you. Okay? Other people are seeing things . . .” Steam rose from his coffee cup. “I’ve seen things.”

  Her dark eyes brightened. “You?”

  “Things I can’t explain.” How’s it hanging, Jimmy Dean? He closed his eyes. “Things I can’t explain – yet.”

  Something moved across the iris of Piper’s eyes. Something blue, almost electric. Dean involuntarily drew back in his chair. Piper seemed unaware of the phenomenon. Or had it merely been a trick of light, a random reflection?

  “It’s in your coat pocket, isn’t it?” she said more than asked.

  Dean watched her eyes. Her words were distant, lost to his curiosity. Electric?

  “Dean?”

  He blinked, realized he was staring and smiled self-consciously.

  “I know I’m beautiful.” She ran her fingers through her hair. “Especially with this wet-dog look working for me, but – ”

  “No. It’s just,” he shook his head. “Never mind. You were saying.”

  Over the sink Felix the Cat kept time, his eyes shifting from Dean to Piper, Piper to Dean, his molded plastic smile giving the appearance of great interest and amusement.

  “Your coat,” she repeated, pointing toward his jacket, hanging on a peg by the door. “The thing you saw. The thing you can’t explain. It’s in your coat?”

  “How could you . . . ?”

  She smiled. Felix the Cat smiled, his tail flicking away the seconds. “I feel it.”

  For a moment Dean was made of stone. Despite his assertion that science could answer all, despite his belief in the no-nonsense physics of life, he found he had absolutely no interest in seeing the Polaroid again. Ever again.

  Then why bring it home if not to study it?

  Tired of waiting, Piper got up and went over to the coat. She fished the picture from the correct pocket without searching, without hesitation.

  “How did you know?

  She shrugged, looking at the picture.

  “What do you see?” He asked.

  “A young girl and boy. They look like a couple. A happy couple.”

  Now for the$64,000 question.

  “The boy. What does he look like? What color is his hair?”

  Piper touched the photograph. She frowned. “Brown. His hair is brown. But – ”

  Her body stiffened.

  Did I see that?

  She was trembling.

  “Piper?” Dean went to her. Even through her coat he could feel the cold. “Piper, what is it?”

  A trickle of blood crawled from her nostril.

  “Something’s coming.” Sharp blue, undeniable sparks flashed across her eyes. “Something very big is coming.”

  17

  An icy wind scoured the street with enough strength to physically shake the Ford Ranger. “Where are we going?” Dean asked again.

  “I don’t know.”

  Wipers beat back fat, insistent snowflakes. Dean could just make out the shape of houses and the orange-yellow shine of the sodium-vapor streetlamps through the ice-encrusted window. But the road itself remained a nebulous thing.

  Only a fool would be out on a night like this.

  “Piper, I really think we should turn back – ”

  “Shhhh.” She leaned over the steering wheel, staring out the windshield. Her eyes sparked. In the dark cab of the little black truck there was no mistaking it. Her eyes are literally sparking. How is such a thing possible? And what does it mean?

  The truck turned left on Friedman, then right onto Willamette, the main highway. The heater huffed mightily, blasting them with hot, dry air but failing to counter the soul-numbing effects of the cold.

  The streetlamps became fewer. They were heading out of town.

  “Piper, I really think – ”

  “Shhhh, it’s close, very close.” She pressed the accelerator. The truck sped up, indifferent to the weather. Dean felt his heart climb up his throat. He didn’t know what frightened him more, her driving or her eyes.

  The town fell behind them and the world was reduced to the dual-cone glare of the truck’s headlights. It was a white, swirling, foreboding world. And it was rushing by much too quickly.

  “Piper – ”

  “There, over there . . . ” she said, pointing out the window into the ambiguous white. She hit the brakes. T
he Ranger didn’t stop. Instead it became a large black sled, skidding, sliding, swerving to the right, finally coming to rest horizontally across the highway. Dead center, as far as Dean could tell. If another car came –

  “Get out.”

  “What?”

  She opened her door. The interior was flooded with light. A swirling breeze rushed in and stole all the warmth from the air. The headlights revealed an empty field. Where were they? Piper had disappeared into the dark.

  “Dean, hurry.” Her voice cut through the swoosh of the frigid wind. Dean stepped into the storm. For a terrifying second he was blinded, flakes battered his eyes and exposed face. “Where are you?”

  “Over here. Follow the sound of my voice.”

  His breath swirled in front of him, adding to the visual confusion.

  “Over here,” she repeated, acting as his auditory beacon.

  Dean found her twenty feet from the truck. She was behind a tree, taking refuge from the harsh winds. Dean thought he knew where they were. He could just make out what appeared to be a bridge, and deep below it would be the dark, rushing waters of the Willamette River.

  “There,” Piper repeated, this time pointing to the sky.

  Dean looked up. A star? No, it was moving. Meteor? No, brighter, bigger, and growing by the second. Bright enough to be seen despite the storm. Flames. It was on fire. Whatever it was, it was impossibly big, burning and flying through the cold night air.

  “Jesus.”

  Piper shivered. He put an arm around her. As they watched, the flaming object grew larger. “Mother of God, it’s coming this way.”

  He tried to leave, but Piper stoically remained. She turned her gaze to him. “No, it’s not going to hit us.”

  Blue sparks in night-black eyes.

  Dean could hear it now, the whistle of something rushing through the air, the flap of whipping flames. She was right. It was going to miss them, but it was going to be very close.

  He could make out a shape now. Sort of. “It looks like – ”

  What?

  “A truck,” Piper said. “A semi.”

  Dean nodded in the dark. She was right. He could see it now. It was a big diesel Peterbilt with a tanker attached. He could just make out the wheels, dark in the surf of yellow-orange flames.