by Ronald Malfi
And what about Heather recognizing the photo of Owen Moreland as the man she thought was a barefoot hunter standing in the yard? a needling voice would occasionally prompt. And how do you explain how quickly that cut healed on your face, Alan? How do you explain those things?
He couldn’t explain them.
He chose not to think about them.
Jesus Christ.
The vine, thick as a grown man’s finger, was back, crawling up the wall from behind the refrigerator. The evening after Cory Morris had been taken down to the lake, Alan had pulled the refrigerator away from the wall and cut the vine out. The damn thing had been growing straight up through the floor, in the separation between the floor tiles and the molding, and clung to the drywall by a mucus-like coating. There had been the second vine that had looped around the coils at the back of the refrigerator, and Alan had cut that away, too. Now, seeing the enormous vine crawling up the wall so soon after cutting it away caused a cold spear to puncture his heart.
How did you grow back so quickly, you bastard?
The microwave beeped, startling him.
Alan went to the refrigerator and gripped it on either side. Jockeying it back and forth, he was able to pull it away from the wall several inches … but then it stopped. He squeezed alongside it and peered behind the refrigerator.
He counted seven separate vines, each one about the diameter of a pencil, branching off from the main stalk and curling around the coiled grate at the back of the refrigerator. They were taut, preventing the refrigerator from being pulled any farther away from the wall.
“Son of a bitch.”
He bent and reached behind the unit, grabbed one of the vines, tugged at it. The fucker was strong and did not break. Moreover, his hand came away tacky with mucus. In all his life he’d never seen vines like these.
There were scissors in one of the kitchen drawers. He retrieved them and returned to the rear of the refrigerator. He pressed himself up against the wall and reached behind the refrigerator with the scissors. He snipped one of the vines with some difficulty, and the thing snapped and recoiled, one half retreating beneath the floor while the other half disappeared into the grillwork at the back of the refrigerator.
Dark purple, viscous fluid splashed the linoleum. Like blood.
Alan jerked his hand back, dropping the scissors as he did so. The scissors clattered to the floor and slid under the refrigerator.
“Perfect.”
He felt like an utter fool.
Hesitantly, he reached behind the refrigerator and pressed two fingers to the splotch of purplish fluid that had bled from the vine.
No way. Could it be?
It felt warm.
Again, he withdrew his arm as a cold wave passed through him. He got up and grabbed a butcher knife from the wooden block on the counter, then dipped back beside the refrigerator. He spent the next minute and a half sawing through the remaining six vines. Each one bled the same strange fluid and recoiled just as the first one had. By the time he finished, there was a sizable, blood-hued puddle on the floor behind the unit.
The microwave beeped again, reminding him his coffee was still inside.
He stood and gathered some paper towels, which he used to wipe the fluid off the floor.
All of it … warm …
Then he balled up the used paper towels and stashed them at the bottom of the trash can. After pushing the refrigerator back into place, he retrieved his coffee from the microwave and opened the refrigerator for the milk.
He dropped his mug on the floor, spilling the coffee and breaking off the handle.
The vines had grown straight through the back of the refrigerator, the greenish tentacles encircling the half-gallon jug of milk, a bottle of ketchup, a plate of chicken, a container of orange juice, various other items. One of the vines curled down to the bottom shelf and actually held a banana suspended in midair. It was like looking at some tropical, carnivorous plant.
Alan staggered back, skidding in the spilled coffee and nearly spilling himself to the floor. If Heather had heard him drop the coffee mug from the living room, she didn’t bother to come see what the commotion was all about.
He quickly cleaned up the coffee and the broken bits of mug, tossed them in the trash, then turned to address the vines inside the refrigerator with the same knife he’d used to cut them away from the back of the unit. However, after a moment of consideration, he realized he didn’t want to leave any of that food in there, so he gathered the items, vines and all, and dumped everything into the trash. Dark purple fluid, tacky as syrup, had congealed on the top shelf. He wiped it down with a dishcloth, which he also tossed into the trash. Then, upon further consideration, he tied the trash bag and took it out to the curb.
The sheriff’s cruiser was parked across the street.
“Looks like you’re feeling better.” Hearn Landry crossed the street, hitching up his gun belt in the most stereotypical of manners. “Heard you were a tad under the weather.”
“Oh,” said Alan. “Hello.”
Landry tipped his hat back. “Is today trash day?”
Alan ignored the question. “My wife said you came by to see me the other day.”
“Sweet little thing, your wife,” Landry said. Though he probably meant nothing by it, he exuded a lecherous undercurrent that made Alan want to take a swing at him. “She been sick, too?”
Alan felt his left eyelid twitch. “No.”
“Didn’t catch your bug, did she?” Landry grinned, showing Alan all his teeth.
“Was there something you needed, Sheriff?”
Landry spat a brown gob onto the pavement. “You’re Phillip’s nephew, ain’t that right?”
“I was. Up until he died.”
“Took some kind of teaching position at the community college?”
“I teach English lit.”
Sheriff Landry made a noise back in his throat that suggested he didn’t think too highly of English literature. Alan didn’t think the sheriff would know English lit if it bit him in the ass.
“My kid Bart’s going there in the fall,” Landry said, rubbing his squared-off jaw with one meaty paw. “Kid’s as dumb as a brick shit house. He gets that from his mother.”
Alan laughed. He couldn’t help it. “Christ. Please don’t tell me you came here to ensure your son’s successful completion of my class.”
“Huh? What?” Landry looked genuinely surprised. “Hell, no. I don’t give a shit if that little bucket head fails out or becomes the goddamn dean of admissions. I was just making small talk with you, that’s all. That ain’t why I’m here.”
“Then why are you here?”
“To make sure we got an understanding.”
“What understanding is that?”
Grinning, Sheriff Landry snorted and held both his hands out in an imitation of surrender. He spat a second gob onto the pavement where it nearly sizzled in the heat. “I don’t wanna play any games. I ain’t big on games, Professor. You spoke with that fella Gerski across the street?” Landry jerked a thumb over his shoulder in the vicinity of Hank’s house.
“Is this about the lake? Yeah, we talked.” Thinking: Jesus holy Christ, this whole goddamn town has shit the bed. What a bunch of lunatics.
“He set you straight?” Landry said.
Alan frowned. “Straight?”
Landry took an imposing step forward. “You saw something that day with the Morris kid. Maybe you shouldn’t have seen it, but you did, and what’s done is done. We got a pretty nice town here—peaceful, a great place to raise a family—and I get bitter thinking about new folks coming into town and ruining that for the rest of us. You get what I’m saying?”
“Listen, Hank Gerski told me everything. I get it; I understand. Frankly, I think you people are fucking nuts, but that’s your problem.” Alan shoved his hands into his pockets and felt like an obstinate child. “No, I won’t go near your precious lake. But you gotta make me a promise, too.”
�
�Hmm. What’s that?”
“That you quit spying on my fucking house. Creeps me out.”
At first, Landry didn’t react. Then, astoundingly, a wide grin nearly split his face in half. He looked like he had a comb stuck in his mouth. “Well, hell,” he practically crooned. “That’s all I wanted to hear.” He tipped his hat and readjusted his belt. “You and your pretty wife have a good day now, okay?”
Without waiting for a response, Landry turned and sauntered back to his car. He climbed inside with a huff and slowly rolled down the street. The son of a bitch even bleated his horn twice and waved as he went by.
Later that night, wide awake in bed and staring at the rectangle of moonlight on the far wall, Alan could not find sleep. Something was stirring in the back of his mind, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Fleeting and unresolved, like glimpsing the tail end of a snake before it disappears down a hole in the ground …
Outside, bare branches clawed against the window-pane. He saw—or imagined he saw—something large arc past the panel of moonlight. He was reminded of his dream from the night before, following his father—or had it been Owen Moreland?—through the woods and how the buzzards melted and dripped from the trees. Here in the dark and supposed safety of his bedroom, Landry’s warning reverberated in his head. Alan peeled his gaze from the window.
Landry…
He sat up in bed and swung his legs to the floor, prodded once again by the glimpse of that snake sliding down the hole. Without turning on any lights, he walked to the bathroom. A laundry hamper stood beneath the towel rack.
Landry’s visit wasn’t a dream. What else—
(you’re not sleeping)
—wasn’t a dream?
The hamper was filled with clothes. He scavenged past the top layer and dug around near the bottom. After a moment his fingers closed upon a heavy, balled-up bit of material. He felt his bowels clench. Like a fisherman reeling in a catch, he pulled the clothing out of the hamper, flashes of memory returning to him now—
(you’re not sleeping)
—and knew what this article of clothing was before he actually saw it: his pajama pants. The ones he had been wearing in the dream where he pursued his father’s corpse to the lake.
Pajama pants.
Wet.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The vines grew around the handle of the sliding patio door, prohibiting it from opening. Hottest day this summer, and Alan found himself out in the yard sawing at the thick cables of vines with a hacksaw. The rapidity with which they grew was astounding. Like the ones that had grown in the kitchen behind the refrigerator, these also bled that syrupy purple ink onto the patio. Unlike the ones in the kitchen, these were even thicker and had begun sprouting the nubs of thorns along the stalk. By the time he finished cutting away the vines, the palms of his hands were inlaid with bloody pinpricks.
Swiping an arm across his sweaty brow, he took a step back and examined the rear of the house. More vines sprouted from the house’s foundation and crept up the siding. They were tall enough to become entangled in the gutter. Some had made their way onto the roof where they actually grew beneath the roof shingles, prying them up.
Alan caught peripheral movement across the lawn by the trees, near the location of the dirt path. He looked and, to his horror, found one of the buzzards right there on the ground, its massive wings spread, the feathers sparse and diseased-looking, its body roughly the size of a Thanksgiving turkey.
It seemed to notice him the same instant he noticed it, because it abruptly cocked its grotesque, fleshy head almost comically at him and issued a throaty squawk that suggested the protestation of Alan’s very existence. Then it dipped its head and drove its hooked beak into a mess of something on the ground. It made a move like a pneumatic drill hammering into the earth. Seconds later, when it brought its head up, a pinkish cord stretched from its beak to the mess of what now appeared to be a mound of mottled gray fur in the grass.
The buzzard jerked its head and the cord stretched with organic elasticity. One final jerk and the cord snapped wetly. It dangled like a fleshy dewlap until the bird, executing a series of mechanical neck bobs, swallowed the entire bit of flesh.
“Goddamn it. What is it with you damn things?” Alan gathered up a stone and chucked it at the cretin.
The ugly son of a bitch cawed at him, the sound causing his nerve endings to vibrate, but it did not move.
He selected a larger stone and fired it with better precision. This time he struck it on one of its wings, creating a sound like thumping an open palm against an empty milk jug.
The bird shrieked, not just in fright but in pain, and launched itself into the air with an awkward, ungainly ineloquence. It took off over the treetops, trailing in its wake a string of agitated cries.
Alan approached the mess of fur in the grass. Whatever it had been, it now lay splayed open, black tributaries of blood soaking into the soil.
Then he realized what it was. What gave it away was the little twinkling bronze medallion with the name Patsy etched onto it.
“Oh, Christ.” His stomach rumbled. “Stupid cat. Should have listened to me and stayed home.”
Not much of Patsy the Cat was intact. In fact, had it not been for the identification collar, he wouldn’t have recognized it at all. He’s a she, Cory Morris had said. Well, “he” or “she”—none of that mattered anymore. All nine lives had been expended.
Minutes later, he returned to the spot with a snow shovel and scooped up Patsy the Cat. He considered dumping the carcass just beyond the line of the pines until he envisioned one of those disgusting buzzards finding it and dragging it back onto the lawn. Goddamn birds.
Balancing the dead cat on the end of the shovel, he passed between the trees and down the dirt path in search of a suitable spot to dump the thing. He briefly considered wrapping it in a trash bag and taking it over to the Morris house in case they wanted to bury it or cremate it or whatever. But that idea was just a bit too creepy, so he went deeper into the woods.
As if the woods maintained a direct connection with all the horrible memories he kept bottled up inside him, he remembered his discussion with Dr. Chu, the psychiatrist who’d been on staff at the hospital where Heather had been admitted after opening her wrists. There had been a fish tank full of tropical fish on the credenza behind Chu’s desk, and the whole office smelled of Pine-Sol. Dr. Chu had reclined in his chair, steepling his fingers beneath his nose, his black eyes narrowed in thought. Alan had sat across from him in an uncomfortable wooden chair, sweat prickling the nape of his neck.
“I’ve reviewed your wife’s medical history,” Dr. Lawrence Chu had said. “The two miscarriages, the therapy recommended by her ob-gyn. The test that came up inconclusive.”
“What about them?” His heart fluttered like a hummingbird.
“It’s my opinion your wife is suffering from severe depression. My recommendation is that she be kept under constant surveillance for a period of time which, of course, would include daily counseling sessions and the appropriate medical treatment she—”
“You’re talking about putting her in a psych hospital?” His vision fractured. A potent heat billowed up from his shoes, up his legs, and filled his shirt and pants like a hot air balloon. “In a nuthouse?”
If Chu had been bothered by the term, he did not show it. His face remained expressionless. “I’ve already spoken with her. I’m on the fence whether or not I should petition her admission with or without your approval. Please understand, Mr. Hammerstun, that I by no means am trying to undermine—”
Alan held up one hand, cutting the doctor off. “Wait a minute. You can’t do that. How can you do that?”
“Please allow me to finish.”
“How can you do that?”
“I am on the fence, as I’ve said. Your wife is not combative or, for that matter, even physically active. With proper supervision and stronger antidepressants—”
“I’ll watch her. I’ll ta
ke a sabbatical from teaching and watch her until she’s better. She’s my wife. I’m not locking her up in some fucking institution.”
Unaffected by his language, Dr. Chu retrieved a manila folder from within his desk, opened it, examined the documents inside. “I’m recommending two different antidepressants. I’m also recommending weekly therapy sessions. We have a wonderful staff in the psych ward.”
“She won’t need therapy. I’ll watch her.”
Dr. Chu had set the folder down on his desk. He’d folded his hands and leaned forward, closing the distance between them. “Your wife needs medication and she needs therapy. This is not her first attempt?”
Alan swallowed a heavy lump. “What do you mean?”
“There was another time? With pills?”
“She told you that?” His voice was small.
“If you wish to take your wife home, I suggest you agree to my recommendations. Otherwise, I will reconsider my position on that petition …”
He had uttered a strangled laugh that sounded more like a cough. “Okay,” he had said, nodding like a fool at the doctor. “Okay, yeah. I get it. Let’s do this. And let me get my wife back home.”
Now, Alan shook his head and cleared it of the memory. Once again he was in the woods, a shovelful of dead cat along with him for the ride.
Pausing on the dirt path, he blinked and glanced around. Lost in his memories, he’d walked deep into the woods, maybe halfway down the path. On either side, the scrub brush and ivy were dense. Like tossing a shovelful of snow, he flipped the dead cat over the embankment into the brambles. It fell through the underbrush and was swallowed up by the forest.
Something crashed through the trees behind him. Something big.
He whirled around, dropped the shovel, and stared through the web of trees. It was impossible to see through the dense trees, their intertwined, leafy branches as impermeable as meshwork. He caught a whiff of something fecal, its potency amplified by the sudden breeze that bowled it through the woods toward his nose.