Thunderland

by Brandon Massey

  “How’s a knife going to hurt a spirit?” Jason said. “A spirit is like a ghost, right? You can’t stab a ghost.”

  “We think the Stranger might be a spirit,” Brains said. “We don’t know for sure. He could be a man who’s able to move objects with his mind. I’ve heard about people who can supposedly do that. It’s called telekinesis.”

  “Tele-ki-what?” Shorty said.

  “Telekinesis,” Brains said. “Have you seen those people on TV who can bend spoons and stuff? Obviously, whoever the Stranger is, he’s a lot more powerful than the average spoon-bender, but my point is, he could be human. And if he’s human, a knife could hurt him. It’s better than nothing.”

  “Well, okay,” Jason said. ‘We arm ourselves with the knife. I just hope we don’t have to use it.”

  “Then we have the weapon stuff settled,” Shorty said. “Now, how about action? What’re we gonna do?”

  “Before we get into that, I need to tell you guys something,” Jason said. “About another weird problem I’ve been having.”

  “Another one?” Brains said. He looked at Jason incredulously. “That shocks even me.”

  “This one isn’t like the word-on-the-mirror thing,” Jason said. “It’s different. I’ve been having a nightmare.”

  ‘What’s it about?” Shorty said.

  Jason told them everything about his recurring dream. He was relieved finally to be able to relate it to someone; the details poured out of him. In light of what had happened that day, the nightmare, while disturbing, was not nearly as terrifying. Reality had become more frightening than his darkest dreams.

  ‘What do you think?” Jason said. “Is the stalker in my nightmare the Stranger in real life?”

  “I’d bet on it, Jason,” Brains said. “It has to be him. I’m glad you told us about that dream. I think I know what we should do.”

  ‘What?” Jason said.

  “We stay at my house tonight. And we sleep in shifts. Remember how the Ouija said the Stranger is coming for you? It seems logical to me that when the Stranger comes for you, he’ll come at night, like he does in your nightmare. By sleeping in shifts, one of us will be awake when the Stranger appears, and maybe we’ll be able to stop him. Or maybe we won’t. But until we’ve solved this, it’d be foolish for you to sleep alone, like a sitting duck. Agree?”

  “Yeah,” Jason said. “For now, I think we’ve got our plan. Arm ourselves with that blade, and sleep in shifts. Seems good to me. Is that alright with you, Shorty?”

  “Yeah, man. It’s cool.”

  “Great,” Jason said. “When can you get your knife?”

  “I’ll get it now,” Shorty said. “I have to drop by the crib and pack some stuff for tonight anyway.”

  “Same here.” Jason finished his last slice of pizza and stood. His memory of what had happened in the bedroom weighed heavily on his mind, and the fact that they were up against someone who did not appear to be an ordinary man evoked shivers of sheer dread. But with a plan of action to protect themselves, maybe he and the fellas had a chance. Whoever he was, whatever he was, the Stranger would not win without a fight. Not with anything less than a full-scale war, Jason vowed silently.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Like father, like son.

  Standing at the window of his girlfriend’s North Chicago apartment, holding a cigarette and gazing into the night, Thomas pondered his father’s cruel words. Since he had left the nursing home earlier that day, Big George’s words had followed him like haunting spirits, making it nearly impossible for him to concentrate on work or anything else. He told himself to put them out of his mind, to dismiss them as yet another example of Big George’s dementia, but he could not expel them from his thoughts. Because he secretly worried that Big George might be right.

  He took a draw from his cigarette. He had been chain-smoking for the past several hours. It was unusual for him. He had not tasted nicotine in years.

  He heard the bedroom door open behind him. Footsteps whispered across the plush carpet. Then two slender, copper-colored arms slipped around his waist, embracing him from behind.

  “I didn’t know you smoked,” Rose Mason said in a whisper, her lips near his ear.

  “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” He took a final draw from the Kool and extinguished it in a glass ashtray.

  Rose dropped her hand to his groin, rubbed gently. “Maybe so. But I know the most important things about you.”

  He took away her hand and turned to face her. She was nude. She had a beautiful body: lithe, shapely, full in all the right places, her caramel skin as smooth as a peach. Ordinarily, the sight of her set his hormones aflame. But he could not summon any desire.

  “Rose, I might have to disappoint you tonight,” he said. “I’m not in the mood.”

  “I’ll get you in the mood. You don’t have to do a thing. Lie down, and I’ll take care of everything.”

  She would, too, if he allowed her. He could lie down and let her fuck his brains out, then get dressed and leave, and both of them would have got exactly what they sought from this one-dimensional relationship. She got fantastic sex with a virile man whose stamina matched hers. He got to slip out of the demanding role of Thomas Brooks, hardworking entrepreneur, devoted son, inept husband and father, and assume the position of a man whose sole responsibility was to get it up. Rose required only great sex and trite conversation, and that was all he delivered. Their relationship was almost sinfully superficial—and relaxing. Whenever he left her apartment, he always left with the belief that he had released air from a stress balloon that often seemed dangerously close to exploding.

  Nevertheless, as therapeutic as sex with Rose might have been, it was wrong. He was married and deeply in love with his wife. He had no business being in this woman’s bedroom.

  That is, unless he was really the womanizing dog Big George claimed both of them were.

  Like father, like son.

  Those damned words again. Mocking him. Challenging him. Daring him to prove them wrong.

  Like father, like son.

  He resolved that he had to break this cycle. Right here. Right now. Rose had unbuttoned his shirt. She started to slip it off his shoulders. He stopped her.

  “Hold on,” he said. “We have to talk.”

  “Can it wait?”

  “No. We have to talk now.”

  “Come on, baby. You haven’t been here all week.”

  “It’s only Tuesday.”

  “It feels like Friday to me.”

  “Damn, girl. Is sex all you think about?”

  “I have needs, Thomas. I’m not gonna hide the fact that I need a man a few times a week. A female can’t be shy these days, or she won’t get shit.”

  “I guess so.” He walked past her and sat on the bed. “You’re honest.”

  “Damn right, I am.” She sat beside him. She stroked his chest, kissed his neck.

  He gently pushed her away. “But it’s time for me to be honest, too.”

  She drew back. “What do you mean?”

  “You probably don’t care, but I have to tell this to someone. I talked to my dad today. Like usual, he chewed my ass out over anything that came to mind. But he said something I’ve never heard him say before, and it bothered me. It still bothers me.”

  “What did he say?” she said, watching him but, judging from her expression, not earnestly interested in his confession. She wasn’t interested in anything if it wasn’t about her. Her conceit was one of several unpleasant personality traits he had been willing to overlook because the sex was so good.

  “My dad said I was just like him,” he said. “ ‘Like father, like son,’ is how he put it. He accused me of cheating on my wife, the same way he’d cheated on my mother.”

  “So, he was telling the truth.”

  “I can’t stand the fact that I’m like him. I hate my father. It’s terrible to say that, but it’s true. There’s nothing I love about him. When he told me that today, I saw ho
w much like him I’ve become, and I hate myself for letting it happen. I can’t take it anymore; I’ve got to change. So ...”

  “I get it.” Her face darkened. “You want us to stop seeing each other.”

  “Rose, I’m sorry. But we have to. I can’t do this anymore.”

  She glared at him.

  “I’m sorry,” he said again, knowing how lame he sounded like all of the other married men who used women for sex, then cast them aside when the affair became inconvenient. He sounded like a manipulative dog, the kind of man whom women despised and nice guys loathed because he gave all men a bad reputation.

  Shit, he needed another cigarette.

  Rose went to the closet and removed a blue silk robe. She covered herself, returned to the bed.

  “This doesn’t surprise me,” she said. “I knew you’d leave sooner or later. Men always do.”

  He stood and buttoned his shirt. “I didn’t mean to use you.”

  She laughed. “Please, you make it sound like you’ve broken my heart. I never loved you, baby. You were a good fuck, nothing more, nothing less.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “Don’t get an attitude. We used each other, and that’s that. You’ll go home to your wife, and I’ll go on to the next man.” She snapped her fingers. “You’re dismissed.”

  “Is that all? That’s so ... cold.”

  “Oh, you’re dripping with self-righteousness, ain’t you? Are you gonna tell your wife about me, Mr. Do-right?”

  He shrugged. He had not yet considered whether he would tell Linda about any of this. The subject floated like a giant storm cloud in his mind.

  Rose chuckled. “Nah, you won’t tell her. After you get over this little guilt trip, you’ll be out looking for pussy again. Don’t call me next time, all right?”

  “There won’t be a next time.”

  She curled up on the bed and crossed her legs. She smiled sweetly. “Thomas, do me a favor, okay? Get out of my motherfucking apartment.”

  “You don’t know me,” he said, compelled to explain that his rejection of her was not a mere temporary awakening of conscience. There would be no next time, no more “like father like son.” He was putting this crap behind him for good.

  “Are you gonna make me call the cops on you?” Rose said. “I said to get out of my fuckin’ apartment!”

  He got out of there. Rose didn’t give a damn about his morals, and he shouldn’t expect her to care. They hadn’t been friends; they’d been sex partners. Nothing more.

  As he walked across the parking lot to his Buick, the idea that he’d used the woman purely for sex, and had let her use him in kind, disgusted him. He’d always used protection when he was with her, and had been tested recently (without Linda’s knowledge, of course), but he felt filthy nonetheless. The thought hadn’t bothered him before, but it bugged him now. Christ, what was wrong with him? He’d been behaving so irresponsibly, he was fortunate that he’d gotten off the hook with Rose so easily.

  He climbed in his car. Under a clear night sky, he drove away from the apartment building and headed north, toward Spring Harbor.

  By ending his association with Rose, he had taken a step toward proving to himself that he was not like his father. But another obstacle loomed, and he could thank Rose for reminding him of it. Was he going to confess to Linda?

  He had to sit down and think it over, ponder every angle of the issue, then determine the best course of action. Action was the keyword. He would have to do something. If he did not take action and do the right thing, he feared he would eventually wind up like his father. Sick. Bitter. And alone.

  Electric-blue lightning seared the sky, and thunder grumbled like an angry god.

  Lying in his bed, clutching the bedsheet to his chin, Jason looked out of the nearby window at the building storm. Elm trees swayed in a fierce wind, and darkness pressed against the glass—a burned-out blackness that reminded him of ashes, death, and the end of all hope. He turned away from the window. Watching the turbulent night only sharpened his anxiety.

  He stared at the dark ceiling, shivering, though the room was warm. He told himself to be brave, to face his fear like a man, but his voice sounded weak and unconvincing. Thunder clashed, shaking the walls. Lightning ripped apart the darkness, ghostly flickers playing over the furniture.

  When he thought he might be spared from the terror that night, he heard the fateful sound: a door downstairs opening, then slamming shut.

  His heartbeat accelerated.

  He looked at the bedroom door. It was locked. But a locked door never seemed to make a difference. He checked out of habit and foolish hope.

  Then he heard the footsteps. They clocked across the floorboards, each step loud and sharp, as if the walker wore a pair of combat boots. The stalker marched slowly, methodically, like a sadistic executioner approaching a doomed victim. With each strident footfall, Jason’s heart pounded harder.

  He yanked the bedsheet over his head.

  But covering himself seemed like a pathetic attempt at protection, hardly better than lying out in the open. He had to think of something else.

  He threw off the cover and swung his legs to the side of the mattress. He slid his feet to the soft carpet, stood.

  He heard the footsteps reach the bottom of the stairs. The invader began to climb the steps.

  Frantic, Jason hurried to the door. Noticing his oak desk, he gripped the side of it and, straining, pushed it in front of the door. It probably would not stop the stalker, but it was better than nothing.

  Thunder boomed in earth-rocking fusillades. A gust punched the window, like a furious spirit demanding entry.

  The footsteps arrived at the head of the stairs.

  He looked around wildly for a place to hide. Inside the closet? Behind the curtains? Under the bed? None of those spots seemed safe, but he had to choose one-quickly. He heard the stalker shuffling across the hallway, drawing closer to his room.

  He dropped to the floor and scrambled underneath the bed.

  Although the stale air under there felt cooler, he was suddenly sweating much more than before. Cold perspiration poured off him. Combined with the cool air, the icy sweat drove a numbing chill into his body that compelled him to curl into a fetal position, shivering, hugging himself for warmth.

  Lying on his side, he had a view of those few inches near the floor not concealed by the hanging bedspread. At the moment, he saw only the oak baseboard at the bottom of the wall facing him, but that would change soon. The stalker was coming.

  The doorknob rattled.

  He tensed.

  The doorknob turned again. Back and forth, back and forth. He imagined the knob, gleaming brass rotating left and right, and with each squeaky turn, he cursed the stalker. Although the stalker twisted the knob stubbornly, he would not enter through the door in the conventional manner. He was merely teasing Jason.

  The doorknob quit rattling.

  Jason listened.

  He heard a soft hiss, like air escaping a balloon.

  Then he heard footsteps inside the bedroom. So much for the desk’s usefulness as a barricade.

  The stalker walked to the closet at the foot of the bed. Jason heard the closet door squeal open.

  He swore silently.

  The stalker likely knew where he was hidden. But he wanted to prolong the search, raise Jason’s terror to a fever pitch. Jason wanted to fight back, wanted to grab the guy and pulverize him for playing these mean-spirited tricks, but he cowered under the bed, not daring to move. What sane person would attack a man who could walk through doors?

  The closet squeaked shut.

  Trembling so badly he was certain he would give himself away, he tried to hear where the stalker would head next, though from past experience, he knew exactly what would happen. He listened out of a vain hope that his fears would not be realized.

  The stalker walked across the room, to the windows. He ruffled the curtains.

  Jason ground his teeth.


  For a moment, silence, as though the stalker were deliberating where to look next. Then, Jason heard the inevitable: footsteps approaching the bed.

  He drew himself into a tight ball.

  He desperately wished he could fold up into himself and vanish. Or shrink as tiny as a gnat. Anything to get out of there. His heart banged wildly.

  A pair of sleek black leather boots stopped beside the bed, inches away from Jason’s face.

  The boots shone in the darkness, emitting a strange, silvery glow.

  Jason heard the sound of movement: the visitor beginning to bend down.

  He clenched his hands into fists. He was caught between wanting to see the stalker’s face and never wanting to know the man’s identity.

  Slowly, the stalker lifted the hanging bedspread. Higher, higher, higher ...

  The instant Jason would have seen the face, he shut his eyes and screamed, exploding out of the nightmare.

  “Hey, you all right?” Shorty said.

  Heart thudding, Jason groaned. He lay curled up like a pill bug and wedged under something. He unclenched his hand, touched the object above him. It felt like a table.

  “You crawled under the card table,” Shorty said. Crouched on the floor, he peered at Jason, his face a black oval in the dark den. “Damn, that nightmare of yours must be an ass-kicker. You okay?”

  “I’m alive, but I feel awful.” He squeezed from underneath the furniture. “Man, how embarrassing. I was hidden under there like a little kid afraid of the bogeyman.”

  “Don’t worry, I ain’t gonna tell anyone,” Shorty said.

  Outside, thunder bellowed. A continuous sizzle of rain pattered on the roof. Jason went to a window and lifted the drape. The stormy night had a burned-out look that reminded him of his nightmare. Shivering at the similarity, he dropped the curtain.

  “What time is it?” Jason said.

  “Almost four in the morning. Ain’t nothing happened. We’re the fools here, man. The Stranger’s probably snoring like everyone else.”