“Got it?” Dry Gulch said. “Now get the hell out of there. I’m lighting them.”
The rope came loose. I twisted around and freed Duffy’s hands in two knife strokes.
“Gimme the knife,” Duffy said.
I handed it to him and went to work untying my legs. The knot was difficult. I worked on it a bit and realized it would be easier to cut than untie. “Duffy, I need the knife.”
Duffy had freed his legs and cut the lit fuse from the dynamite between his legs. He slid the rope off the dynamite and dropped the bundle into the creek below. I cringed waiting for the dynamite to shake the bridge, but no explosion came.
“Here,” Duffy said, tossing the knife.
As the knife arced toward my hand a shot rang out. The bullet pinged near me, hitting the bridge.
I missed the knife, watching in horror as it fell out of reach.
“Billy,” Duffy said. “You get through this, let people know I’m not like my old man. I’m better than he is.”
He turned and ran across the underside of the bridge to the center. With each step he took, bullets ricocheted off the steel beams. Halfway across the bridge Duffy went down. Luckily, he fell along a beam and caught himself. Six inches of water in the stream below ain’t enough to dive into. He struggled back to his feet and stood there for a moment, a strange look on his face. He staggered back a step, leaning against a strut, and clutched his belly with both hands. Slowly, he brought his hands up, looking at them. They were bloody.
They had shot Duffy.
He moved in slow motion, leaning down and tearing loose the dynamite. He tried pulling the fuse out but his hands were so slicked up with blood he couldn’t get a grip.
Oh no. If he tossed the lit dynamite off the bridge, we’d still be blown to hell.
Duffy clutched the dynamite to his chest and started across to Buster’s side, the fuse burned, sparking and sputtering behind him, getting shorter with each step he took.
Another shot rang out. This one near me. I scooted my feet out and tried to lay flat, making myself as small a target as possible. Lying on my back, I rolled my head and watched, upside-down, as Duffy tore free the dynamite tied between Buster’s legs. He held this dynamite close to his chest with the other bundle. The fuses were short now. I didn’t know how much more time we had.
Duffy saw me watching and shot me his shit-eater. It was just a moment, less than a second, but his look told me everything. I could hear his thoughts, clear as day, “Hey, I’ll be all right. I’m off on another adventure. I’ll see you later.”
He turned, stepped onto the embankment and took off, half limping, half running, away from the bridge.
“No!” I screamed.
Even though I expected the explosion I wasn’t ready for it. It was louder than the cannon Ol’ Man Bowles fires off every Fourth of July. It was louder than cherry bombs or gunshots. It was so loud I couldn’t hear a thing but a ringing in my ears afterwards. It rocked the bridge.
I couldn’t believe it. Duffy had sacrificed himself to save us. Right then, I realized that if Dry Gulch came back and finished us off, Duffy’s sacrifice would be for nothing.
I sat up and clawed at the knot still holding my legs. I tried not to think about what Duffy had just done, but I couldn’t help it. Tears blurred my vision. A fingernail tore off, but I kept at the knot. I expected, at any moment, to feel a bullet ripping through my flesh, but none came. The knot loosened. I yanked my feet free and raced across the underside of the bridge to Buster.
The bridge began to vibrate. I almost lost my footing and grabbed onto a vertical strut. The vibrations became so violent I thought the bridge was collapsing. A train roared past above me. The clanking and shaking and clattering jarred me to the bones. I clenched my teeth together, hugged the vertical strut, and waited for the train to pass.
Though tears blurred my vision, I saw Dry Gulch and his men gather in the stream below the bridge. He stood there, hat in one hand, scratching his bald head with the other, as if he didn’t understand why the bridge still stood. Didn’t he see Duffy run off with the dynamite? He had to of heard the explosion, and his men firing at us. Maybe Dry Gulch had cowered behind some rock and didn’t see a thing.
From my vantage point I could also see Tubs had brought the cavalry—the Sheriff and several deputies surrounded Dry Gulch and his gang from behind. The four outlaws stood, staring at the bridge in disbelief, totally unaware the Sheriff had got the drop on them.
The Sheriff and his men rushed forward, putting their rifles in the outlaws backs. The Sheriff said something but with the noise of the train overhead I couldn’t hear him.
The outlaws put their hands up. It looked like the Sheriff would bring the gang in without firing a shot, but Dry Gulch had a different idea.
Keeping his hands in the air, Dry Gulch turned to face the Sheriff.
The train passed and I was able to hear Dry Gulch speak. “Now this ain’t a very friendly way to greet heroes, Sheriff. We was only trying to rescue these boys.”
The Sheriff looked confused.
“We was minding our own business, when—” And Dry Gulch made his move. He twisted sideways while bring his arm down, knocking the rifle to the side with his forearm. The Sheriff fired, but the shot went wide. With his other hand Dry Gulch went for his pistol. Just as he gripped the handle another shot rang out. Dry Gulch’s legs crumpled and he fell, face first, at the Sheriff’s feet.
The Sheriff nodded at the deputy who had fired. “Thanks Pete.”
I made my way to Buster.
His eyes were wide, his dirty cheeks muddy with tears. “Why’d Duffy do it?”
I untied Buster’s hands and choked up a bit. “I don’t know. He wanted to save us.”
“Stupid git was the best person I’ve ever known.”
I nodded. “Me too.”
“Jolly good tale,” Thackeray said.
“It’s all true.” Billy held his hand in the air as if taking an oath. “I swear to God.”
“Son, I’ve listened to many a tale, both tall and true, and I’ve learned to tell the difference between them. You said you thought that was the last time you’d see your friend. Clearly, because of the explosion, you couldn’t have seen him again.”
Billy looked at Thackeray and cocked his head sideways. “I have seen him. But that’s a story for another time.”
In The Closet
Now
I wasn’t asleep long before a tap on my cheek startled me awake. I sat straight up in bed. The cheek-tap came from my son, Jake. He stood beside my bed, dressed in SpongeBob SquarePants jammies.
He rubbed his eyes. “I can’t sleep.”
“Come on. Let’s get you a drink of water.”
“I’m not thirsty. Can I sleep with you and mom?”
I glanced at my wife. She snored softly. “No, let’s not wake Mom up. You’re a big boy. You need to stay in your own room.”
Hi sniffled. “But … there’s something in my closet.”
I swiveled my feet out of bed and stood. “Come on, Tiger. We’ll go check your closet.”
I herded him into his bedroom, turned on the light, and opened the closet. All his clothing was off the hangers in a heap on the floor.
“Jake, why are these clothes on the floor?”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“Well, there’s nothing to be afraid of in here. But in the morning I want you to hang these clothes on their hangers.”
“But—”
“No buts, let’s go. Into bed.”
“But Dad, it’s the clothes. They’re alive.”
I never believed in repressed memories, thinking attention-craved Hollywood celebrities manufactured them. Childhood traumas created to “remember” and talk about. Sad, desperate attempts to feed their egos with sympathy from concerned fans. How pathetic. But when Jake mentioned the clothes being alive, cold fingers crept up my spine and tickled my brain, releasing a childhood memory. A terror-filled incident
long forgotten.
I gasped.
“What’s wrong?” Jake asked.
I knelt down beside him, our heads at the same level. Even though my newfound memories demanded attention, I pushed them aside for a moment. I didn’t want to scare my son.
“Jake, tell you what. Just for tonight, you can sleep with Mom and me.”
Relief washed over his face. I picked him up, carried him to my bedroom, and laid him next to my wife. He fell right asleep.
She woke. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Just nightmares.”
She sighed and rolled over.
I got into bed next to Jake.
Memories flooded back to me. The mental trick I had used to ignore them no longer worked. I’d been focused on Jake, making him feel safe, but now the past filled my thoughts.
I lay on my back, wide awake, watching shadows play sinister games on the ceiling, and turned things over in my head. Jake had said the clothes were alive. I knew it to be true. Years ago I had the same experience. The clothes, if not alive, were animated by some invisible force.
The Past
I was six years old the first night it happened. Something woke me in the night. I remember waking and feeling a malignant presence in my room. Evil pervaded the heavy air. I strained to feel, or hear, or even smell the intruder, but it remained just outside my senses. I suppressed a scream, knowing the presence would kill me if I made a sound.
They say when you lose one of your senses all the other ones improve to compensate for your loss. In the darkness I was blind, but felt an increase in air pressure, as if something in the room had displaced the air, pushing the molecules together, making the atmosphere thicker. A faint scraping noise came from my closet.
In my bed I lay frozen, afraid to breathe. Minutes, dragging on like hours, passed before I worked up enough courage to take action. I leapt from my bed and shot through bedroom door. I ran to my parent’s bedroom and dove under their bed. The next morning Mom discovered me there.
“Michael,” Mom said, “why did you sleep under my bed?”
“I had a bad nightmare and got scared.”
“I don’t want you sneaking under there at night. If you have a problem get me, okay?”
I nodded.
“Now, young man, I want you to clean up your room. It looks like a tornado hit it.”
What did Mom mean? I left my bed unmade and there were a couple things on the floor. Far less damage than a tornado would cause.
I stood outside my bedroom door and gulped. What if the monster from last night waited for me inside? I opened the door, ready to bolt if needed. Clothes were scattered across my entire room. Shirts on my desk, sweaters in balls on the floor, and pants hanging off the edge of my bed, as if they’d been trying to climb onto it. I tiptoed through the clothing minefield and opened my closet—it was empty! All my clothes from the closet were strewn across my room. I checked my dresser, nothing disturbed there.
Whatever entity visited me during the night must have went crazy with my clothes. Maybe it made the mess so I’d get in trouble with my parents. That’s pretty weak logic now, but for a six-year-old it made sense. I picked up, re-hung, refolded, and put away the clothes.
All day I worried about the upcoming night. I snuck a flashlight from the garage and hid it under my pillow. At bedtime I kissed Dad goodnight.
He ruffled my hair. “Don’t worry, Mikey.”
Walking to my bedroom I felt like a man on death row, slowly marching toward an unwanted fate.
Mom waited for me in my room. “Quit dragging your feet, it’s past your bedtime.”
I climbed into bed. She tucked me in.
“Maybe,” I said, “I could sleep with you and Dad tonight?”
She kissed me on the forehead. “No.”
She turned out the light and left, closing my door behind her.
In the darkness I froze, laying there, listening to the house creak and groan, waiting for something to happen. I tried to stay awake but somewhere along the way sleep took me.
The clock read 3:12 when I awoke, its LED display providing scant illumination. I fumbled for the flashlight and aimed it at every nook and cranny in my room. Nothing. I felt the presence, but couldn’t see anything. Summoning my courage, I jumped from bed and turned on the light.
The closet was closed. Should I open it? Having the light on helped me feel brave. I tossed the flashlight on the bed and grabbed my baseball bat. Holding the bat in one hand, I reached out and flung the closet door open, ready to swing at anything that came. No creature jumped out. The only thing in my closet were clothes. A shirt had slid off the hanger and lay on the floor.
I went back to bed. When I next looked at the closet, I gasped. The shirt from the closet floor had moved a foot toward me. Or something had moved the shirt.
My mind reached out for some logical explanation. Maybe I had snagged the shirt with the bat. No. I had held the bat in front of me. Goosebumps tingled my entire body. How did the shirt move? I stared at it, ready to rush to the door if the shirt so much as quivered. Nothing.
I honestly don’t know how long I sat on my bed and stared at the shirt. It had to have been at least an hour.
I couldn’t leave. Where would I go? If I got out of bed, would the shirt come at me? I couldn’t take a chance, nor could I stay. Maybe I could holler for Mom and Dad, but then what? Tell them my clothes were alive? Yeah right. They’d have my head examined.
There comes a point in every boy’s life when he has a hard decision to make. Does he take the easy choice or the difficult one. Whichever way he decides, defines the man he is to become. Similar to Robert Frost’s poem “The Road Not Taken,” two roads diverged in a wood. It’s all about the choice. Unfortunately, you don’t know when you’re making “The Decision.” I certainly didn’t. My choice was either to run away from the problem and, in all likelihood, have to face it again, or I could put an end to this. I decided to end it.
I closed my eyes, thinking hard. What could I do?
When I opened my eyes, the shirt was halfway across the room. Also, another shirt and sweater had moved toward me.
I almost screamed, opening my mouth to yell, but a thought stopped me. My clothes moved only when I wasn’t watching them. I had stared at the shirt for an hour without it moving, but the moment I closed my eyes to think, it had moved several feet. Was this true? If my clothes couldn’t move when I looked at them, maybe I found a weakness. Something I could use to fix the situation.
For several long minutes I watched my clothes. They didn’t budge, but I had to see if they would move if I stopped watching. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and started counting in my head.
One …
Two … I’d go to 30.
Three …
Four …
Five. Long enough. I opened my eyes.
The shirt from the middle of my floor was now halfway up my bed. I scrambled backwards like a crab. The shirt didn’t try to follow me.
My remaining clothes had also moved toward me. They were off the hangers and partway across the floor. Did they move only when my eyes were closed or when I wasn’t looking at them? It didn’t matter; I couldn’t watch them all night.
Mom had just done laundry, so my clothes hamper was empty. A plan formed in my head. I crept off my bed, never taking my eyes from the possessed shirt. I got the clothes hamper and placed it in the center of the room. I didn’t want to touch the clothes so I used the baseball bat to pick up the shirts and sweaters one by one, dropping them in the clothes hamper. After gathering them into the hamper, I closed the lid.
Scurrying sounds immediately came from the hamper. I yelped, dropping the hamper. It landed at my feet. The lid came open, and a couple shirts fell out, but they did not move.
So, my question answered, I didn’t have to close my eyes for the clothing to move. I only had to not see them. Armed with this knowledge I felt more powerful, in control. As long as I kept an
eye out, they couldn’t get me. Of course, if I fell asleep, I was doomed.
I kicked the shirts back into the hamper and, in one motion, swept up the clothes hamper into my arms, closing the lid as I did.
The scurrying began again. It became more violent and the hamper jarred and bustled and almost fell from my grip. They couldn’t get to me as long as I remained vigilant. I placed the hamper on the floor against the wall and sat on its top.
The Future
In bed, next to my wife and son, I realized I needed to take care of the clothes. I fixed things as a kid; I could do it now.
That time of my life, the time I now remembered with amazing clarity, was an emotional roller coaster. First the frightening, clothes-in-the-closet incident. Then came my quick thinking and bravery, solving the problem. Afterwards, a dark period filled with depression and despondence. A time when adults—my parents, teachers, doctors, police—asked questions. “Why did you do this Michael?” “What made you think the clothing moved?” “Did any stranger give you something to eat? Maybe candy or a pill?”
My actions horrified my parents. They looked at me as if I were an alien, some monster they couldn’t trust. I tried to explain why, but they wouldn’t listen. They thought I was crazy.
Eventually, the doctors convinced me it was all in my head. Nothing I described actually happened. A psychosis, they called it. They scanned my brain, asked more questions. Was I abused? (I wasn’t.) Doctors must come up with reasons for the unexplained. If the real cause cannot be believed, other explanations must be created.
As I lay in bed, tears welled up in my eyes. Sadness for the child I had been. Nothing was the same after that night and, even though I repressed the memories, I had lost my innocence. A child should be able to be a child as long as possible.
I rose from the bed, vowing the same thing would not happen to Jake.
I went to the bathroom and dumped the clothes from the hamper onto the floor. Still loath to touch the clothes, I grabbed salad thongs from the kitchen. I went to Jake’s bedroom.
Clothes were now strewn everywhere. Hamper under my arm, I marched around picking the clothes up with the prongs and dropping them in the hamper. After gathering them all, I shut the hamper lid and the clothes began rustling inside. Exactly as they had when I was little.
Strange Perceptions Page 10