The Pines

by Robert Dunbar

  The boy disappeared into what looked like a closet, and his mother paused only a moment before following. Steve hurried to catch up. The alcove hid narrow stairs.

  Moonlight streamed through the crusted window. Steve switched on the light and looked around in confusion, frowning at the clinging stench of dried urine.

  “He sleeps here.” She answered his unspoken question. “It used to be my husband’s room when he was a boy, and when Matty was little, he used to make noises at night, so I thought…” She stopped. There was no justification for this. Revealed by the chilling glow, dirt lay thicker than she’d ever realized.

  “’Thena? Where is he?”

  She wended her way between pieces of furniture, looking behind and under things as she passed. “I saw him go over this way.”

  Steve followed, shoving things aside and choking on the dust.

  “Matty?” She reached the wall. “Where could…?”

  He pointed. “What’s that?”

  Against the wall, a massive chest of drawers partly blocked a dark area in the plaster.

  “Matthew?”

  It was a hole, a deep hole.

  “Are you back there?” She squeezed through into the cobwebbed cave.

  Too late, he put out a hand to stop her. “Athena?”

  No sound came from within. Scraping his shoulder, he tried to pass through the opening but had to shove the high bureau aside. He stumbled over crumbling plaster. Almost no light found its way into the tunnel.

  “Athena?” Beyond a tight corner, he found some sort of crawl space, possibly a ventilation passage between the inner wall and outer shell of the house. Slats poked through like broken ribs. He heard a sound, a muffled fluttering as of moths, and he lit a match. At the end of the narrow space, the boy sat hunched against the wall, mumbling to himself. Barely a foot away, Athena had been feeling her way along the bricks.

  From outside and far below came a sound like the night breathing through the trees, like waves pressing through the pines to break against the house.

  Slowly, she raised her head and gazed at something just above the boy, and Steve raised the faltering match.

  Crude iron manacles had been hammered into the ancient bricks of the chimney.

  PART FOUR

  DEVIL

  …hatched for sport

  Out of warm water and slime…

  Edgar Lee Masters

  …his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming…

  Edgar Allen Poe

  …departing dreams and shadowy forms

  Of midnight vision…

  Henry David Thoreau

  Wednesday, August 12

  He was trapped. Ernie lay in the airless little room, languid heat pounding through the tiny window slit. Trapped. He lay on the cot, an arm flung over his face. One long brown hand throbbed with infection, and each breath brought pain.

  The summer had peaked, and each day it seemed a relentless ball of flame blazed over the barrens. It was killing him, he knew.

  “I brung ya some water.”

  One eye stuck shut, the other an opaque slit, he struggled to raise his head as the boy moved timidly into the room. Just since he’d been here, the youth had changed, grown. He seemed leaner, taller. The flesh was firm, the face clear. He carried a brown-caked mug, half-filled with tepid liquid. Gently, he held Ernie’s head and put the cup to his lips, then took a wet rag from the basin and wiped Ernie’s face with it, dabbing at his eyes.

  Scratching the grit away with his fingertips, Ernie got his eyes entirely open and for a long moment just lay there, staring at the boy. Aching hunger darkened his face, and his breath became a slow bubbling. He gazed at pale hair so light it seemed a melted confection, spun and glistening, at flesh so thin it displayed a delicate tracing of blue.

  “Your pop’s gonna throw me outta here, Marl. Soon. If I don’t get some more money from someplace.”

  The boy shook his head. “No, I won’t let ’im.” The face registered no emotion, but the childlike voice whined in a high pitch. “Won’t let nobody! Yor ’bout the only friend I ever…anybody’d try to chase you ’way, I’d…”

  Ernie reached out a hand for the cup, gulped down the rest of the water. “Who was that woman was here yesterday? I heard you talking. You thought I was asleep, but I heard you.”

  “J-Just some woman. Lives down that ways…inna big old house.”

  “What’d she want?”

  Marl didn’t answer at first. “She just…asking stuff.”

  “She ask about me?” He leaned forward, studying the boy’s face. “She pretty?” Marl looked down in embarrassment, and Ernie laughed, the sound a liquid susurration, like cellophane melting. “Would you like to go to her house?” He leaned back with all his teeth showing, laughing in harsh, explosive little bursts. “Go over there and knock the cook pot over maybe? Start a little fire?” The laughter changed to raking coughs, and Ernie tasted blood as he hacked to clear his sleep-clogged breath. Marl tried to get him to lie back down, but he resisted, choking bloody phlegm into a bucket by the bed.

  Marl forced him down on the cot. “You f-feel hot.” Then Ernie lay still for a while, wheezing hard, and Marl glanced at the bucket. “I ain’t had a nosebleed inna long time.”

  “Marl. Marl, please.” He muttered feverishly, the damp slits of his eyes clouding over again. “Fucking dying. Get me outta here. We gotta get out. To the woods, Marl. Gotta get into the pines. Come out to the woods with me.”

  Marl held him down. “You need more water?” He glanced at the empty mug; then his gaze roamed to the window. “Hate the woods.”

  He struggled to sit up. “Please. Just once.” Pushing at the boy’s hands, he thrashed in the bed, but Marl held him firmly. “Just once. Come! Please!” Finally exhausted, he rested his head on the cot and just stared at the flies that stuck to the ceiling like tufts of black velvet.

  Marl squinted at the window.

  “There’s nothing to be scared of, Marl.” Desperation played across the vulpine face. “You don’t hardly go out no more, getting pale as a worm. Look at you…hair so long, just like a girl. But look at your muscles.” He ran his palm across smooth hardness. “You ever see a dragonfly?” His voice went soft with weariness, with surrender. “When it’s little, I mean? Right after it hatches out in the water? The pond’s all foul, stinks.” He spoke in quick gasps. “Just a little thing, harmless. Nothing notices it in the mud on the bottom. Looks the same as all the other worms.” Already little more than a whisper, his voice grew even softer, weaker, and as he spoke he stared intently at his swollen hand. “Then one day, all of a sudden, something happens. Gets hungry. Is hunger. Starts to eat everything it can catch, salamanders, leeches. Don’t matter.”

  “You ain’t seen my cat, has you?”

  “Or fish, even if it’s a great big sunny. Don’t matter.”

  “Looked all over for ’er.”

  “One time, I scooped one out of a puddle. Scooped him right up in my hand, mud and all. After all the wet stuff leaked away, just lay there. All of a sudden, it felt like fire.” He unclenched his fist, then gazed at the insects on the ceiling again. He fumbled with the empty cup, and his hand slipped to the boy’s leg. “That’s what it does. Kills and kills. Gorges till the wings burst outta the skin on his back, and he flies.”

  Marl wouldn’t look at him. The hand on his leg moved.

  “…wings…in the sunlight…changing colors…so pretty…”

  “Your hand bleeding?”

  “Just draining a little. Be all right,” Ernie told him, staring. The light faded. Marl’s hair still glowed.

  “Th-there’s this bad dream I have.” Marl stayed on the edge of the bed, his face turned away. “Bout something hungry inna pines. They always making fun a me downstairs. But I know. It’s out there. I use to try to drive it ’way, burn it out, make it go ’way.” Beyond the window, a few tall pines prodded the sky. “You know?” He turned his head and looked down at th
e bed. The room had grown darker than the hot glitter of Ernie’s eyes, and he watched as Ernie reached for him with a hungry languor.

  In the mad jumble of the bedroom, clothes were piled on the floor and heaped on the bed. Beside her, nestled in laundry, he lay motionless.

  His hair was damply plastered to his forehead, and beaded moisture ran down the side of his face. As she stroked him, she watched the pale lashes of his closed eyes and listened to his even breath. She kept her touch light, wanting to hold him tightly but fearing to wake him.

  The room smelled of lovemaking. Sweating herself, she looked down his body at the muscular chest and stomach. She remembered the fierce rejoicing in his eyes when her jeans had finally peeled away, remembered how the sight of her one thinner leg had caused a violent tenderness to well up within him. Her breasts still ached slightly—he’d nearly crushed her to this chest her fingers trailed along. She toyed with the tightly curled and sweaty hairs, then caressed his head, smiling gently to herself.

  It had been too fast and fumbling but incredibly intense, and she thought back to the shy formality of those first times with Wallace, when she’d been little more than a girl. Then her thoughts turned to Barry’s pornographic posturings and she closed her eyes against the sudden sharpness of that memory. She smiled again. With Steve it had been rough and fast and loving and, yes, he’d hurt her a little, though she would never tell him.

  Something, some dream of pain or sorrow washed across his face, distorting it. There came the low, ominous sound of his grinding teeth, and she held him until the tension passed.

  With a murmuring groan, he turned heavily in the creaking bed to lay half upon her, momentarily squeezing away her breath. She stroked the trickling dampness of his hair.

  Eyes still closed, he cradled her again, his lips finding her breasts.

  They lay belly to back, drowsing in the heat, while twilight seeped through the windows of the still room. Was there a sound? Not sure whether he’d heard something, Steve listened. Her breath warm and soft on his face, she slept deeply, her body suffused with limp peacefulness at last.

  Across the window, amber light spread like honey over the wall, growing orange as he watched. Long wavering ridges and cracks mapped the paint, and in the pleasant gloom, he lay thinking.

  Until dawn, they’d sat up with the boy, calming him, questioning him, even making some attempts to repair the wreckage of the house. When Matthew had finally slipped into a natural sleep, Steve had carried him back to the attic, undressing the boy himself, while she waited below.

  Damp sheet sculpted to his body, he stretched out a hand and laid it on her arm. We’ve wasted so much time. In sleep, her face was like a child’s, all worries faded. He thought about her life, about the boy in the attic and, in spite of the warmth, slid a protective arm about her. She curled against him like a cat, and he smiled indulgently, glancing around at the ferocious disorder of the room. At first, he’d assumed that their visitor last night had savaged it. Only after quite a while had he realized this to be its normal state. Her belongings formed mounds everywhere, and he felt an intense pleasure at just being here among them in the heavy softness of this room.

  Won’t that window open farther? He felt the stagnant air lulling him, felt sleep stealing over him again as he inhaled the deep warm scent of her and listened to the flutter of her breath. Shadows stretched across the floor, crept up the walls.

  He heard the sound again and thought of the dog, still hiding under the sofa when they’d gone to bed. Athena stirred slightly. “Sleep some more, babe,” he told her, his voice hushed as he patted her gently. “Sleep.” He rolled over, eased himself out of the bed. “You need it.”

  He wandered naked into the hallway. In the shadows, something breathed, and moved, and then came toward him.

  Wearing only his ragged jeans, Matty stood halfway down the hall, and he glared at Steve with a look of absolute malevolence. Oh Lord, letting the kid see me come out of his mother’s room like this. The boy’s face was drawn and lined from hours of sickness. Oh God, what’s wrong with me? Blinking, trying to clear his head, he heard again the sound that had awakened him.

  “Uh…Matt…uh…are you all right?” He backed away with slow horror. “No, don’t come any closer. Stay where you are!”

  His arm shot out in a defensive reflex as Matty lunged. Teeth met with a click an inch from Steve’s chest.

  Lord God! His whole body trembled, wet with fear. Oh dear Jesus. He stared at the boy. He went for my throat. He backed into the bedroom, no longer protective, now seeking safety. He tried to…

  The boy crouched in the shadowed hall, another growl boiling deep in his chest.

  At last, even the final thread of purple fades, and vast shadows slide across the sky, enfolding the earth in a patchwork of darkness, velvety blackness overlapping thick gray.

  Like a sentient creature, heat broods, hovering over Munro’s Furnace. The stench of the garbage dump hums with vermin, and in a cold strike of moonlight, they swarm, a riot of life in the night.

  Something sighs. Hot guttering breath grows more rapid as the night drips. Luminous eyes blink, recede to blackness again, then open, awake to the flicker of self-awareness.

  Awake.

  The sound of an owl hollows through. A seething lust, rabid in the dark, prowls the twisted scrub, its feral shadow like a hole in the night. It stalks the dump, then turns in an avalanche of refuse and creeps toward the center of town.

  No lights show in any of the houses. No air stirs. Violent and frenzied images swim, screaming in the beast-mind: hooked fingers, nails splintering on bone; skin parts, bubbling throat; the fingers disappearing in flesh—spurting soft hot meat—teeth sink in, tearing, wet jets out. A memory flickers of being forced to abandon the one in the car when the big splashing thing—tractor?—approached on the flooded road. Blood and foam in his mouth then.

  Running. Power shudders through. Force thuds, gigantic and irresistible, roars and leaps within. It grows. Always the wild joy surges stronger…changing…forcing….

  The beast stops moving. Outside the darkened gin mill, it lifts its head to regard the window slit: Marl’s bedroom. An image of the sleeping blond head forms in its mind.

  Then madly racing, leaping the barely moving sludge of the creek, it dashes through pines, branches slashed aside in the luminous night. Chaos now.

  Pammy…trailer…that way. But it moves away, farther through the woods.

  It finds the house, all sharpness dissolving in the rinse of stars: the crazily tilting chimneys and roof, the shed behind. Standing in the dark of the yard, it gazes at the boarded windows and yearns for the woman within.

  Inside, Dooley begins to howl.

  Thursday, August 13

  She locked him in the house the night of the storm. Steve wiped his sweating neck with a crumpled handkerchief.

  But there was a hole, practically a tunnel behind the stove. He paced the kitchen, then paused at the back door to watch mother and child play in the yard. And he was alone with the sister-in-law. The boy threw the stick for the stiffly moving dog—who mostly ignored it—while she clapped and called out encouragements. Now she’s missing.

  But he’s just a boy. He thought about his observations that morning. When he’d returned from getting a new battery for Athena’s car, she’d still been asleep, but Matty had been up and hungry, so he’d made him a sandwich. He’d watched the boy’s face for any sign of the previous night’s violence. Nothing. He’d made some lemonade from a can he’d found in the freezer, and as he’d stirred the clinking ice cubes, the boy had leaned his elbows on the table, staring at the frosted moisture on the pitcher, his overbright gaze fixed on the ripening drops, following them as they slid down. A total blank.

  Just a boy. There’d been no indication that Matty even remembered seeing him come out of his mother’s room.

  He saw her fight with Lonny. Now Lonny’s dead.

  And last night he was in some kind of contact
with Chabwok, what ever Chabwok is. He couldn’t stop thinking about the books they’d been reading, especially the ones about psychotic killers.

  What if Chabwok were just another part of the boy? Another personality? What if…?

  He shook his head. I must be losing my mind. There had to be another explanation. All the talk of monsters and curses must be getting to me. All that crazy stuff could confuse anyone.

  But what if Lonny came here the night of the storm? Came looking fo r Athena to continue their argument about his moving in? What if he came here and found the boy alone?

  He moved away from the back door. Nobody’s going to blame the boy. He poured himself a glass of lemonade. It tasted warm and watery now, and feathery things like plastic shavings floated on the surface. They blame me. He grimaced as he downed the sweet liquid.

  I go out on a routine assignment, and my partner winds up dead…and I’ve got some cock-and-bull story about going for a drive and coming back to find him torn apart. Not my fault. But I left him there. Knowing there was a killer in the woods, I took his gun and drove away.

  I might as well have killed him. The phone was already in his hands. It’s just like with those pineys he was always going on about. I killed him and took his woman.

  “So, Steve, when you coming back to work?” Phone cradled on his shoulder, Frank Buzby shuffled papers while pretending to look for the bulletin Steve wanted. As he scratched the graying tangle of hair at his open shirt, his face bore an expression of annoyed curiosity. “So now tell me again why it is you want to know about this.” Silently, he beckoned to the other cop in the office. “Uh-huh.”

  Billy Mills—a shy man with no neck and an upper body like a log—approached the desk. Listening in and trying to read his boss’s signals, he passed paper and pencil when Frank motioned for them.