by Brian Keene
I shivered suddenly, and turned down the air conditioning. It didn’t help.
• • •
“I’m worried about Ellie.”
Valerie and I were lying in bed, winding down for the evening. She was reading a Duane Swierzynski novel. I was staring at the television, flipping aimlessly through the channels. She folded the corner of a page to mark her place and sat the book on the nightstand. Then she propped herself up on an elbow and turned to me.
“Why? Did something happen at school?”
“No. I’m worried about this imaginary friend thing.”
“Mr. Chickbaum.”
“Yeah. Him.”
It was weird. I couldn’t tell you why, but lying there in the safety of our bedroom, I was hesitant to say his name.
“It’s a phase,” Valerie said. “She’ll grow out of it.”
Grunting, I muted the television, cutting an anchorman off in mid-sentence.
“Maybe,” I agreed. “But she’s had him for a while, hasn’t she? Longer than most kids. And what she said about Hannibal...”
“She was upset. That bird really bothered her, Ward.”
“I know. But that still doesn’t make it right. She’s never said anything like that before. I mean, she loves that cat. For her to wish death on him—that just came out of nowhere. She’s not a violent kid.”
“She didn’t say it. Mr. Chickbaum did.”
I studied her carefully, trying to figure out if she was joking or not. Her expression was serious.
“Oh, come on, Valerie. Do you realize how ridiculous that sounds? Don’t tell me you believe in little men now?”
“Of course not. But Ellie’s young, Ward. Maybe she’s having trouble differentiating between real life and make believe. Obviously, she had some pent up anger towards Hannibal. She expressed it as Mr. Chickbaum. Maybe in her mind, that means she didn’t really think or say it. He did.”
I shrugged. “She knows that cartoons are make believe. She knows that Hannah Montana is pretend, and that in real life, the actress’ name is Miley Cyrus. Ellie knows the difference between that and reality.”
“But that’s television. Maybe she’s having trouble struggling with these emotions. Maybe they scare her. So she’s expressing them through Mr. Chickbaum.”
I mulled it over, thinking about the conversation I’d had with Ellie that morning. I remembered what she’d said.
He says you’re wrong, Daddy. Mr. Chickbaum says there are still plenty of reasons for us to be afraid of the dark.
“Maybe we should talk to someone,” I suggested. “A doctor or something. If it will set your mind at ease, then let’s look into it in the morning.”
“Okay.”
I reached over to my nightstand and turned the light off. Valerie did the same on her side. We kissed good night, and then rolled over. We slept with our backs to each other—skin touching, but facing in opposite directions. We’d discovered long ago that we both slept easier that way.
I lay there in the darkness, wondering why I was afraid—and what I was afraid of. Not Ellie, certainly. I was concerned about her. Worried. But not afraid.
I closed my eyes and the darkness deepened.
• • •
The next morning, the rain was gone and the sun returned just in time for Hannibal’s latest kill—the mangled upper-half of a red and black spotted newt. I kicked the tiny lizard carcass into the driveway. It landed with a plop, lost between the gravel.
When I reached my office, I spent the first hour of the day online researching childhood behavior and imaginary friends. When I was a kid, I suppose my parents would have spoken with a child psychiatrist. Our generation just uses Google. My search returned 1,590,000 websites—everything from Wikipedia to a band from Los Angeles.
I learned a lot. Imaginary friends usually came about when a child was feeling lonely. That made sense. Ellie was shy, and she’d been picked on a lot by the older kids. Imaginary friends often served as outlets for expressing desires which children knew they’d get in trouble for. That made sense, as well. Ellie had been mad at Hannibal for killing the bird, and had lashed out. When she realized she was in trouble for what she’d said, she blamed Mr. Chickbaum. One website said that deep down inside, children understood that their imaginary friends weren’t real, even if they pretended or insisted that they were. That eased some of my fears, but I was still concerned about Ellie’s sudden dark turn. Several sites suggested that a child’s conversations with their imaginary friends could reveal a lot about that child’s anxieties and fears.
Deciding to pay closer attention to Ellie’s conversations with Mr. Chickbaum, I emailed some of the links to Valerie. Then I logged off and got to work.
• • •
I was the first one home that night, so I started making dinner—baked tilapia, french fries, and canned peas. Valerie and Ellie got home just as I was pulling the fish from the oven. Ellie seemed herself—perky, happy and talkative (her shyness evaporated when she was with us). We ate dinner and talked about our day. Valerie loaded the dishwasher while I helped Ellie with her homework. Then the three of us watched TV and played video games until it was time for bed. I tucked Ellie in, read her a chapter of Charlotte’s Web (we were up to the part where Templeton the rat runs amok at the county fair), and then kissed her goodnight. I turned off the light as I left the room. Her nightlight glowed softly in the corner next to her dresser. I shut the door behind me and then stood in the hall.
After a moment, when she realized that I wasn’t returning to the living room, Valerie tip-toed down the hallway and stood beside me. She cocked her head to the side and gave me a quizzical glance. I put my finger to my lips and pointed at the door.
We waited for ten minutes, and I was almost ready to give up, retreat to the living room, and explain my actions to Valerie, when suddenly, we heard Ellie stir. From behind the closed bedroom door came the sound of her sheets rustling. The bedsprings creaked. Small feet padded across the carpet. Then Ellie spoke. Her voice was a hushed whisper. Obviously, she assumed we were in the living room, and didn’t want us to hear her.
“Mr. Chickbaum! I didn’t think you were going to come tonight. You always come out as soon as Daddy turns off the light.”
She paused, as if listening to a response. I found myself leaning forward, listening for one as well. As soon as I realized that I was doing it, I felt like an idiot. But then I noticed that Valerie was doing the same thing. It was a testament to the power of our daughter’s imagination. I grinned, shaking my head. Valerie smiled.
Ellie spoke again, answering some imaginary comment.
“He had you trapped? Why doesn’t he just leave you alone?”
My heart beat once. Twice.
Then, “I hate that mean old cat!”
Valerie stiffened, and reached for the doorknob. I reached out, clasped her hand, and motioned again for her to be still. We continued eavesdropping on her conversation.
“It’s not fair that you have to hide from him,” Ellie complained. “You were here before he was.”
There was a pause, and then, “I know. But Daddy and Mommy never go into the field, so they won’t find the door. If we could just keep Hannibal out of there, too...”
Another pause, and then Ellie giggled.
“They think you’re make believe. I don’t understand why you don’t just show yourself to them. Then you could live with us. Hannibal can’t get you if you stay inside the house. Mommy won’t let him in here because he pees on the wall.”
In the living room, Valerie’s cuckoo clock, which had belonged to her grandmother, chimed softly.
“Mommy and Daddy would like you,” Ellie said. “They’re nice. Not like Hannibal.”
I frowned.
“But why do you have to wait for the rest of your people? Maybe Daddy can help you fix the door? He’s good at fixing things. He fixed my wading pool last year when it had a leak. Maybe he could—”
She stopped in mid-se
ntence. I felt a mixture of amazement and panic. Ellie’s imagination was elaborate enough to have Mr. Chickbaum interrupt her when she was speaking.
“I don’t know what that word means,” Ellie said. “Just remember, you promised. When you get the door open and your friends come through, you promise you’ll show yourselves to Mommy and Daddy?”
Valerie and I glanced at each other. Her expression mirrored my own confusion. I didn’t understand this bit about the door.
“And then you can live here with me?”
Valerie shrugged. We turned our attention back to the door.
“The whole world? But you’ll let everybody else stay, right? You won’t hurt them?”
I bit my lip, trying to make sense of what I was hearing.
“How soon until you can open the door?” A pause, and then, “Really? That is soon.”
Then, “But you always spend the night. How come you can’t now?”
“Okay. I understand.”
“I love you, too, Mr. Chickbaum. You’re my best friend forever and ever.”
Ellie grew quiet. We stood there, listening to the silence, waiting for more. Small feet padded across the carpet again. The box spring beneath her mattress creaked.
The sound of small feet continued for a brief moment after.
It startled me. That couldn’t be right. She’d already gotten back into bed. I glanced at Valerie to see if she’d notice it, too. If she had, she gave no indication. I shook my head, frustrated that I’d let my imagination get the best of me. First, I’d been listening for Mr. Chickbaum’s voice. Now I was imagining his footsteps.
I yawned, realizing just how tired I was. Worrying about Ellie had left me mentally and emotionally exhausted. In the dim hallway light, I noticed dark circles under Valerie’s eyes. It was impacting her, as well.
We tiptoed carefully down the hall and went into our bedroom. We didn’t speak—undressing in silence. I brushed my teeth, gargled, and pissed. Then I climbed into bed while Valerie took her turn in the bathroom. When she slid into bed beside me, we still didn’t speak. We didn’t have to. Our fears were mutual. We lay there in the dark, holding each other, afraid for our daughter.
• • •
I didn’t remember falling asleep, so when I awoke in the middle of the night, I was startled and disoriented. My heart hammered in my chest, and I was holding my breath, but I didn’t know why.
Then, outside our bedroom window, Hannibal howled, chasing some unknown prey. I waited, listening for the answering cry of another cat, or maybe a possum, skunk or raccoon. But no response was forthcoming. Hissing, Hannibal took off across the yard. I heard his paws swishing through the wet grass. More howls echoed through the night.
Valerie sat up, clasping her chest. “What’s wrong?”
“Hannibal’s fighting something. Stay here.”
I climbed out of bed and put on a pair of sweatpants. Without bothering to turn on the light, I slipped into my bedroom shoes and opened the dresser. I grabbed a flashlight and my Taurus 357 from the drawer, and after fumbling with the key, deactivated the child safety locks on the back of the handgun. Then I slid five bullets into the cylinder and glanced down at Valerie.
“Be careful,” she said.
“I will.”
I stepped out onto the deck and swept the flashlight beam around the yard. I caught a glimpse of Hannibal—a white streak against the darkness. He was running towards the vacant field that borders our property. I called after him in a hushed voice, not wanting to wake Ellie or our neighbors, but he was intent on the chase and ignored me.
Cursing, I dashed down the stairs. Gravel crunched under my feet. I ran across the yard. Cold dew soaked through my bed-room shoes, soaking my feet. A light mist hovered just over the ground, swirling slowly. I swore harder, vowing to remove the cat door and start locking Hannibal inside the garage at night. Sooner or later, he was going to tangle with something that he couldn’t beat. Rabies was a concern, as well. He’d had his shots, but if he got into a fight with a rabid raccoon, I was concerned that he could spread the disease to one of us.
“Hannibal! Come here!”
He vanished into the field. I ran after him. The tall grass clung to my sweatpants. I noticed how quiet it was. At night, I’d lie awake in bed and listen to the shrill songs of insects and birds, or the harsh croaking of bullfrogs. Now, there was none of that. No traffic on the road, either. Even the wind was still.
I’d gone about twenty yards when the field exploded with noise. Hannibal growled. It rose in pitch and intensity, then turned into a long, drawn-out series of hisses and howls. The animal—whatever it was—shrieked; a high-pitched squeal.
A rabbit, I thought. He’s got a rabbit.
The grass swayed in front of me. I shined the light in that direction, and the beam glanced across a pile of junk. Somebody had been using the vacant field as a dump. There was an old, rusty shopping cart, several bald tires, a cracked commode, and an old door lying flat on the ground. Its tarnished brass door-knob gleamed in the moonlight. Someone had spray painted graffiti across the top of the door. I frowned, trying to make sense of it. There were no words or letters—just an odd series of images, like something from a heavy metal CD cover. It was certainly an odd thing to paint on a door.
The scuffling animals distracted me. I shined the light lower. Sure enough, Hannibal was tumbling and wrestling with something else. I couldn’t tell what it was, though. They moved too fast, darting back and forth and rolling around on the ground.
“Hannibal,” I shouted. “Let it go!”
His growls grew louder.
“Hannibal!”
The thing squealed.
Pointing the handgun at the ground, I fired one shot into the dirt at my feet. Immediately, Hannibal released his prey and fled into the darkness. The animal ran off, as well. I studied the flattened weeds where they’d been fighting, and saw a few diminutive drops of blood. I hoped the blood didn’t belong to my cat.
I called for Hannibal a few more times, but he didn’t answer. Eventually, I made my way back to the house. Luckily, none of our neighbors lights were on. They’d slept through the shot. Ellie had, as well. Valerie was waiting for me in the kitchen. Her eyes were wide. A cup of tea sat on the table in front of her, untouched.
“What was it?”
I shrugged, unloading the pistol. “I don’t know. A rabbit, I think. It sounded like one, at least.”
“Is Hannibal okay?”
“I hope so. He took off when I broke them up.”
“He’ll come back,” she said. “He always does.”
“Yeah. He does.”
We went back to bed, and slept uninterrupted for the rest of the night.
• • •
The next morning, Valerie and I talked while Ellie got ready for school. We decided that I’d try talking to her during the morning drive, while Valerie checked into getting us an appointment with a therapist or child counselor. Ellie was in a good mood. She chatted through breakfast, and was eager to get to school.
“You’re pretty happy this morning,” I said, ruffling her hair as we walked towards the door. “What’s going on?”
“It’s a secret, Daddy.”
“Oh come on,” I teased. “You can tell me.”
“No, I can’t. I promised.”
“Please? Just a hint?”
Ellie hesitated, then smiled. She leaned in close to me, whispering conspiratorially. “Mr. Chickbaum’s friends are coming tonight.”
“Ellie...we need to talk about...Mr. Chickbaum.”
“I know you think he’s pretend, Daddy, but you’ll see. He had to do some stuff last night to get ready. Tonight, he can open the door to his world and then we can meet his friends.”
We walked out onto the deck.
“Ellie...”
She screamed.
Lying on the deck was another half-corpse—two tiny, human legs about three inches tall, attached to the ragged remains of a miniature
waist. It wore a little pair of green pants and one green shoe. The other shoe was missing. The bare foot had miniscule toes. Doll baby-sized blood and entrails spread out around the corpse.
Ellie screamed again, and then I joined her.
Hannibal lay nearby, sunning himself. He licked his lips and gazed at us with contentment.
STORY NOTE: Most of this story is true. Except for the bit about the leprechaun. In real life, Hannibal’s name is Max. He showed up one day much like the cat in this story. He was just a tiny kitten, and fearful of everyone and everything. I don’t know if someone dumped him off at our house or if he was just born wild out in the woods. I fed him for a few days, but he still wouldn’t let anyone come near him. Then, a week later, I was sitting in my office working on the first draft of Ghost Walk. I had the office door open to let in some fresh air. I heard a tiny little ‘meep’ and I looked down, and the kitten was standing at the foot of my chair. He crawled up into my lap, I named him Max (after the movie character Mad Max), and he’s been with me ever since.
When I got divorced for the second time and moved into a new place, Max came with me. But before that, to repay my kindness, Max was very good at bringing me daily presents. He left them at the door to my office, which was on our property but in a separate building from the house. Often, the presents he brought me were half-presents. Usually, he caught mice and voles. Occasionally, he brought me a bird or a frog, which always saddened me a bit. I tried to discourage him from killing birds and frogs. Once, he killed a squirrel, just like the cat in the story. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen him for myself—dragging the squirrel across the yard. To the best of my knowledge, he never killed a snake, although I did find him messing around with a copperhead once. I shooed Max away and killed the snake with the .357 that I carried with me (the house was in a very remote area, with coyotes and snakes and bears and drunken rednecks, so I had good reason to carry a gun).