Enter, Night

by Michael Rowe

  “Donna, are you all right?” he said. “Jesus, you gave me one fuck of a shock. What the hell are you doing down here?”

  “Elliot, you came back. . . . I knew you would.”

  “Donna, let’s get you upstairs where it’s warm,” he said, putting his arm around her. “Then we need to get you to a hospital. What happened to you? What are you doing here?” The coldness of her body burned through his windbreaker, and only then did he realize that there was something very, very wrong, besides the obvious wrongness of finding the woman you couldn’t get it up for last night—until you fucked her in the ass—sleeping in a deep freeze in the basement of her house. It felt as though he had his arm around a frozen carcass in the meat locker of an abattoir.

  There’s no oxygen in that freezer, Elliot, and no way to open it from the inside. Remember the kid when you were in the third grade, the one who suffocated to death because he was playing in his parents’ deep freeze and couldn’t get out? Something’s wrong here, Mr. Cop. So much for your instincts.

  “Donna?” He pulled back. “Donna, how did you—”

  She reached out, snakelike, and grasped his arm in a grip that made him wince and suck in his breath. Her eyes weren’t blue, as they always had been. Now they were a deep dark red, the same garnet colour as the full jelly jars when he’d shone his light through them moments ago.

  Donna took his other arm and pinned him to the wall. “Elliot, I want you to love me.”

  Though Elliot could see her lips move, the sound of her voice seemed to be coming from inside his head, not from her mouth. It rippled through his body, liquefying his arms and legs, crumpling him to his knees, then to the floor.

  The part of his mind that governed fight-or-flight tried to inform Elliot that he should scream—wanted to, in fact—but he didn’t have access to that part of his brain. It was as though something outside him had identified it, isolated it, and cut it off from being able to communicate. Elliot floated on a cloud of luminous red mist and infinite space full of flickering points of light.

  His knees buckled and he fell backward. The base of his head struck the concrete floor and he saw fireworks at the contact.

  “I only ever wanted you to love me.” Donna’s voice shivered in his brain. “You never did. I always knew you didn’t. Will you love me now? I want you inside of me, Elliot.”

  Elliot felt the blood thundering through his body. His cock was harder than it had ever been, straining painfully inside his uniform pants. Donna straddled his crotch and ground her pelvis against his erection. His limbs were paralyzed, but he’d never been more sexually aroused in his life. He tried to think, to focus, but his brain was disconnected from every other part of himself, and his body was on fire with sensation. The universe was composed of Elliot, his engorged cock, and Donna Lemieux writhing on top of him, suddenly the most desirable woman—the most desirable creature, male or female—he could imagine.

  “Donna,” he whispered. Tears ran down his cheeks. “Donna . . . please . . .”

  When she placed her lips against his neck, the pressure of her sharp teeth behind her frozen lips was the most erotic sensation he could imagine. Even the sharp pain of those teeth slicing through the soft skin below his jawline only stung for a moment, then the pain was replaced by spreading heat he felt at every extremity. Seconds before he lost consciousness, his body was wracked by the most shattering orgasm of his life.

  His last thought before blacking out was that he was sorry Jeremy wasn’t there to see this proof that he really was a normal guy, and that the past really was past.

  Finn wasn’t sure what woke him. The iridescent green hands of the clock on his night table read two a.m. The clock itself ticked softly and the house was deathly quiet.

  Instinctively, he put out his hand beside his bed and felt for Sadie’s head. Then he remembered that she wasn’t there, that she had been lost, then come home, and was now sleeping in the kitchen. He was suddenly possessed of a powerful need to see with his own eyes that she was there, that their reunion hadn’t been some sort of fantastic dream that would leave him heartbroken when he realized it was, in fact, just a dream. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and reached for the light switch and turned it on.

  Sadie was sitting a foot from his bed staring at him, silent, unmoving. At her feet was the red rubber ball.

  Finn realized that she’d dropped it there. The sound of the ball hitting his bedroom floor was what had woken him.

  He rubbed his eyes and stared at his dog.

  Sadie’s posture was not the posture of the broken thing that had limped in through the back door a few hours earlier. The hydrogen peroxide had clearly done its work, because the bite marks in Sadie’s fur were already healing, even fading. Finn doubted there would even be scars, at this rate. Maybe God really had been listening tonight when he prayed for his dog’s life to be spared. He tried to remember the terms of his part of the bargain, but realized that, whatever they were, he’d honour them.

  “Sadie, are you feeling better?” he whispered joyously. “You’re a good girl. Sadie’s a good girl!” Almost as an afterthought he added courteously, “Thank you, God. I appreciate it.” Finn patted the bed beside him, their time-honoured signal for Sadie to jump up on the bed for a cuddle, or a sleep. Sadie didn’t move. “Sadie, come up! Come up!” Finn said, more loudly. He patted the mattress again. “Come up on the bed!”

  Sadie lay down at his feet, keeping her distance from him. When he reached out to pat her paw, she made a sound low in her throat, somewhere between a whine and a growl. Finn pulled his hand back in shock.

  When he did, the Labrador’s tail swished back and forth, as though she were telling him she would lay there beside him, but warning him not to touch her. Sadie had never, ever growled at Finn. Not once.

  “What is it, Sadie?” he said, alarmed. “Are you still hurt?”

  Swish, swish, swish.

  “Fine, Sadie.” He was somewhat mollified by the tail-wagging, which said to him that whatever else was wrong, she still loved him, and was likely still feeling the pain of her ordeal. He’d see how she was tomorrow— she was going to the vet tomorrow, anyway, to check out the bites. Would his parents ever be surprised at how much better she was looking. Maybe they wouldn’t even need to go to the vet, after all. Miracles were obviously at play, and Finn had a personal investment in them.

  He switched off the light and fell back asleep to the comforting sound of Sadie’s soft breathing from the place on the floor from which she never once moved all night.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  On the last morning of his childhood, Finn woke up in his bed exactly as he always had. He yawned and stretched as he always did. He looked at his clock, figured that his parents were still fast asleep, and would be for hours yet. He looked around for Sadie. She had moved from the spot beside his bed and was now sitting on her haunches in the doorway connecting his bedroom and the downstairs hallway.

  “Good morning, Sadie,” he whispered. “How’s the good girl? Did you have a good sleep?”

  Sadie didn’t come to him as she usually did, but she wagged her tail slowly back and forth.

  Finn got out of bed and padded over to where she sat. It was dark outside, but by the light of his bedside lamp, he beheld the miracle fruit of his bargain with God: Sadie’s bites had entirely healed. Her fur was glossy and black, and the patches of hair that had been torn out of her flesh during the fight with whatever animal had done this to her had almost completely grown back. She looked as she had looked three, maybe four years before, when she had been much younger, almost a puppy again.

  Indeed, a miracle. He thanked God again, just to make sure He’d heard it the first time and knew how grateful Finn was for this second chance with his beloved Labrador. He couldn’t wait to tell Morgan after school later.

  Sadie’s mouth hung slightly open, her brilliant white teeth lying over her bottom lip, pink tongue quivering. She panted gently as though she wanted to go
outside.

  At her feet was her red ball. She looked down at the ball, then back at Finn. It was their personal signal for playtime, an instance of Sadie training him rather than the other way around.

  Finn smiled hugely, feeling as though his heart would burst with the sheer euphoria of having her back, well and healed. “You want to go outside, Sadie?” he said. “You want to go for a walk?”

  Swish, swish, swish.

  As he had every day when he took this walk in the late fall, Finn dressed quickly and warmly. At the front door, he put on his coat and boots, tucked the ball into his jacket pocket, and called Sadie. She trotted up the stairs and followed him out the door into the pre-dawn darkness of Parr’s Landing.

  He looked up and breathed the cold, clean air deep into his lungs.

  For the rest of his life, Finn would remember the particular clarity of that morning sky: Venus still visibly glowing in the western reach above the ridge of cliffs on the far edge of the horizon, past Spirit Rock; the stars, hard like jewels; the variegated shades of dark blue that hinted at the coming sunrise. He would remember how he skipped and ran with a buoyancy so pure that the pavement itself seemed to release him from the constraints of anything as pedestrian—or adult—as gravity, with Sadie trotting ahead, her black body a barrel-shaped shadow bobbing over the pavement on legs that were remarkably delicate and slender for such sturdy work.

  Like always, he cut across the streets, through back lots, till the land flattened out and grew more timbered as they approached the road that led to Bradley Lake and the cliffs of Spirit Rock. When the lake was in sight, he turned west and began the upward ascent along a path he could navigate with his eyes closed if he had to.

  But he didn’t close his eyes. He kept them open, trained on Sadie who trotted in front of him, not bounding ahead as she usually did, but seeming to savour this new beginning as much as Finn was. He relished the sight of her as though it were their very first walk. Occasionally, she stopped and looked back, as though to reassure herself that Finn was right behind her, as he always had been, and always would be.

  Higher and higher they climbed. The land underfoot grew harder as soft earth gave way to pine needle-covered patches of shale and granite shield. In the sky, the dark blue was lightening by degrees. Finn gauged that the sun would begin to rise in approximately five minutes. He could practically set his watch by the colour of the sky.

  Sadie stopped abruptly and sat down on the path. She sniffed the air and whined.

  “What is it, Sadie?” he said, catching up to her. He reached down to pet her, and she snapped at his hand. He jerked it back. “Sadie, what’s wrong?” She’s afraid of something, Finn thought. Not me, surely? She can’t be afraid of me.

  He reached down to pet her again, and this time she snarled with unambiguous menace, showing all her teeth. Finn backed away slowly, thinking about rabies and wondering how quickly a dog could be infected with that virus, and how quickly it would change her.

  Once again, as soon as he backed away, she closed her mouth and wagged her tail, whining apologetically, as if to tell him she was sorry. The thought came to him, suddenly and with near-telepathic clarity that, for some reason, Sadie wasn’t afraid of Finn; rather, Sadie was trying to keep him away from her. She was afraid for him.

  Then, she turned and bounded off into the forest as if pursued.

  “Sadie, no!” Finn shouted, thinking, No, not again. Please, God, don’t let her run away again.

  He chased her straight up the hill. He’d never known Sadie to run so swiftly and nimbly, even as a puppy. Finn was panting as he tried to keep up with her. He watched her tail disappear around an outcropping of boulders directly above him, slightly to the left of where he was trying to navigate the slippery rock.

  Reaching level ground, he looked left and right and called her name. He saw the land around him clearly now. The light was pale blue and pellucid, shot through with gossamer threads of yellow. He looked around again and called out, “Sadie! Come on, girl! It’s OK, don’t be afraid. We’ll go home now!”

  Stupid, stupid, stupid, he berated himself. It was too soon for her to come back up here after what happened to her. We should have slept in.

  Then he remembered her waiting in the doorway of his bedroom with the red ball, begging to play. He felt for the ball in his pocket. It was there. He took it out and held it in his hand.

  “Sadie, I have your ball,” Finn called out winningly. “Come and get it. Come on, girl—come and get your red ball!” He bounced it on the ground—Sadie could always identify that sound, no matter where she was in the house.

  He heard a soft whimper come from behind the boulders. Thank God, he thought, adding a casual prayer, though no less earnest for its casualness. Thanks, God. Please, just one more thing? Could you make her come to me, so I can take her home? Sorry to keep bothering you.

  The whine came again, and Finn walked around the boulders.

  Sadie was cowering in a deep rock shelter behind a copse of low growing white pine, almost hidden from sight. He saw her eyes gleaming in the dimness—more red than amber in the brightening light, he noted, dismissing the observation even as it occurred to him—and he spoke to her in a soft, soft voice.

  “Sadie, come out. Please, Sadie. Let’s go home now. Come on, baby.”

  He bounced the ball twice, then three times against the ground. From inside the grotto he could have sworn he heard the sound of her tail swishing against stone.

  He held out his hand with the ball in it, and she crept towards the opening of the rock shelter. Finn heard her panting before he saw that she was slick with sweat—sweat that hadn’t been there a few moments before—trembling violently. Sadie looked at him imploringly, as though desperately trying to push her thoughts into his mind.

  He felt a wave of pure love coming from Sadie. Love, and something more.

  Finn’s pupils dilated and he swayed on his feet, struggling for balance.

  Amorphous, sibylline images tumbled through his brain—vivid impressions of Sadie as a puppy, but not images of his own recollect, not images of himself with Sadie, not the privileged god’s-eye view from which even the most benign and loving human beings experience their interaction with animals.

  No, these were images of Sadie with him: the gift of a glimpse of the world as experienced from Sadie’s perspective—a mosaic of smells no human nose would ever experience; the literature of light on grass and snow; the secret language of birds and squirrels and cats; the true meaning of unconditional love, something no human being would ever truly understand; the perfect ecstasy of Finn’s fingers combing through her soft black fur, the utter completion of falling asleep at the foot of his bed. Pure and uncomplicated gratitude for every affection ever shown to her. Vigilance for Finn’s safety. Self-sacrifice.

  The sound of the red rubber ball being dropped on the bedroom floor. Thump-thump-thump. Bounce, bounce. Good! Chase! Me chase! Throw!

  As if in a trance, Finn threw the ball. Sadie scrambled out of the grotto and leaped into the sunlight.

  Finn saw the flash of white light and felt the searing blast of unearthly heat before his brain could record what was happening. In one second, Sadie’s body had launched itself into the air in pursuit of the red rubber ball. In the next second, there was a ghastly smell like ozone and burned hair, and his dog burst into flames before his eyes, shrieking in agony and crashing to the forest earth in front of him, writhing in the flames of an incandescent calefaction; a fire that seemed to come from inside Sadie’s body, consuming it with merciless efficiency, melting fur and flesh and bone.

  As Finn watched, her body rippled and crumbled to ash, leaving a charred skeleton that continued to burn even after the flesh was gone. Then, the fire abruptly went out, seemingly drawn inward by the skeleton itself, leaving only thick black smoke and the horrifying images seared into his brain.

  It had taken seconds—seconds that, to Finn, felt like centuries repeating themselves in a cycle of a
gonizing revelation. The skeleton collapsed, became ash that blew away into the forest on the dawn breeze. In the east, the sun continued to climb in the sky, golden light touching the crest of the pine trees and the cliffs surrounding Parr’s Landing, promising the most beautiful of late autumn days.

  Finn stared, his mouth hanging open, his mind refusing to reconcile with what his eyes had just recorded. He opened his arms in the supplicant posture of a cheated embrace. Then he screamed louder than he had ever screamed in his life, a harrowing shriek of impossible betrayal, one that ripped away his innocence, his childhood, and his faith forever.

  “SADIE!”

  Finn stumbled, half-blind, towards the pile of smoking ash that had been his dog and reached out blindly to touch it, to hold it. Still hot, it seared his hand. He screamed again as painful blisters rose on the skin, a last, final insulting damnation from whoever the author of this counter miracle had been.

  He said Sadie’s name over and over again, part mantra, part keening, part pleading for this unimaginable horror to be revealed as some terrible cosmic mistake, or a scientific impossibility that would be unmasked as a sick joke at any moment.

  But it wasn’t. Nothing came, neither relief nor absolution.

  As Finn knelt alone in the forest, rocking and weeping, the smoke dwindled down to wisps, and then died out entirely. Sunlight dappled the forest around him, and in the trees above his head, Finn heard the gentle lamentation of birdsong.

  Anne Miller stood at the kitchen window wearing the pink velour winter bathrobe she’d gotten last Christmas from Finn “and Sadie.” She was pouring her first cup of Maxwell House when she heard the front door click open. The house had been cold when she’d woken up half an hour before. Sadie wasn’t in the kitchen, and Finn wasn’t in his bed.