by Ronald Malfi
Heather began telling people about her pregnancy toward the end of October. She called her parents in Tucson and her sister, Carol, in Fort Lauderdale. (These calls had been made before, though prematurely, and Alan had tried to talk Heather out of them this time as well. “It’s not that I’m worried,” he said, not wanting to worry her. “It’s just that we should give it some more time before we start telling the world.” Heather had frowned. His concern registered with her as skepticism, and she didn’t like it. Finally, he relented.)
Her parents sent them a crib, which came in a giant box and required assembly. Alan surrendered his home office and moved the crib in there. He painted the room a unisex pale yellow, and Heather pasted Winnie the Pooh and Eeyore decals on the walls.
She told some of the neighbors, too, and Lydia threw her an impromptu baby shower the day before Halloween. Alan did not attend; he remained at the house, periodically climbing into the attic to make sure the vines hadn’t started to grow back. Hank came by and knocked on the front door. Alan didn’t answer and hoped Hank would think he was either out or taking a nap or something. Hank milled around the front porch for what Alan determined was an inordinate amount of time before heading back across the street. Alan watched him go from the vented panel in the attic.
He’d been suffering nightmares about octopus tentacles breaking through the bedroom ceiling and strangling both him and his wife as they slept, and he was unnerved at the prospect of the vines’ regrowth. But they hadn’t grown back in the attic. However, the one behind the refrigerator was a persistent son of a bitch that kept returning, trying his patience.
Several more vines—thin ones, like spaghetti—twisted up through the spaces between the old floorboards, behind a curio cabinet, or around the windowsills. One evening, as Alan walked through the darkened house searching for the intruder he knew did not exist, he reached for a light switch in the hall only to feel the fibrous, hairlike strands of the vines caress his fingertips. He flipped on the light and found two greenish tendrils curling out from behind the switch plate. When he removed the plate, he was astounded to see the vines had run up behind the drywall and coiled around the electrical wires.
This bothered him.
He did not like the idea of those vines being behind the walls.
In the walls.
Mischief night and a bunch of neighborhood kids toilet papered a number of houses on Alan’s street. They whooped and hollered, and in the morning he noticed a few cars had been egged. Alan, who remained awake for most of the night listening to the noises of the settling house, heard it all. At one point, he said, “Heather?” and waited for her to respond. But she was sound asleep and he didn’t speak again. Not that it mattered—he didn’t know what he had wanted to say, anyway.
Heather set a bowl of Halloween candy by the front door. She was in good humor and looked bright and healthy. She took to singing to herself with increasing frequency, claiming that a mother’s soft humming was good for the fetus. Alan didn’t know about that, but it seemed to put her in a good mood, which then put him in a good mood.
They took turns answering the door, the TV in the living room showing the original black-and-white version of Night of the Living Dead. For the most part, the children came in groups, like pack animals, and they’d thrust their satchels out in front of them amidst a chorus of “Trick or treat!” while awaiting the inevitable distribution of candy.
Around eleven o’clock, another knock came to the front door.
Heather kissed Alan on the top of his head and said, “This one’s yours. I’m going to bed. Don’t be long.”
He stood. “A little late for trick-or-treaters, don’t you think?”
“Whoever they are, give them the rest of the candy so we don’t have it lying around the house, tempting me. I don’t need to get any fatter than I’m already going to.” She headed toward the bedroom.
Alan went to the door. But when he opened it, he stood looking at an empty porch. The front lights were on, casting yellowish pools onto the porch. Beyond, the trees looked like black pikes rising out of the loam. A harvest moon burned overhead.
He was about to turn around and lock up the house when he noticed a figure standing among the trees. The figure was small, almost definitely a child, dressed all in black with what appeared to be a hood pulled up over the head. Only the face was visible—ghostly white with dark pits for eyes. It appeared to hang in midair and float like a balloon.
Alan felt something curdle in his stomach. Occupied with clearing the vines from the house, he hadn’t been down to the lake in a few days, and he could already feel his ulcer returning. “Who’s there?”
The figure did not move. The ghost face was staring straight at him.
“I see you there. Who are you?”
The figure shuffled closer. The child’s face was painted to resemble a skull—white greasepaint with black circles around the eyes and the suggestion of jawbones and teeth painted around the mouth.
And he knew instantly this child was Cory Morris.
“Cory,” he said, and the name nearly stuck to the roof of his mouth. “That’s you, isn’t it?”
Cory did not answer.
“What do you want?”
The boy was holding what Alan at first mistook as a trick-or-treat bag. When the boy moved closer, the moonlight striking him through the branches of the trees, Alan could tell it was something else …
Cory turned his head awkwardly and looked to the right side of the yard, where the great swell of trees rose. Alan shuddered at the way the boy’s head turned—he could not stop thinking of how he’d looked when Hank had scooped him up off the street, how he said his neck had been broken. Cory pointed beyond the trees.
Alan looked in that direction. At first he could see nothing, but just before he looked away, he thought he spotted another figure—this one as pale as bone—moving through the shallow veil of trees. Then the trees seemed to coalesce and shift in one united movement to the left. It was then that Alan realized he wasn’t looking at trees at all but at something huge just beyond the trees. It seemed like his heart stopped.
Cory made a furtive movement, and Alan jerked his gaze back to the boy in time to see him chuck whatever he’d been holding onto the porch. The thing landed a mere few inches away from Alan’s feet.
“Oh, Christ …”
Sickened …
Snakelike, tapered, hooked beak like that of a giant squid, it was the head and neck of one of the buzzards. It was nearly the size of a child’s arm. It still purged black blood from the ragged tear at the base of its long, kielbasa-like neck.
Out in the yard, Cory turned and took off between the trees. He ran like a gazelle.
Alan tried to find his voice, to call after the kid, but there was nothing left in him. The shock of what lay at his feet—and from what he saw or thought he saw moving through the trees—had rendered him temporarily mute. He hurried inside, shut and locked the door, and remained panting in the foyer while he got hold of his bearings.
Then, knowing damn well he couldn’t leave the buzzard’s neck on the porch for Heather to find, he went into the kitchen where he found a trash bag, some paper towels, and a pair of gardening gloves. Back outside, he put the atrocity into the trash bag, then mopped up what blood had seeped onto the porch. All the while, he kept glancing at the line of trees across the front yard, expecting to see Cory’s ghost face reemerge. But it never did.
Does he think that greasepaint fooled me? Does he think I didn’t know who he was, that I wouldn’t recognize him? Little bastard. First thing tomorrow morning, I’m going to his house and having a word with his mother.
But he knew he wouldn’t.
He didn’t want to see Cory Morris again.
The next morning, before leaving for class and while it was still dark, Alan swam in the lake. Then he refilled the water jug and carried it to the house, where he put it in the refrigerator.
By noon, his ulcer had vanished aga
in.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“Let’s have Songs of Innocence and Experience read by the time we come back from Thanksgiving break, okay?”
Low murmurs. His students were no longer paying attention. They had an extended weekend ahead of them, and God knew where their minds were. Alan knew from experience that this was the time of the semester when interests tended to wane the most. He thought William Blake’s slim chapbook—which was mostly pictures, anyway—would serve as the perfect assignment. Even if they didn’t read it over the break, it wouldn’t take them long to catch up once they came back to class next week.
Alan looked at his watch. His day was over. He and Heather had an appointment with the ob-gyn once he got home, then tomorrow they’d agreed to join the Gerski family for Thanksgiving.
The students filed out of the classroom like zombies. Someone made a whoop-whoop call once they emptied out into the hallway, but the sound hardly registered with Alan. In the solace of an empty classroom, he packed up his briefcase and shoved his battered copy of Blake’s Songs of Innocence and Experience into the pocket of his tweed sports coat, then headed for the door.
He went to the cafeteria where he got an apple and a bottle of water. While standing in line to pay, Morton Kent Boyle, the head of Alan’s department, came up beside him.
Boyle was an annalistic literary pundit and Shakespeare aficionado who, if faculty innuendo was at all reliable, collected ex-wives like some people collect stamps. Most recently, Boyle had authored the highly acclaimed compendium Guy Fawkes: Treason at the Feet of the House of Lords, which enjoyed notoriety in the lobby display case of the humanities annex (and where a witty individual had managed to break into the display case and inscribe the addendum “Who Gives a Fawke?” across the book’s dust jacket). He was short, stocky, with the lucid green eyes of a jungle cat beneath a gleaming hairless pate.
“Things going well, Hammerstun?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’re going to change the date of next month’s inservice. December is always a headache.”
“Okay.”
“Doing any traveling for Thanksgiving?”
“Just staying around the house.”
“That’s nice. We’re schlepping the brood to Ohio to stay with Meg’s parents for Turkey Day. We’ll be doing the same damn thing for Christmas this year, too.” Boyle jabbed a sausage-like finger at him. “You and your wife ever have kids, I suggest staying home for every holiday. Stay home as much as you can. Traveling is a nightmare.”
Alan nodded. He hadn’t told anyone at the college about the pregnancy.
“Do you have any idea what a pain in the ass it is to transport Christmas presents to goddamn Ohio? And of course the kids can’t see them, so … well …”
As he paid for his food at the register, he felt Boyle’s eyes on him.
“Been working out?”
“I’m sorry?”
Boyle pantomimed making a muscle. “Lifting weights or something?”
“Oh. I guess.”
“You play golf?’
“No.”
“You’re in good shape,” Boyle said, still eyeing him like a piece of meat. “You should come out with me and some of the other faculty. Play a few holes.”
Alan grinned and said that would be nice, even though he’d never played golf in his life and didn’t think it mattered what shape you were in to hit a ball with a stick, swill beer, and ride in a cart. “Have a nice Thanksgiving,” he said and left.
He nursed the bottle of water on his way across the parking lot to his car. The sky had turned the color of sheet metal, and the distant clouds threatened rain.
He didn’t notice Hearn Landry’s police cruiser parked next to him until the sheriff stepped out of it, unassumingly dressed in a Carolina Panthers sweatshirt and jeans.
“Howdy, Professor.” Landry had a wide smile on his face, and the remnants of his summer tan made him look like a burn victim.
“Oh. Hello.”
“How’s the semester going?”
“Fine.”
“My kid Bart giving you any trouble?”
“Not at all. He’s a good kid.”
Landry made a noise deep in his throat that suggested he didn’t believe him. “How about you? You doing okay?”
“Sure.” Alan unlocked his car door.
“And your pretty wife?”
“Doing fine, thanks.”
“Heard she’s preggers.”
Alan cringed. Hearn Landry was an unrefined son of a bitch, and he didn’t much care for the lecherous tone in the sheriff’s voice. Aside from that, it sounded like Landry was checking up on him. “That’s right,” he said nonetheless.
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
Landry folded his arms and leaned against his cruiser. He stared hard at Alan.
Alan smirked. “Is there something else you wanted?”
“Not particularly.”
“Is there … ?”
“What?”
“Is there something you … wanted?” Trying to give more weight to the question this time.
“Not particularly.” Landry sounded like a record caught in a groove.
“You here to pick up Bart?”
“Nope.”
“Just making the rounds, then?”
“Something like that.”
“Your son’s doing very well in my class, by the way.”
“Bart’s an idiot,” said Landry. He looked down, examining his fingernails. “Don’t know why he insisted on this college thing, to be honest. I got him a gig in Charleston all lined up, working for a construction company. He’s a big kid. Get a lot of use out of them big arms of his.”
Alan forced a smile. “I should go now.”
“Sure.” Landry waved a big bear paw in his direction. “Go on and do what you do.”
“Are we cool?”
“As ice.” Smiled. Shark teeth.
Without another word, Alan climbed into his car and started it up. He pulled out of the parking lot just as it occurred to him that Landry was parked in one of the faculty spaces. Alan watched him as he diminished in the rear-view mirror.
Landry never moved.
By the time Alan pulled onto his street, he was in full-fledged paranoid mode. After leaving the college, he wondered if he was being followed. He continued checking his rearview mirror for signs of Landry’s police car. Twice, he thought he saw dome lights weaving in and out of traffic, two or three cars behind him. To make sure, he took random turns at intersections and did not go straight home until he was satisfied he was either not being followed or that he’d given Landry the slip. He gunned the Toyota through a stale yellow light for good measure, leaving the mass of automobiles in his wake.
He even recalled the brief conversation he’d had with Morton Kent Boyle in line at the cafeteria; in retrospect, Boyle’s comments about whether or not Alan had any plans to travel for the holidays seemed suspect. Was it possible the fastidious head of the English department was working with Landry? It all seemed ridiculous, but he could not calm his overactive mind.
Then as he pulled into his driveway, he saw Hank burning a pile of dead leaves on his front lawn across the street. Hank raised a hand, and Alan knocked a staccato beat out on the car horn, though he was sweating through his shirt as he did so.
Heather must have heard the honks and thought he was summoning her, for she came out of the house in a blouse that emphasized the slight bulging of her abdomen. She had started to show recently, and she had found enjoyment purchasing maternity clothes.
“Well,” she said, climbing into the passenger seat, “that was sort of rude.”
“I wasn’t honking at you.” He was still eyeballing Hank in the rearview mirror.
“What took you so long? We’re gonna be late for the appointment.”
Alan didn’t tell her he’d taken the long way home on the off chance he was being followed by Landry. And in actively
keeping such information at bay, he couldn’t help but realize the absurdity of it, too. After all, what point was there in giving Landry the slip? The sheriff obviously knew where he lived. In that regard, why would Landry want to follow him in the first place?
They’re trying to get inside my head, mess up my thoughts. He pulled out of the driveway too fast; the Toyota’s undercarriage barked and Heather shot him a barely perceived glare. They’re trying to protect their precious fucking lake. And they’re keeping tabs on me now, watching me around the clock like a goddamn prisoner.
It angered him to think that he had to abide by their rules, their restrictions. Who were they to tell him he couldn’t swim in a goddamn lake? What authority did they have over him?
None.
“I don’t want to be late, but I still want to get there in one piece,” Heather said, watching the car’s speedometer climb.
“Sorry.” He eased the Toyota to a slow gallop. His mind was reeling, and his knuckles were white as he squeezed the steering wheel. Taking deep breaths, he loosened his grip and ran the back of his hand across his sweaty brow.
Heather frowned. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” he said, sounding forcibly calm to his own ears. “Why?”
“You seem nervous.”
“Do I?”
“Are you worried about something?”
“No,” he said. “Not at all.”
“I’ve been feeling fine, you know.” She rested her head on his shoulder.
He took the moment to glance in the rearview mirror to see if anyone was following him.
“Everything’s gonna be okay this time. I can feel it.”
“Me too,” he lied. “I can feel it, too.”
They arrived at the hospital with only a few minutes to spare. Alan let Heather out at the entrance, then parked in the garage. Riding the elevator to the third floor, he felt jittery and unlike himself. When the doors swished open and a rotund woman with a walker got on, he was quick to pop out of the elevator before realizing he was only on the second floor. He hurried down the corridor and took the fire stairs up one flight.
Heather was already with Dr. Regina Crawford when Alan arrived in the examination room.