I began to back up, tried to grab hold of some thoughts, to figure out how this animal got in here. You know how it got in the shed, Michael. Someone put it in there. After stabbing it in the gut. And they promptly locked the door on the way out, thank you very much. So the question remained: who? And: why?
I felt suddenly cold, as if the near-dead animal had emitted some kind of ghostly chill. For a quick moment I thought back to the doe I saw the day Phillip escorted me through the woods, how it seemed to appear out of nowhere as if Phillip had just known that it would be there to add to the serenity of the environment. It had flitted away into the woods just as quickly as it had come, and I wondered with a bit of alarm if this doe in the shed was the very same one I saw that day. I shuddered at the possibility, and at the very moment I denied myself such an improbable circumstance, the injured deer staggered to its feet. I backed away at the sudden confrontation, tottered actually, the stench of pee and shit and filth driving me back just as much as my fear did.
At that moment I remembered the hammer. It was still in my hand.
Think about this for a second Michael...sure, you're a city boy totally out of his element...but handling this situation should be a piece of cake...folks 'round here would set some kind of hypnosis into the animal, have it feeding out of their hands like a puppy dog...do this: just make believe it's a mugger on 8th avenue and 43rd street, trying to snatch your pregnant wife's pocketbook...
My pregnant wife.
My arm brushed into a naked bush at the edge of the woods. I flinched and the flashlight fell to the ground. I still had the hammer, though, and I readied it, just in case. Just in case...
It was a stare down, the deer's eyes on mine (one acrobatically sank deep into its socket then bulged out like a balloon; it was astonishing). Its face was fouled with dirt. Blood and bile foamed at its gums, its breathing a succession of hurried bursts. It shook its head defiantly, croaked angrily, then charged me.
In a move that was purely instinctual, I leaned my weight forward and brought the hammer down on its skull, just above the left ear. The cracking sound it made, the contact of steel on bone...it was both horrible and amazing. It sounded like a bat on a home-run baseball. An offensive hiss shot from the animal's throat and nose, and the hammer rebounded from my hand, end over end, striking the face of the shed with a dull thump. It came to rest on the ground alongside the lock and clasp.
I jumped back in the opposite direction of the collapsing animal. Instinctually, the words, "Oh dear Jesus..." fell from my lips. I felt a warm drizzle of blood on me, my face, my arms, even through my clothes. The deer thudded to the ground, skidding a few feet towards the woods before its painful leg-kicks tapered down to mere reflexive spasms. The gush of blood from its shattered skull glistened in the moonlight, matching the wet gloss dousing its bulging eyes.
And then, it stopped moving.
Moments passed in hardened silence, and it was only in this short time did I realize that my feet had come out from under me, that I was lying on my back, head twisted in such a way that the downed animal appeared right-side up. I pressed my hands against the ground, wet moss squelching coldly between my fingers, and sat up. Something slimy wriggled across my hand. Without looking I shook it away in disgust. The mud-covered flashlight was within reaching distance of my right hand and I stretched and took hold of it. I groped for the switch, fingers sliding across the plastic surface. The light came on and I shined it at the deer.
The sight of it was sickening, and if I'd thought there was enough strength in my legs, I would have forced myself to race away into the warm comfort of my home, never to come outside again. But all I could do was kneel in the damp earth, my mind and body trembling at the harsh result of my blind fury—of the instantaneous moment of do or die that mirrored the innate fear of the deer's just seconds before. The whole moment went out-of-body on me, and I felt as though I were looking down upon a madman whose nerves had raced maniacally for a fix of terror just minutes earlier, his dark deed now complete, the feral urges that drove him to this horrific quest utterly sated.
Of course I was just a man who'd defended himself from some terribly unexplainable menace.
I took a few deep breaths, came back down to earth, then stood up and took a step towards the animal. Just one step. I looked towards my right, at the gaping entrance of the shed, and tried to peer into its fouled depths.
The flashlight showed only the blood tainted flooring: old wooden beams withering to rot, grass and weeds sprouting everywhere, toadstools cluttering the corners in swelling clusters. When I neared the entrance the smell hit me, and I cringed, gagging. I stood my ground, and just when I thought my nausea had been tamed, my peanut butter sandwich and glass of milk came up in a surge. I stayed motionless, hands on knees, panting until the sickness passed. When all was said and done, I clenched my teeth and forced myself to step forward into the shed, shining the light into the previously unseen section inside.
A deep revulsion that bordered on the edge of panic fell into me (I'd felt something remotely similar years ago during a truly bizarre and realistic nightmare of zombies and cannibalism), and I had to hold my breath to control myself from puking again.
Inside the shed was another deer, this one a baby fawn. It had been dead for a long time.
Both my trembling hands grasped the flashlight, the beam bouncing up and down and back and forth like a nightclub spot, and it took a good fifteen seconds before I could steady it back over the motionless target. Slowly I moved the beam over the decaying animal's body, all three feet of it, its nutty hide long surrendered to dark patches of moss, clumps of twitching maggots, and mosquitoes which buzzed about the putrid mass in droves. Its legs were withered to bone and cartilage, the head bulging in odd directions, eyeless and noseless with an incredible gaping wound at the neck.
The evidence was clear. This animal, like the other, had been killed too. And, most presumably I thought, placed here in this shed for some unsound reason.
Although it had been obvious to me that the baby deer carcass had been here for quite some time, I still considered the fact that it had been purposely placed here, like the other, while I was in residence of this home—meaning less than a month ago. The evidence was clear. Someone had trespassed on my property and committed this dirty deed after I had moved in. This was no leave-behind from the Widow Farris, no residue of her husband's lifestyle.
I turned and escaped the damp confines of the shed, my boots slapping against the moist soil just beyond the entrance. The moon hid behind a thin layering of cloud cover, making the yellow porch-light of the house appear to shine more brightly than before. I prayed that Christine and Jessica had stayed asleep this whole time, and wondered how Page hadn't heard the clamor I'd made out here. I wiped my brow and immediately decided to keep this event a secret from my family. Some things were better left unsaid, and this was one of them—along with my first-day encounter with Rosy Deighton.
I'd stood my ground outside the shed for a few minutes, and when I gathered my composure I realized that I had to get rid of the dead animals. But how to do it?
Hey Michael, how about running them up into the woods and placing them on the sacrificial altar of the Isolates? You know, that big ol' blood-stained slab?
I shook the crazy thought from my head, combating it with an equally insane argument: Phillip had said that the animal must be alive at the time of sacrifice.
"Are you out of your mind?" I exclaimed out loud to myself in a hoarse whisper, trudging away from the scene around the left side of the house towards the detached garage. I went inside through the side door, almost blessing the dry stale air within (and the fact that I was away from the woods), and pulled down a pair of Christine's mesh gloves from the wood-beam shelf where she kept her gardening supplies. In the corner next to the lawnmower I gathered up the blue plastic tarp I'd used to cover floor when I painted the hallway and office.
My stomach spun at the thought of what I'd pla
nned to do. I tried to suppress it, but other gut-gouging factors were at play, like, despite my distance from the shed, the stench of decay riding the slight wind with the determination of a suckerfish on a shark's fins. I could smell it from inside the garage! This, coupled with the image of having to roll the stinking carcasses onto the tarp while their smashed bulks shifted loosely in my hands: it made my insides spasm. And of course there'd be thousands of insects beneath the fawn, skittering away to find cover because their glorious homeland treasure had been recklessly shifted after days and days of immobility.
I tucked the tarp beneath my left shoulder and exited the garage, doing my best to shake away the repulsive memories that would stay with me long after this night ended. I took the trek across the back lawn with slowly, passing the floor-to-ceiling windows of the library, wishing I were still seated at the desk, eating another sandwich and shuffling papers beneath the hushed gleam of the reading lamp. The walk back felt like an eternity—perhaps I tried to make it last that long—but I finally returned to the scene of the crime: the place where I aided in murdering a full grown deer.
I told myself that everything was going to be all right, that I, man-of-the-house, would muscle my way through this unanticipated chore, wrap the two animals in the tarp and drag them a hundred yards back where they could finish decomposing into the terra firma, and I could attempt to erase this night from my mind.
But it wouldn't happen that way.
I dropped the tarp, my whole face tightening as if I'd taken a hard blow in the knee. The flashlight fell from my grasp too. But not before I saw. And knew, unequivocally, that from this moment on, everything wasn't going to be all right.
Both carcasses were gone.
13
I stayed awake all night, but that much was to be expected. Was sleep really a possibility after what had happened? The confrontation with the deer had been enough to inflict insomnia into a man, but the horrific mystery of two carcasses having vanished in a matter of minutes promised to torment me for years to come. Unless, of course, I could come up with a reasonable explanation.
It wasn't until half past two AM before I'd made it back inside. I'd taken another very long shower, mulling all I'd just been through, my mind floating haphazardly away into territories made up of empty voids and giant incredulities. Soon after I was face-up on the living room sofa, my back surging with pain, the muscles in my arms and legs twitching and jumping with exhaustion. I'd considered for a moment going back outside to investigate the shed again, to confirm that the baby fawn had not been there despite the fact I already knew it wasn't. I'd looked in there at least five or six times, alternating investigatory glances between it and the deep dark woods that showed only a spotted trail of blood leading away from the place where the dead mother deer had lay. When the horrible truth of the matter had sunk in, I resigned myself to mental defeat and came back into the house, my mind fighting my body and clearly winning the all-night battle on the couch.
When morning came I rose from the couch and, despite my lack of appetite, made the family breakfast: eggs, bacon, coffee, juice, toast. Christine came down and cold-shouldered me (rightly so, I'd completely forgotten about her tirade and our subsequent argument last night), but acquiesced once she saw the nice spread. Apparently the pregnancy had given her an appetite, and made her grateful for the plate of food I put down before her.
"I guess this is your way of making up," she said calmly.
I shrugged my shoulders, accepting her assumption as fact. Frankly, given the depth of our argument last night, I was a bit stunned by the ease with which she deferred her anger; in the past she'd allowed lesser quarrels to string out for days. So, as it seemed, this dispute was officially wrapped up, and for that I was very grateful. I had more pressing issues deserving my attention at the moment.
Like how those animals vanished last night. They didn't just get up and walk away...
I heard Jessica's pitter-patter on the steps and she appeared in the kitchen with Page circling her feet. I placed a plate of food before her and she dug in with silent enthusiasm. Page skulked over to his metal bowl and munched on some Kibbles and Bits, a bit dejected that there were no eggs and bacon for him.
While preparing breakfast, I'd hoped to have a few words with Christine about her—our—plans for the future, now that we had another one on the way. I realized now that that discussion would have to wait until later. There was a right time and place for everything, and now wasn't either to divulge Jessica about the pending arrival. Christine and I were in silent agreement about that.
I sat at the table and nibbled on a slice of toast, watching my wife and daughter (and dog) eat in silence. When Christine finished her food, she rolled her seat next to mine and hugged me. "I apologize for being so witchy last night. Thank you for breakfast. It was delicious."
"You're welcome." I returned the hug, feeling a bit awkward. One didn't see Christine bowing her head in defeat too often, unless it was after she got her way. Today, she demanded no prerequisites. A once in a lifetime occurrence. Lucky me.
Jessica fled the scene and started digging through the foyer closet for her sneakers. "C'mon, Page!" she cried.
I looked over, perplexed. "Where are you going?"
Christine said, "Yesterday I told her I'd take her and Page to Beaumont Park. I was hoping she'd forget."
"Are you kidding? In this town of nothing-to-do, a promise like that will never go forgotten."
Jessica had her sneakers and jacket on despite the fact that Christine was still in her sleeping gear: knit shorts, age-old tee, and scrunchie. "Give me a few minutes to get changed, okay, hon?"
Jessica, leash in hand, yelled "okay" then hooked up Page and headed out the front door. "We'll be outside."
She stood up and put her dish in the sink. "I hope you won't mind if I don't help you clean up, Michael."
I didn't expect her to, really. I smiled. "No, you go and have a nice time." What I really wanted to do was ask her when she was going to start working for me. The paperwork, although manageable, was taking up more of my free time than I wanted. And besides, it'd be nice for the patients to be greeted by a happy face when they walked through the door, not a barren office. Now, with the new baby coming, I'd pretty much have to hire someone from town to fill the role before I dug myself into too deep a hole. Jesus...all of a sudden Christine was becoming a full-time mom. So much for our little plan.
"Thanks, hon. We'll probably have lunch out too, after the park." She walked over and kissed me, and like that all was back to normal between us. Then I wondered: Did she call into town for an OB/GYN? That would be her next step. I was going to say something about this but decided against it for now. I got one reprieve and didn't want to spoil the moment. This doctor knows a great many things, including the tempestuous pregnant-female/hormonal symmetry, and believe me, that doesn't need prodding with any size stick, especially when all biological waters were calm. So I let that sleeping dog lie by smiling and waving before she went back upstairs to get changed.
In five minutes she was out the door, and I was alone.
I stepped outside on the front porch and watched as Christine took the mini-van to the end of the driveway. She made a left turn and disappeared down the road, the exhaust leaving a wispy trail of smoke in its wake, like the tail of Aladdin's genie. The sky was saturated with blue, the temperature pinning a stunningly dry eighty, so said the porch thermometer. Despite the fatigue in my blood, I could still easily admire this beautiful summer day in Ashborough. Sometimes the incredible contrast of Ashborough to Manhattan can be alarming to this city boy (like last night), other times it can be truly luxuriating, like now. I stood there taking deep breaths, forgetting in the span of these few moments the transient worries of my life, that is until the clock in the living room chimed nine and whisked me away from my reverie. I had my first patient in fifteen minutes so I forced myself back inside and drank a cup of coffee, staring at the pile of dishes in the sink that nee
ded cleaning. I walked over, turned on the faucet, then peered out the window at the loose tarp caught at the edge of shed, the open door of the shed, and the bloody trail leading into the woods.
14
I went into my office to check out the schedule of appointments. Today's first patient was due in at nine-fifteen—about another five minutes. I'd examined her once before, a mid-thirties woman by the name of Lauren Hunter who had dyed blond hair, expensive jewelry, and smooth nutty skin. She'd made it quite apparent that she was more than available—cocoa eyes all deep and dreamy and pointed in my direction; low cut blouse; a mile-wide Colgate smile—and I defended myself by making my happy marriage just as obvious, you know, talk about the kids and the family vacations we never took. Her complaints of stomach ills magically evaporated once Ashborough's new physician became virtually inaccessible (I say 'virtually' because here she was again making another appointment; I wondered if she was actually sick this time).
The remainder of the schedule was light, another appointment after lunch, then two more later this afternoon. I'd noticed through Neil Farris's records that the Summer months ran a bit slow—after the initial flurry of meeters and greeters, this was proving to be true. Traffic the rest of the week was going to be light as well.
I waited inside until about nine-thirty, then, assuming Lauren Hunter to be a no-show, slipped out the side door of the office. I walked to the front of the house and looked across the road to make sure she wasn't pulling in late. The coast was clear (my father used to say that to me when I was a young child, after checking my dark bedroom for the bogeyman before I went to bed). So I went into the garage and grabbed the metal lawn thatcher (best tool, I figured, for disseminating the bloody ground), then walked back to the shed, much more briskly than I had last night after retrieving the tarp. Once there, I surveyed the scene.
Deep in the Darkness Page 9