“Chabwok got her…blood…coming…” The boy spoke in a dulled voice. “He’s coming.”
“No, Matthew, it’s all right. Stay there. Don’t come down in your bare feet.” Going to him, she tried to turn him around and lead him back up the steps.
The floorboards above their heads vibrated as though from an explosion.
“Chabwok…killed…Pammy.”
She froze. Instinctively, she stretched out a hand; the boy’s shoulder felt rigid as wood.
Overhead, something growled, breathing down through the boards.
“No!” She tripped, almost dropping the lantern, caught herself on the banister. The thing! It’s in the house. The thing from the woods!
Her reeling brain tried to interpret what she heard. “Listen…it’s going upstairs,” she hissed. “Don’t make a sound.”
There came animal cries—more felt in the skull than heard—a snarling, rampaging fury. Groping toward the door, she pressed close, trying to make out exactly where the noise was coming from. My room?
Sudden silence.
Doris’s rifle is just outside in her car. Her hand touched the doorknob. Listening, she turned the knob slowly. Her muscles tensed with a dull nausea as she opened the door an inch. If I can move fast enough…
“Don’t…try. H-He knows…” Behind her, Matthew spoke clearly. “…hears me, hears in my head, knows where we…coming now.”
The ceiling rafters shook, and dust sifted.
“Coming down.”
Thunder drummed through the walls.
“Down here.”
She pulled the door shut. “The key!” A cry of fear spurted from her as she thrust her hand in her pocket. “Where did I…?”
She found it, fumbled it into the lock.
The door thundered and shook, gritty cinders raining down on their heads. The key fell out and rattled down the stairs. She stepped back, grabbing the boy. The door leaped in its frame.
“It won’t hold!” she shouted over the roaring. “Oh God, it won’t hold!” Letting go of the boy, she scrambled back to the landing and reached for the shelf. It’s gotten stronger! She stood with her back to the door, and it slammed against her spine. Stronger than before! Something screamed in her ear. Clutching the shelf to keep from being thrown down the stairs, she screamed herself as she dragged down the toolbox.
She pulled it open, crouching on the stairs by the lamp. “Don’t be frightened, Matthew!” Snarling rage and a stench poured through the battered door. “Don’t be afraid!” As she tore the shelf plank off its braces, the entire contents of the shelf crashed down the stairs. The boy watched, his face blank and cold, while she grabbed the hammer and a fistful of nails.
She threw herself against the door. The thing beat at it, and the door struck her head, but she pressed with all her strength, trying to hold it still while she drove a nail through the plank. “Matthew, help me!” The first nail bent, and she struck her finger. Clawing at the wood, she drove in another, slippery with blood, felt it bite deep into the wood. And another. In the dark, her blood dripped down the frame. The boy never moved. Waves of fury beat at the door with hurricane force.
Hammering and shrieking, she drove in all the long nails she could find. But it would not hold, she knew. Already, the wood splintered.
She clutched the hammer to her breast, then dumped out the contents of the toolbox. Screws and nuts and buttons scattered, bouncing down the stairs. No more nails. She dropped the hammer, held up the lamp. When it gets in, I’ll try to break the lantern on it. Burn it. But the house would catch, and Matthew was behind her on the stairs. God help us.
With wild ferocity, it beat against the wood, and the door began lurching apart. She felt the boy’s hand on her legs. “Oh Matthew, I’m so sorry.” She bent to hold him. Her vision wavered, and her thoughts began to spin. Shock waves pummeled them, rhythmic now, as the thing crashed into the door again and again. Matthew clutched her tightly, and with a blurring of senses, it seemed to her they joined somehow, became for an instant like vines grown thick and strong together in the storm. She shook her head forcefully. “No! Go away! Do you hear me? Leave us alone!”
The door would burst apart in seconds. Dazed, she watched bright cracks radiate across it, kitchen light seeping through. “Matthew! Stay behind me!” She reached back for his hand. Nothing. Empty air.
The boy crouched by the door.
“No! Get back!” Nearly paralyzed, she tried to grab him.
Kneeling, Matty whispered. Through a chink, a shaft of light struck one of his eyes. Ivory. Onyx. He murmured. Instantly, the attack became less violent. Then it stopped.
On hands and knees, the boy continued murmuring under the door. On the other side, weight slid against the wood. It eased inward again. She sank to her knees and tried to make out the boy’s words, but his voice stayed too low. From the other side, something snuffled and snorted around the doorjamb, as though a giant hog rampaged in the kitchen. She heard a padding sound. Foul breath oozed through the cracks. Drawing back from the smell, she touched the boy, listened to the comfort offered by his crooning voice—gibberish, baby talk.
And then silence.
“Is it gone? Matthew, did it go away?”
They crouched in silence, and the lantern burned low. She leaned an ear against the wood. The door wobbled. Anyone could kick it down now. If it comes back… Holding her breath, she groped about for the hammer.
She waited, listening.
“Matthew, we’re going to try and make a run for Aunt Doris’s car. Matthew? Can you understand what I’m saying?”
But what if—just this once—Doris didn’t leave her keys in the ignition? Trying to work quietly with the claw end of the hammer, she began pulling out nails. They squealed softly. What if it’s outside waiting for us?
The door pulled away from her, broke from its hinges and heaved to the floor. She blinked at the light. Gripping the hammer, she took Matthew’s hand and drew him after her. Splintered wood crunched underfoot. The kitchen table lay upside down atop two smashed chairs.
The boy stumbling behind her, she crept to the back door.
She stared. The bolt was still in place.
How did it get in? She couldn’t tear her eyes away. How did it get out?
The door shook, and she screamed.
“Athena! ’Thena, let me in! What’s wrong? Athena!”
“Steven? Oh God. Steven.” She unlatched the door and swung it open, the hammer falling from her fingers to thud on the loose floorboards.
He grabbed her. “Sweet Jesus, ’Thena, what…?”
“It’s here. The thing. In the house.”
Reaching for his service revolver, he pushed past her. She hung on to the door.
After a moment, he returned. “’Thena?” His eyes took in the demolished kitchen.
“It…”
“It’s okay, ’Thena. I’m here now.”
Still shaking and gripping the door, she turned to the outer darkness. “We locked ourselves in the basement.” Her voice grated with exhaustion, words barely emerging from her throat.
“We?”
As she looked back, her eyes went wild. “Matthew! Where are you?”
In the living room, the boy knelt by the sofa and crooned.
“There!” Her fingers stabbed. “Behind the sofa!”
He waved her aside, motioned for her to be silent. The boy appeared not to be aware of him. Revolver drawn, he got down on his hands and knees, grunting. “It’s okay, boy. It’s okay.” He got up again. “There’s one hell of a frightened dog under there. That’s all.”
But she only held her head to the side as though listening to things he couldn’t hear.
He wondered if he’d ever seen a more terrified human being. “’Thena, let me look around. Why don’t you come and sit here?”
But she moved to the boy. “Matthew? Are you all right?”
When finally the boy looked up, Steve stepped closer. He squirmed as the bo
y’s queer eyes fell upon him. Steve turned away, not knowing where to look. Stuffing had been ripped from the sofa, and an armchair lay on its side in the center of the room. Curtains covered the floor. “I’m going to go upstairs and search.”
“No, it’s gone.” She gave him a trembling smile and tried to smooth back her hair. “I…knew it was gone…the second we came out of the basement. I could feel it. I don’t know why I acted so—”
“You’re okay.” Again, he surveyed the room. “Everything’s all right now.” He righted the armchair. “But you can’t stay here anymore.”
“Where could we go?”
“Neighbors? Family?”
She shook her head.
“The two of you could come to my house.” He waited, but she said nothing. “How did it get in?”
Distractedly, she shrugged.
Steve paced the room, examining the windows. “No signs of a break-in.” The dog wouldn’t come out from beneath the sofa. Matty stopped mumbling and just sat there on the rug, playing with his fingers, walking them about on the floor.
She sat in the armchair. “How’s Doris?”
“They were getting set to do X-rays when I left. What’s behind this door?”
“The other part of the house. Rooms we don’t use.”
“Let’s take a look.”
“It’s dangerous. The floors…”
There were bolts at the top and bottom of the door, and he drew them with difficulty. Stiff hinges gave only when he threw his weight against them. “Can we get some light in here?” Again, he drew his gun. Behind him, she righted a lamp, removed the shade and brought the bare bulb as close to the doorway as the cord would allow.
Inside lay thick emptiness, the air heavy with moldy dust. Covered by a sheet, a large piece of furniture occupied the center of the room. Steve took a few hesitant steps. “I see what you mean about the floor.” He stumbled and cursed.
“What’s the matter?” she asked from the doorway.
“Nothing. A soft spot.” The lamp didn’t illuminate much; only water-damaged walls stood out in the gloom. He heard boards groan as she came toward him. “Better stay out there. Is this the only other door that leads outside?” He moved toward it, feeling the uneven floor sink with each step. “Still bolted.” He rattled the bolt and turned to her, his vision adjusting, saw the glitter of her eyes as she approached. “Walk along the edge of the floor, near the wall,” he advised. “When I was driving Doris to the hospital, she said something about your going into town to find some guy.”
“Pamela told me about him.”
“Why didn’t you wait for me?” His back to her now, he tested the boards across a tightly shuttered window.
“Pam’s still missing,” she told him. “Matty says she’s…”
“Doris also mentioned about some locals having left the area.” Again, the unspoken reprimand sounded in his voice. “What’s through here?”
“Just another room. Steve, wait.”
He ducked through the doorway, and she stood motionless. The amount of dust in the air made it hard to breathe, and wheezing slightly, she looked back at the lamp in the doorway.
“Jesus!” The deep voice went hoarse with fright. “What’s that?”
The floor creaked loudly just in front of her. Overhead, blackness squirmed. “It’s just a bat, Steve. They get in sometimes.”
Breathing heavily, he took her arm and led her back toward the light.
“There’s just the one window in the other room.” He could see only her face, a pale oval. “Looks intact. No one could have…”
“No, no one could have. Look.” She tilted the lamp. In the layered dust, her narrow footprints crossed Steve’s large, broad ones. There were no others. She closed the door and began struggling with the bolts.
He walked into the kitchen. “And you’re sure this back door was locked?”
She followed him. “I only opened it for you.”
“Well, I can’t figure out how anything could’ve gotten in here.” He gazed down at the gouged and shattered cellar door, at the hammer on the floor. “What did you say happened to this door?” He stared at the claw end of the hammer.
She started to speak, then spun around. Soundlessly, Matty had entered the room behind her. Silent and stone-faced, he kicked a piece of chair out of his way, then pressed himself between the stove and the wall and pointed down.
Steve leaned over the stove. “Crap. That would do it all right.”
“What?” She looked. Blackness sank deep in a large hole behind the stove.
“Looks like it goes under the wall and right outside. Look out.” He waved her back, and she drew the boy to her. Steve took hold of the stove and, straining, inched it away from the wall. “You have any more of those boards you were using?”
“…knew there was something wrong the day Lonny was…when I found Lonny and we came home and the dog ran up, but he couldn’t have been outside because I locked him in the house and the door was still…”
He said nothing, just hammered planks across the mouth of the tunnel, while the boy stood back, watching.
For what seemed like a long time, the words poured out of her. “…what really bothered me the most, I mean, was the way he talked to it, really talked to it, whispered through the door and it seemed to listen and…”
“Okay,” he grunted. “This ought to hold.” Careful of the gas pipe, he got to his feet and came around, shoving the stove back against the wall.
“Oh God, listen to me. I sound like a crazy woman.” And she started to laugh. “Good going, girl. You finally made it.” She sat in the sole upright kitchen chair, her head in her hands, as her whole body trembled.
Brushing himself off, he stepped closer, wanting to touch her, to hold her. “You’ve really been through it.” He looked around at the shambles of the kitchen; it was as though their talk of the night before had called something into being, summoned it here.
“I can’t remember ever having been hysterical before. God, where’s Pamela?”
“Don’t you think she could’ve just gone somewhere?”
“And left Matty alone?” She practically giggled. “And look—there’s her handbag. You don’t know. She carries it with her everywhere, like a little girl, all around the house even.” Suddenly, she grabbed the boy and shook him. “That string bag! Where did it come from? Does Chabwok bring you things? Does he leave presents for you on the stoop?”
“’Thena, stop it. Think. Isn’t there someplace Pam could have gone?”
“No place.” She let go, and the boy shrank from her. “Not her mother’s. No place.”
“You said some of the townspeople left. Couldn’t she just have gone with them?” He waited for her to respond, then followed her gaze. On a shelf about the stove, a jelly glass held wilted crabgrass and black-eyed susans. “You say Matty spoke to…your visitor? Athena, listen to me. You think the boy might know something? Would you like me to talk to him?”
After a pause, she nodded.
“Come here, son.” He put his arm on Matty’s shoulder and led him toward the living room. Matthew complied, following easily, yet scarcely seeming aware of Steve. He might as easily have gone in the direction of any gust of wind. Rising, she followed them as far as the doorway and stood, watching.
He seated the boy on a still-intact section of sofa, and scratching noises came from underneath as the dog shifted.
“Your name’s Matt, right? Mine’s Steve.” Smiling, he held his hand out, but the boy never blinked.
She saw the tension grow in Steve’s shoulders as he studied the weary pain in the boy’s face. Unable to watch, she turned away.
For long minutes, she sat alone in the kitchen, knowing she must resemble one of those women they used to get in the ambulance, hysterical mothers whose children had been injured through negligence. But nothing has happened to Matthew. Nothing. Indistinctly, she could hear her son’s voice from the next room, jumbled sentences and the word “C
habwok” repeated over and over. Jabberwok. Then Steve’s deep grumbling sounded again, gentle and too soft for her to make out the coaxing words. When the boy spoke again, his words came lower and slower.
She looked at the broken dishes. All that cleaning for nothing. The coffeepot lay on the floor by the stove, soggy grounds beside it like a heap of drowned ants.
“’Thena! Come quick!”
He had hold of the boy’s upper arms and kept shaking him. Oblivious, the boy mumbled with his eyes rolled white. “…try run…they can’t…slip, sink inna sand…run blood…taste…Pammy…”
“I can’t make him stop.”
“…through woods…blood…running safe place…hurt…”
As though mesmerized, she stood before the boy, listening. “Who, Matthew? Who’s running?”
“…trees…hitting branches…tearing…” The boy grimaced in pain. “…blood-hot…” He slurred the words like a drunk. “…shed…”
“The shed out back?”
“No doors…no windows…trees in front…”
“Matty? Baby?” She took his hot face in her hands. “Is it Chabwok? Is Chabwok moving toward the house or away from us?”
“Oh my God.” Steve stared at them.
“Matthew, it’s important. We have to know.”
The boy’s voice seemed to thicken. “Running through trees.” Moaning, he tore himself from them and vomited on the floor. Hanging over the sofa, he gagged and groaned while Steve held his head. At last the boy stood up straight.
“I think he’ll be okay now,” said Steve. “We’d better get him upstairs.”
“Matty?” She reached out a hand, but he moved away with wobbling steps. “Matty?”
Wordlessly, he began to mount the stairs, putting both feet on one step before going on to the next.
“Steve? What’s wrong with him?”
They peered up through the banister spokes. “Look at his face,” Steve whispered. “Like he’s sleepwalking. Come on.” They both followed, he making an effort to move quietly, she leaning heavily on the rail. “Where’s he taking us?”
Strewn along the hall, piles of clothing spilled out of a room at the top of the stairs, many of them ripped and torn. Steve paused to examine them, then glanced at Athena. Her eyes never left the boy’s back. Nearly reaching out to take her arm as she passed, he thought better of it and watched them move away from him, the limping woman and the slow, silent boy.
The Pines Page 27