"So Neil wasn't killed by a dog, then."
"No, no." He closed his eyes, coughed, then added, "He was killed by them. And so was my Rosy."
I placed a tense fist against my chin. "You said that they took her from your bed."
"Yes..."
"And killed her."
"Yes."
"So where's her body, Phil?"
He looked up at me, eyes blank and looking over my shoulder as if Death itself had been standing behind me, tuning into our conversation.
"Ain't no body. They killed her...right in my bedroom, while I was asleep, then took her away. That's what they always do."
The deer, gone. Lauren Hunter, gone...
Despite everything I'd seen and heard and experienced—they'd taken the deer away, Lauren Hunter too—I was still having trouble believing him. Denial, in all its glory. "Tell me something, Phil. If there's no body, then how do you know she's really dead? Perhaps she is still alive, someplace we can find her?"
He shook his head no. Then, he blew me away.
Eyes pinning mine, Phillip Deighton reached into the left pocket of his denim jacket. He pulled out a small ziploc bag. Inside were a pair of human eyes, plus a hunk of gray blood-matted hair.
I stepped back against the porch railing, shocked, utterly repulsed, not only by the contents of the bag, but also with the fact that Phillip had picked them up and was now dangling them out between us like some sort of sick show-and-tell exhibit. Instantly I hated Phillip, feared him, felt an uncommon dislike simply standing here before his frail form. I took a deep breath. A breeze swept by; the late July air felt cold and slimy. It brought something awful smelling, like rotten fruit. For the umpteenth time today I wanted to throw up but suppressed the gurgling acids in my throat. Phillip put the bag back into his pocket—the eyes made a soft bloody squelching noise as he did this—my gaze following the slow rhythm of his movement as though hypnotized by it. He then put his hands in his lap and began rocking gently back and forth.
Now a familiar sense of fear prevailed, and I wondered for a fleeting moment if Christine had had any inkling of the real danger that persisted here. Probably not. I looked into the darkness of the house, the single glow of the kitchen chandelier barely making its way to the front door. The living room furniture sat like phantoms in the dark, their hulks intimidating in their motionlessness. Upstairs, my family slept, unaware of the dangers lurking, yet unwittingly affected by their foul intentions. The predicaments that had made themselves known to them were diminutive in their threats as compared to the true dangers lying just beneath the surface. My job was to convince them of its presence before we too play victim to their dark intentions.
But even if you do convince Christine of the dangers here, Michael, how do you intend to leave with no means of transportation?
Phillip.
"Phillip?"
He remained silent, gaze cast down. He looked pathetic, he needed to be institutionalized. I wasn't too far behind. "I've no more reason to live, Michael. I failed them once again, and now they will taunt me until they decide it is my time to serve their needs. I'm fucked, royally fucked."
You've been royally fucked for a long, long time...
Feeling dizzy, I leaned back against the railing, and even though I had a very strong inkling, I still asked, "What do you mean that 'you've failed them once again'?" I thought about what he told me in the woods that day, about how they'd taken his daughter, and then what they apparently did to Rosy.
How he'd 'failed them' in the past.
Finally he peered up at me. He looked like he'd been through a hell of a war, cheeks hollowed, eyes dark and sunken. "I told you all about it when we went into the woods that day, when I showed you their shrine." He paused, eyes pinning mine intensely, just like they did when he first told me, "All the residents of Ashborough must make a sacrifice to the Isolates. And the sacrifice must be alive at the time of offering." It'd haunted me, and damn near murdered me now to hear it again from his lips.
"I'd told you all about this," he continued, "about the legend, about how Old Lady Zellis had informed me of the brutal truth all those years ago. It'd been her duty back then to warn folks of the law here in Ashborough. But not anymore, no, she's old and weary...has been for at least twenty years now. Now we do it, the townsfolk. And it was my duty as your closest neighbor to get you to make a sacrifice. I failed. You didn't do it. And because of that, they took Rosy from me."
"It was you who put the deer in the shed, wasn't it?"
He nodded, eyes downcast, looking weak and ashamed. "Both of them. I'd assumed you'd thought I was a bit nuts, and rightly so, after the whole grand tale I told you. I mean, I would've too if I were in your shoes. But, I still needed to convince you that the sacrifice had to be made, and if I kept telling you to do it then you'd've thought I was totally out of my mind and you'd've very quickly separated yourself and your family from me and Rosy. You know what I'm saying? Stay away from crazy Phil, old bastard's a few cards short of a full deck. Still, I knew that if I'd just planted a seed in your head, it just might germinate and you'd start thinking seriously about the sacrifice, and perhaps heed my warning. As it turns out, it didn't work."
"So you put the deer in the shed hoping that I'd haul it up there on their stone."
"Yes...I had no choice but to try."
"What about the woman, Phillip? Did you send her to me as well?" My voice had a sudden shaky, distracted tone to it, one barely recognizable as my own. This was anticipatory fear of my neighbor answering yes to this question. That'd be the icing on the cake: my closest neighbor is a homicidal maniac too...
He looked up at me, face gone to stone with shock. "What woman?"
"One of my patients, Lauren Hunter. Lived on the east side of town. She was severely mutilated in the woods just outside my house. Spent her last breathing moments crawling to my door. Bled to death before I could get help."
"When did this happen?"
"Today."
He shook his head defiantly, burying his face in his hands. "They did it...they were testing you to see if you'd make the sacrifice. They're very serious about the games they play." He paused, then asked, "Did they come for the body after she died?"
My heart started banging against my ribcage. "Yes...the deer too."
He nodded. "It's their way of telling you that you missed your opportunity, and that you should prepare for the next one. Dear God, Michael," he cried, raising his voice. "Make the sacrifice now, tonight, before they come for Jessica or Christine!"
A series of emotions rose up inside me, fear, anger, frustration, all rolled up into one evil brew. It made me aggressive, and I responded by grabbing Phillip by the collar. "Damn you, Phillip! Why didn't you warn me the first day I moved in!" He fell limp in my grasp, like a bag of oats. I let him go and he slumped in the chair. "You were so cordial and kind that day, offering us lunch, and all along you knew that my family was in grave danger, you...you fucking fraud!"
"I couldn't tell you!" he shouted, then took a few short breaths and continued more quietly as if realizing that he might wake up the girls. "They hear what's going on, Michael. They listen to our conversations...any time they want to. Don't ask me how they do it, could be supersonic hearing, radio signals, ESP. I don't know. If I'd said anything to you that could've been interpreted as a warning, they might've killed me, or Rosy. Understand...I couldn't mention it at the time. That's why I sent you upstairs, into my bedroom. I knew that if you'd seen Rosy, it might've clued you in as to the evil that exists here."
I cooled down, nodded, a kaleidoscope of images twisting throughout my mind. Neil Farris, Rosy Deighton, Lauren Hunter. All dead, all dead. "I did wonder what'd happened to her. I also wondered if Neil Farris's bad fortune had come from the same source. I started putting the pieces together, thinking along the lines of a wild animal attack. I guess I was in the ballpark, sort of." I raised a hand to my mouth and chewed a firm nail. "You know...she said something to me that day.
"
Neil stared up at me, looking intensely interested.
"She mentioned that they were going to come for me, just like they did for Farris, and everyone else in the God-forsaken town. As she put it."
"She tried to warn you. It wasn't her duty to do so. It did her no good."
"Then my patient, Lauren...just moments before her death she said that 'they were coming for me, and that they had Christine too'. Phil...she'd said my wife's name. I'm telling you, she must've done some checking up on me 'cause I'd never mentioned Christine to her before."
Phillip shook his head, eyes tearing. He sobbed a bit. "I'm not in the right set of mind just now, and if I was I'm not sure I'd know what to make of that. Could be your patient might've known something. Or..."
"Or what..?"
"She could've heard them talking."
"What? Talking? Are you fucking kidding me?" I heard a sudden bustling in the trees alongside the house, somewhere close to the scene of Lauren's murder. I cut myself off, looked that way, squinting deep into the darkness of the woods and becoming vaguely aware of the breeze and the odd coolness and faint rotting vegetables odor it carried. It was terribly unpleasant, poisonous perhaps. My heart slammed so hard against my chest I thought it might soon render itself useless. I looked back at Phil who leaned his weight on the chair and stood. He replaced his Red Sox hat. I looked at his jacket pocket, the juicy tip of the Ziploc bag peeking out.
"I need to go back home, Michael," he revealed, eyes darting towards the woods. Paranoia—here's a living breathing example of it in action. "I'm not sure how many days I have left there," he added, at once anxious to get away.
"Phil..."
Here we go...do or die..."
"...Christine had an accident with the car today, and...and I tried to find some means of transportation, but I couldn't. Damn it Phil...I want out of here. Now. Tonight. Let's take your car, all of us, leave this fucking hellhole." Automatically, I kept shooting glances back towards the woods.
(Paranoia).
Are they out there now, watching? Listening?
Phillip laughed incredulously, loaded with mad volume. His tears were gone, but his body twitched as if he'd been prodded with a slight charge. He looked like a man who'd just discovered a swarm of ants beneath his clothes. He staggered down the porch steps and, in mid-stride, turned to look at me. "You ever see me drive, Michael?"
Damn...I hadn't. Come to think of it, I hadn't done much of anything since moving to Ashborough. Christine had done most of the shopping and escorting Jessica into town or the park. I'd left 17 Harlan Road perhaps a half dozen times since moving here (excluding lunches with the Deightons), all of those short excursions into town with Christine and Jessica, once to the school, a few times to the hardware store, once for a haircut at the barber shop. Other than that I'd been your typical work-out-of-the-home doctor with a grand old office to delight myself in...just what I'd always wanted.
Yeah, just what I always fucking wanted.
I shook my head.
"Haven't driven anywhere in four years. They won't let me. Seems as though they don't want you to either." He turned and walked down the front path.
"Christine hit a dog," I said unconvincingly, taking the steps to the bottom. "We should have the car back in..." Jesus, how long did she say?
At the end of the path, Phillip turned and yelled, "Michael, I've got some very sad news for you...you're never gonna see your car again."
My heart leaped up into my throat, one powerful beat at a time. I wanted to cry, and might have hadn't it been for the sudden anger swallowing up my fear. "Fuck you, Phil! I thought you were a friend. You fucking used us; now we're screwed like the rest of the poor bastards in this god-damned town!"
"I'm sorry, Michael...I wish I could help you, but I can't even help myself."
I started walking toward him. "I'll fucking walk out of here. Twelve miles to Ellenville? No problem. I'll get help there." I was starting to lose it. I could feel the gears slipping in my head.
Phillip, still walking away, shook his head and yelled, "Nobody there's gonna help you. Nobody here either. Besides," he said stopping and pointing into the woods, "you won't get very far. You already know that Neil Farris wasn't out for a casual jog. Just like so many others, he'd tried to leave. And they got in the way."
I stopped, feeling suddenly defeated. "Fuck you," I said, quietly, not sure if he heard me or not. Didn't matter.
Phillip started a slow jog down the driveway, the lamplights along the perimeters creating monolithic shadows of his lobbing body. "Good bye, Michael," he called, then started crying out loud.
I stayed outside, at first watching Phillip, then staring into the woods, all the while listening to his cries until he disappeared around the curve a hundred yards away down Harlan Road.
19
Hours later, something woke me. A dog barking. Outside. I opened my eyes and realized that I'd been sleeping in Jessica's bed. Second night in a row.
My memory fell into a bit of a cloud; perhaps my subconscious was attempting to suppress the unpleasant events of the day. But the image of Lauren's death was too strong and haunted me in a ghostly-illusion sort of way, as though her bloody soul had slid under the sheets with me and hugged me with the intent of chilling me to the bone.
At once I thought of Phillip, of how he'd betrayed me to protect himself and his family—all along he'd been playing his little role in this great arcane conspiracy. Whether or not there existed an ancient race of people living in the woods piloting Ashborough's polluted destiny, or even some sick band of cultists (suddenly the latter seemed to make more sense), I needed to protect my family from them, and that meant leaving here as soon as possible.
After Phillip had left, I came back into the house with all intentions of standing guard until the morning. With all the horror and fear and anxiety racing through my body, I felt no choice but to stay awake while they peacefully slept, unaware of the dangers surrounding them. But then my body crashed and I found myself crawling atop Jessica's bed, putting my chin on the sill and watching out the window into the front yard, seeing only the lampposts along the driveway and the shadows of swaying trees before falling asleep.
I didn't remember dreaming, but it seemed as though the barking dog had somehow infiltrated my subconscious. Dazed, I sat up in bed. The world around me felt strangely intangible, as though I'd been put under hypnosis. I looked around. The dolls on Jessica's bureau sat like vague growths in the forest, dark and indiscernible. I crawled to the window and looked outside, as I did earlier before falling asleep. Jimmy Page lay on his haunches two floors below, out on the front lawn. Gazing up at me. He barked again then sprang across the walkway to the side of the house.
I tossed the covers aside and rolled my legs off the edge of the bed. The wood floor was cold on the soles of my feet; it sent a shiver racing across my back. On the floor next to my feet lay the head of one of Jessica's dolls—the same one that'd fallen off some nights ago. Its eyes stared up at me, two dark glossy orbs, bristly red hair splayed out behind it like a bouquet of anemone tentacles. The lids blinked, once at first, then again and again in a methodical fashion, producing a faint clicking beat; there hadn't been a breeze in the room—the window was shut—so I couldn't blame the movement on this. I looked to the shelf. One of the dolls had indeed lost its head—there was a gap in the collective shadow of dolls that wasn't there before. I closed my eyes and rubbed them. When I opened them I saw that the head had vanished from the floor. I looked over at the bureau again. There it was, back in its respective spot, sitting firmly atop the plastic body it belonged to.
This is a dream, Michael. You're dreaming...
Page barked again. It sounded distant and echoey. Yet...stunningly lucid for a dream. I paced from the room, my feet feeling as if floating inches above the floor; it'd almost seemed as if I was floating...almost—my body still felt cumbersome and heavy and it took quite an effort to simply move. I turned the landing
and took the stairs one at a time, the Berber runner itching against my feet despite the 'floaty' sensation. The polished banister was thick in my grasp. I never remembered having a dream so...so real. Clearly this was a direct progression of the trauma of the day's events. The beginnings of Post-Traumatic-Stress-Disorder. Something to look forward to for the rest of my life. Yahoo.
I crossed the living room into the kitchen, then followed the hallway (with its nice new hollow-and-rather-insecure cutout doors) into the waiting room of my office. I could hear Page barking outside just beyond the entrance, wanting to be let in. I opened the door. Indeed Page was there. But instead of clawing at the door he bounded away ten feet then turned around and looked at me and started barking again. I recognized this little doggy gesture; he'd done it before. It basically said c'mon daddy, this way, I want to show you something. I went outside and nearly tripped over my boots, which were still damp from my attempt to wash them this afternoon. I slid my feet in them then walked across the back lawn to where Page stood. He barked one more time then raced to the shed
(the shed)
where he stood and waited...presumably for me to follow. I stepped closer to him and could see in the faint moonlight streaks of wet blood jeweling his furry face. It was on his paws and body too. I swallowed a very real-feeling lump in my throat, then stopped, five feet from the shed.
I looked at the slightly ajar door, twisted my head in an effort to peer into its depths. It began to move, swaying at first as if perhaps caught in the embrace of a breeze. Then, ever so slowly, it opened, the rusty hinges creaking like ghosts riding the beams of a haunted house.
Deep in the Darkness Page 13