by Rio Youers
Scratch was getting to his feet.
“No,” I breathed. I pushed open the door, spilled onto the driveway, and crawled on my hands and knees to the front of the car. The headlights threw my shadow against the stormy night. I shook my head and screamed in frustration. Thunder covered my cries. Lightning gave the scene brief, dreadful colour. I held out one hand—not to Scratch, but to whatever lived in the swampy ground behind him.
“Come get him,” I uttered, and then found my voice, my rage, and it was louder than the storm: “COME GET THE SON OF A BITCH!”
Scratch Clayton brushed himself down: a huge, bedraggled feature standing in the rain. He scratched his chest, wiped blood from his face, and pointed at me.
“You’re in a world of trouble now, city boy,” he said, but these were his final words, his final threat. The rain sheeted down and the thunder rolled with clumsy, square edges, and the creature that lived in the swampy ground next to my property heard my plea. It rose behind him, black and miserable.
It came for him.
It was three weeks before anyone noticed that Scratch was AWOL. Bernie Kuzik, who runs the One-Stop Grocery Mart in Hallow Falls, raised the alarm. You could set your watch by Scratch, he told O.P.P. officers. Every Friday morning, ten-thirty on the button, eh? I know to get the same box of groceries made up for him. He’s a creature of habit, so the fact that I haven’t seen him since the end of last month tells me that something is astray. Bernie said enough to convince the police, and I watched from my bedroom window as an O.P.P. cruiser pulled up outside Scratch’s property. I got a little buzz of déjà vu, remembering the last time a cruiser had rolled into Scratch’s driveway—Constable Moon responding to my complaint, and hadn’t that gotten Scratch steaming mad?
The cops (Constable Moon was not one of them) knocked on the door and peered through the lower windows. I thought they would break in like they do on CSI: Miami, but of course Scratch had not locked up before leaving the house, and all they had to do was open the door and step inside. I imagined them in there, calling out his name as they nosed from one room to the next, fully expecting to come across his cold, decomposing body, but all they found was dust and a TV set with the volume way too loud, tuned to whichever network runs Deal or No Deal. I knew that investigators would be called in, and that they would go through Scratch’s house and realize that something was wrong. I had previously considered—during the clean-up process—going over and arranging Scratch’s belongings to make it look as if he had taken a trip, maybe bundle some clothes into a suitcase (which I would dispose of), turn off the TV, and lock the door. In the end I decided to leave everything as it was, preferring not to complicate the evidence. I figured my best defence was to play ignorant, and so far it has worked like a charm.
I watched the officers exit the house, and then came the inevitable: questioning me. I had my answers prepared, of course, but gave each question due consideration, and made sure I referred to Scratch in the present tense: No, sir, I haven’t seen Scratch for a week or two. Unusual? Not really—this time of year, with the cold and all, old fellas like Scratch and me don’t venture out too often. Any visitors? Not that I recall, but nothing unusual about that, either; Scratch isn’t one for company …
As they were leaving, one of the officers stopped on the front step and casually asked: “I understand you filed a complaint against Mr. Clayton in May of this year …?”
That was it. He didn’t ask any more—just threw this out as a tester, wanting to see my reaction, I guess, and I played it just the way I wanted … the way I’d rehearsed it in my head a hundred times. I shifted my weight on my walker (X-rays revealed that I had popped my hip out of joint—damn painful—and the walker, during those first weeks, was the only way to get around), and said: “Yes, sir, but there were no further problems after you boys had a talk with Scratch. I meant to call and thank you, but my wife fell sick shortly thereafter, and I guess I had more important things to think about.”
They nodded and left, and went back to Scratch’s house, and before long there were four cruisers and a van parked in Scratch’s driveway. They started to search the immediate area, using dogs … and I got a pretty good hit of the jitters when they approached the place where I drag the dead animals after I find them at the bottom of my driveway. I expected the creature to bound from the swamp and snag one of the dogs—pull it barking and snarling into whatever deep hole it lives. But that didn’t happen. The dogs nosed and sniffed but found nothing at all.
No pickings.
The police searched my house and garage, but I had done a thorough job of eliminating all traces of confrontation (if you recently purchased a set of golf clubs from the Sally Ann Thrift Store in Richmond Hill, you could be using vital evidence on your approach shot). They didn’t find anything to excite their suspicion. I remained courteous and obliging, yet slightly inquisitive. I hobbled on my walker and complained about the pain in my hip, and after a while they left me alone.
Now all I need is for Scratch to leave me alone. I want his voice to quit calling to me on the wind, mocking me, and for his sneering, ugly face to slide from my dreams.
You’re in a world of trouble now, city boy.
No peace, no mercy. Every time I close my eyes, I see him standing in the rain with the creature rising behind him. I see the way it swooped upon him, enveloping him, and I hear his muffled cries as he was lifted from the ground and pulled into the swamp. Every recollection presents the monster a little differently, a new disfigurement that I am either remembering or inventing. I see horns or tusks (maybe both) and black, glowing eyes. I see thorny limbs and two sets of wings, like a dragonfly. I see teeth and claws and darkness. I hear buzzing and snapping … and screaming.
Sometimes, all I hear is screaming.
I was woken last night by a wet, buzzing sound. I looked from my window and saw it again, crouched at the edge of my driveway with its long wings cloaking its body.
I still feed it, but the supply is running dry since the animals have taken to hibernating. Not so much roadkill. Maybe one hit a week.
I hope that’s enough.
Two months have passed, the first snow has fallen, and I hobble through every moment of the day wondering if the pain will go away. I’ve had three osteopathic treatments on my hip but it still hurts like a bitch, and my other knocks and bruises have not fully healed. I told Doc Fox I took a spill off the porch steps and he said I was lucky I didn’t break any bones. I don’t feel lucky, though. It’s not the physical pain that harries me, but the pain inside—the kind that can’t be seen on an X-ray. It’s called loneliness. It’s called fear. I lie awake at night, knowing that sleep, when it finally arrives, will be fragile. I used to tuck my right arm under my pillow, but now I let it stray to the slight impression in the mattress where Melinda used to sleep. The wind whistles through the gap in the window. The alarm clock ticks. Slow seconds. I hear Scratch Clayton howl and scream, and I stare into the darkness, praying for a decent night’s sleep.
I want the fear and loneliness to go away, but more than anything I want a decent night’s sleep. Just for once.
Is that too much to ask?
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