by Rick Hautala
And why—? he wondered. Why am I letting something as stupid as a little branch tapping against the window bother me so much?
He closed his eyes so tightly that he saw swirling explosions of light as he begged for sleep to carry him away. And he would have slept except for the faint, hollow sound tapping like a bony finger on his windowpane.
Scritch—scritch—scre-e-e-ch.
“Grammy …?”
It was early Saturday morning, just after dawn. Brian had hardly slept all night. He was standing outside his grandmother’s bedroom, his hands clutching the edge of the wooden door frame as he leaned into the room. A thin wash of sunlight lit up the room with a dull lemon glow that did nothing to dispel the sickly, cloying smell in the room. His grandmother lay motionless in the double bed, her body nothing more than a pitifully small bulge beneath the heavy quilt.
“Grammy!” Brian said again, a bit more forcefully as he eased into the room.
His nostrils widened as he inhaled deeply, trying to identify the smell. He had noticed it the moment he had entered the house the day before yesterday, when his father had dropped him off. It was an odd mixture that reminded him of old soap, rotting leaves, and a wet cat that pervaded the house, but it definitely seemed to be centered here in her bedroom. As he glanced around, he more than half expected to see a thick carpet of gray mold covering the walls and floor.
His fists were clenched tightly at his sides as he tiptoed over toward the bed. His grandmother was lying on her back with her eyes closed. Her mouth was hanging open, a distorted, black oval. A thin line of drool ran across her cheek from the corner of her mouth. Her thinning gray hair was spread across her pillow like a smeared spider web.
Brian stared at his grandmother’s face, watching—praying for some slight indication that she wasn’t dead. The subtle current of tension inside him was getting steadily stronger as he studied her motionless face, convinced that it did indeed look bloodless … lifeless.
“Oh, no,” he murmured as he started inching his way closer to the bed, his feet scuffing over the hardwood floor. Aware only of the sound of his pulse, hammering like heavy footsteps in his ears, he was unable to tear his terrified gaze away from the slack expression on the old woman’s face.
Oh my God! She died in her sleep! She’s dead! She’s dead, and I don’t even know where my father is. I can’t even call him!
When he was almost within reach of the bed, he stretched out one trembling hand toward her, choking back a scream as he moved closer, inch by inch. A faint tingle went up his arm when his fingertips touched the edge of the bed.
Please don’t be dead, Grammy! Please don’t be dead! “Hey, Grammy … you awake yet?” he said, forcing strength into his voice.
Her face remained passive without the faintest stirring of breath. Brian imagined that she was a statue carved out of pure, white marble. He wanted to touch her face—he knew he had to touch her face, to see if she truly was dead, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it.
You can’t be dead, Grammy!
The throb of his pulse sounded louder and faster in his ears, but as he stared at her, wondering what the devil he should do next, he became aware of another sound—a low, watery gurgle.
His vision was swimming as he lowered his face close to hers, trying desperately to detect a faint stirring of breath, the tiniest indication of life. When her eyes suddenly snapped open, he jumped back and would have let fly a wild scream if his throat hadn’t closed off. His grandmother’s cloudy blue eyes stared unblinkingly up at him, registering absolutely no surprise.
“I—you see, I thought—when you didn’t—” Brian stammered as he slapped his hands helplessly on his thighs before taking a deep breath.
Without a word, his grandmother raised a hand and pointed at him. Her mouth widened, and the tendons in her neck moved, but no sound came from her throat. An intense pressure started to build in Brian’s bladder as he tried to figure out what she was trying to say.
“You’re not feeling okay,” he said with a desperate edge in his voice. “Can I do something for you?”
His grandmother’s lips trembled uncontrollably; her eyes remained fixed on him, pinning him like an insect specimen to a corkboard.
“Do you need another one of those pills?” he asked, glancing at the brown bottle on her nightstand.
Still, in spite of her efforts, his grandmother could make no sound.
Finally, Brian couldn’t stand it any longer. He took a deep breath and said, “I don’t know what to do, Grammy. I have to call someone … the hospital or the ambulance or someone!”
Without waiting for her response, he moved quickly over to the other side of the bed, and picked up the phone. His hands were trembling as he dialed nine-one-one. After two rings, a pleasant-sounding woman answered. He quickly told her what the problem was—that his grandmother was really sick and he was alone and afraid that she was dying. After answering a few questions about his grandmother’s condition, he calmed down enough to give the woman directions to the house. Before hanging up, she assured him that an ambulance was on its way.
Just knowing help was coming gave Brian some slight measure of relief. He looked down at the old woman, who had settled back onto her bed. Her eyes and mouth were closed. The quilt covering her barely rose and fell with her faint breathing.
Brian wished earnestly that his father had been here to take care of everything. Kids his age weren’t supposed to have to deal with stuff like this.
Please don’t die, Grammy, he thought over and over as he stood stiffly by the bedside and watched her. While he was waiting to hear the sound of the approaching ambulance, her breathing seemed to weaken steadily. What little color there was in her face seemed to drain away until she was ghostly white.
Grammy, please don’t die!
“You live here?”
“Uh, no,” Brian said, shaking his head quickly as he—glanced at the boy who had walked across the front lawn to stand beside him. “I—I’m staying with my father … he lives on Pond Road.” He hooked his thumb in the general direction of the road.
The boy, who was obviously a year or two older than Brian, nodded sagely. He was a solidly-built kid who looked like he would make a good lineman for the high school football team in a few years. He already had a “jock-style” crew cut with lightning bolts shaved on the sides of his head. His deep brown eyes shined in the bright morning sunshine, reflecting the flashing red lights of the ambulance that was parked at the foot of the driveway.
Brian wanted to say something more, at least introduce himself, but the boy seemed too intent on watching the medical attendants as they carried the stretcher bearing the old woman out of the house.
“Good thing,” the older boy whispered. “Serves her right, you know, after all these years.”
The boy crossed his arms over his chest and let a smug smile of satisfaction spread across his face as he straightened his back. “I just wish to hell the other guys were here to see this! I can’t wait to tell them!”
“Wha—what do you mean?” Brian asked. He felt like a traitor for letting himself feel even a fraction of relief, knowing that his grandmother was strapped down and on her way to the hospital.
“That old lady—” the boy said, letting his gaze track the stretcher’s slow progress down the rutted walkway to the waiting ambulance. “You know what we call her around here? She’s the ‘Old Witch Lady’.”
Brian wanted to ask him why, but the hard lump that was lodged in his throat almost strangled him. The memory of how badly his grandmother had scared him last night and then again early this morning was still too strong, too immediate. When she had lifted her hand and pointed a finger at him, struggling to say something, she had looked like she was out of her mind. Her curled fingers had seemed as thin and as gnarled as the tree branch that had kept him awake all night, tapping against his windowpane.
No, he didn’t have to wonder too hard why the kids around town might suspect
that his grandmother was a witch. Although he tried to deny it, he’d had the same thought a few times himself.
“You know,” the boy continued. He leaned closer to Brian and adopted a low, conspiratorial voice, as if the helpless old woman on the stretcher might be able to hear him… and do something about it. “People ’round town say that she’s at least a hundred years old.”
“You don’t believe that, do you?” Brian said. He cut himself off before saying anything else, not wanting the boy to know that the Old Witch Lady was his grandmother. It was going to be a long summer, living with his father in a town where he knew absolutely no one. More than anything else, Brian was hoping to meet a few of the local kids so he’d have someone to hang around with.
“Absolutely,” the boy replied, “and from what I heard, she supposedly drinks human blood.” He looked at Brian with an intense stare. “That’s what’s kept her alive for more than a hundred years.”
Brian, of course, didn’t believe any of this, but he nodded as if in agreement as he and the boy watched the workers slide the stretcher up into the ambulance. A loud clang of metal—one of the stretcher’s side arms banging against the door—made both of them jump. They glanced at each other, then chuckled nervously.
Brian was still trying to get up the courage to introduce himself when a policeman glanced over at him, caught his attention and, waving his hand, started across the lawn toward him. The other boy cast a suspicious glance at Brian and, muttering something under his breath that Brian couldn’t quite hear, took a few cautious steps away from him.
“You must be Brian, right?” the policeman said as he approached.
Brian nodded with a quick, sideways glance at the other boy.
“Figured as much. You’re the spitting image of your dad,” the policeman said. “Well, you don’t have to worry any. Your grandmother’s going to be just fine now.”
“Your grandmother?” the other boy whispered. He looked incredulously at Brian, who could think of nothing better to do but shrug. “The Old Witch Lady’s your grandmother? I thought you said you didn’t live in the Witch House!”
“I don’t … Honest,” Brian said as he shuffled nervously from one foot to the other. “My father lives—” He cut himself off when the doors slammed shut on the ambulance. With its red lights flickering, it started moving slowly down the driveway.
The policeman glanced back and forth between the boys, waited a beat or two, then said, “Well, from what you told the dispatcher this morning, we finally located your father at the hospital in North Conway, New Hampshire. He said to tell you that Dianne’s doing much better, and that he’ll be back home just as fast as he can make it.”
Brian said nothing as he watched the ambulance disappear around the curve of the driveway.
“If you want, I can wait here with you till your dad shows up.”
“No,” Brian said, shaking his head. “I—I think I’ll be all right.”
The excitement was obviously all over, so, without another word, the other boy started away, crossing the lawn toward the road. He shot a last, suspicious glance over his shoulder at Brian, who watched him out of the corner of his eye. All Brian could think was, no matter what else he tried to say or do from now on, that kid—and all of his friends—were going to know that he was living in this house and that the Old Witch Lady was his grandmother! Any chance he might have had of making friends with this kid were obviously blown clear out of the water.
By the looks of things, it was going to be one long and lonely summer.
Chapter Five
Flatline
Edward was pale and visibly shaken when he entered his mother’s hospital room and sat down in the chair beside her bed. The hissing of the respirator masked every other sound and filled his mind with a static, white noise that made him feel woozy, disoriented. An array of monitors registered various digital readings which he didn’t even try to understand. After spending most of the past twenty-four hours watching and fretting over Dianne in a similar condition, he couldn’t fully comprehend that this gaunt, thin shadow of a person lying on the bed was his mother. As he stared silently at her, he felt a curious dissociation due, no doubt, to stress and fatigue. But that didn’t stop the dizzying rush of emotions that churned like dark tidewater inside him.
A crisp, white sheet and pale blue blanket were tucked up under his mother’s armpits. Her arms were outside the covers, lying lifelessly at her sides. An IV was stuck into the back of her left hand and held in place with several strips of white adhesive tape. Her skin was almost as white as the tape except for the thin tracings of blue veins just below the surface. A transparent breathing tube had been inserted into her nose and was also held in place with adhesive tape. It looked as if his mother had tried unsuccessfully to inhale a long straw. Her eyes were closed. The deep, hollow indentations of her eye sockets were two perfectly round wells of darkness. Her wrinkled skin hung loosely, draped like a thin cloth covering over the hard edges of her skull.
Edward shuddered, trying not to think that his mother was already more than halfway to being a skeleton. He sighed heavily, grateful—at least—that he had asked Brian to wait for him downstairs. After everything he’d had to deal with last night and this morning, there was no reason for him to see his grandmother looking like this.
The cold, dull ache of loss filled Edward as he tried to comprehend how dramatically his life had changed in the last twenty-four hours. The two most important women in his life had both been hospitalized and were in critical condition. It seemed, at times, almost as if Dianne’s fall and his mother’s heart attack had been timed by some malevolent force.
He had to believe what the doctors had told him in North Conway, that Dianne’s injuries, while certainly horrible, were not life-threatening as long as her condition remained stabilized. Dianne would have to endure months, possibly years of reconstructive surgery; but thankfully at this early stage, there were no indications of any serious brain damage. And Edward had vowed that he would be right there beside her, helping her in every way he could for as long as it took.
His mother’s situation, on the other hand, was anybody’s guess. Earlier this afternoon, the doctor—he had been so upset, he couldn’t even recall the woman’s name—had told him that his mother’s heart attack had been quite serious. It seemed—and she stressed the word seemed—not to have done much permanent damage, but she had frankly admitted that how his mother responded to the medication and how strong her will to live was would determine how well she did over the next several days. As an ominous aside, the doctor had added, “Of course, you can’t expect too much at her age.”
But she sure as hell looks like death warmed over!
The phrase popped unbidden into Edward’s mind as he stared vacantly at his mother’s reposed, death-mask face. Tears welled up in his eyes and ran freely down his cheeks. He was unable to stop himself from wondering who looked closer to death—his mother or Dianne.
He suddenly realized with a jolt that his mother’s eyes were open, and she was looking up at him with a cloudy glaze covering her eyes like a gauze curtain. Momentarily flustered and surprised that she had caught him with his guard down, he quickly wiped his eyes with his sleeve and smiled down at her.
“Hey, Mom … how you feeling?”
His voice warbled noticeably, but his mother’s blank expression remained fixed on him, looking straight at—or through—him.
“I—I came as soon as I heard you’d had some trouble.”
The glow in his mother’s eyes brightened for just an instant, then it faded again just as quickly. Her lips moved, and her tongue darted like a snake’s between her teeth. She looked as if she was trying to speak, but the hissing of the respirator masked any sounds she might have made.
Edward leaned closer to her and smiled reassuringly. “Do you know where you are?” he asked, and then, before she could respond, he added, “You’re in the hospital … in the coronary care unit. I guess you—your hea
rt decided to do a little kick flip for you last night, huh?”
His smile felt thin and phony, plastered on his face like a painted grin.
“The doctor says you’re doing just fine—that all you need now is a lot of rest and—”
“Will she … will Dianne be all right, too? … She will, won’t she?”
His mother’s voice was barely audible above the sound of the respirator. For a frozen moment, Edward wasn’t even sure he had seen her lips move. The words had just … been there, like an auditory hallucination that echoed in his ears, a product of his stress, worry, and fatigue.
“Mom, I … I—”
“Her face … will it heal?”
Edward was stunned into silence. He had no idea what to say as he leaned closer to her, his eyes darting frantically back and forth. He was unable to focus on her vacant eyes for very long. He remembered late last night, when he had called to tell his mother about Dianne’s accident, he absolutely had not mentioned the nature or extent of Dianne’s injuries.
“Dianne—” his mother said, her voice sounding raw and fragile, as if her throat were lined with sandpaper. “I have to tell her … Will she … be … all right?”
“Well, I don’t know for sure,” Edward replied, swallowing with difficulty. “Nobody does at this point, but the doctors assure me that she’ll get better … with time. And you will, too, Mom, if you just—”
“I’m scared, Eddie … I’m real scared for her!”
Edward bit his lower lip and took a deep, steadying breath. He knew he had to be strong for her now, that that’s the way life went—while you’re growing up, with luck and love, your parents were there for you. His father had died when he was young, but his mother, as much of a struggle as it had been, had done a good job of raising him and his brother, Michael. Now that he was older and she needed him, he hoped he would find the strength to help her.
“I—I’m scared, too, Mom,” Edward said softly. He was unashamed as his eyes filled with tears again. “But we have to have faith that she—”