Barefoot, he pattered out into the dark kitchen, crossing the gritty linoleum toward the refrigerator.
Before opening the refrigerator door, he noticed the light outside.
Puzzled, he looked through the window over the kitchen sink. In the backyard, he saw that the outside light was on.
Funny.
Jerry knew the light came on automatically when it sensed motion and heat. In fact, Jerry thought the light was pretty cool: at night he could just step out the back door and it would turn on as if by magic.
But it shouldn't be on now.
Dad had adjusted it so it wouldn't pick up the heat of small animals like rabbits and raccoons. Dogs wouldn't even turn it on. It had to be something big. It was designed to startle prowlers or to light Dad's way between the house and garage when he had to go out at night.
But it shouldn't be on now.
Jerry hoisted himself up on to the kitchen counter so he could get his face closer to the window. Now he could see more of the backyard. Maybe a deer had wandered into—
What was that?
Something was standing next to the garage, right near the garbage cans. It looked like a man dressed in—
What was that?
It was too tall to be a man. Too broad at the shoulders. And why would a man be wearing a heavy fur coat in the middle of summer?
No. It wasn't a man at all. It was some kind of....
Creature.
A bear?
It was about eight feet tall, and covered head to foot with long reddish-brown hair. And it was doing something there by the garage.
It had removed the shiny cover from one of the aluminum garbage cans and was carefully opening the big plastic bag inside!
Now Jerry knew exactly what it was. He'd read about them, he'd seen pictures.
It was a big hairy monster. A Bigfoot!
And it was rummaging through their trash, probably looking for something to eat.
He didn't know what to do. Fear and fascination competed to provoke some kind of action. At first Jerry thought he should yell for his father. Or maybe he should run for his camera and try to get a picture of the thing.
But before he could make a decision, the thing looked up from what it was doing.
It looked directly at Jerry.
Their eyes met.
Locked together.
And Jerry saw that the creature's eyes glowed a brilliant ruby-red.
I won't call Dad, Jerry thought. I won't call anyone. I promise. I won't tell at all. Not now. Not ever.
Still, Jerry couldn't pull his eyes from the creature's. No one would believe me, anyway, Jerry thought.
With that, the thing placed the cover on the garbage can, turned, and with a long loping stride, ran off into the forest behind the house.
(4.)
These next few sections were positioned here and there during the climax of the book. I wanted to give the apocalyptic events authenticity by having them covered by a professional newsperson. Trouble was, introducing her so late in the novel seemed to rob the established characters of the tension they deserved. And the editor wasn't as fond of Tabitha as I was. At this point, many years later, I've gotten over her.
Burlington
The electronic trill of the bedside telephone woke Tabitha Thornton from a sexy dream. She squinted at the clock but it was too dark to see the time. It was black outside, dead black. It was probably the middle of the night.
Her first thought, of course, was that Dad had had another heart attack. But after her initial alarm, she knew it was more likely someone calling from the station. It was rare that they'd wake her at night to cover a story, but when they did, it was usually something pretty big. Big, at least, by Burlington, Vermont, standards. Last time they'd called it was about an assassination attempt on the mayor by a militant anti-abortionist. She was happy about that one; the story had been picked up by the network. A couple more like that, Tabitha thought, and she could exit Vermont for a better job in a bigger city. Maybe even a network position. Or CNN.
She pulled the phone to her ear. "Tabitha Thornton." She always answered as if it were a business call, a habit firmly implanted by hundreds of calls during her work week.
"Hi Tab, it's Larry."
Oh shit, she thought. Larry was the creepy meteorologist who'd been bugging her ever since she'd moved up from Albany to take this job. Vermont born and bred, he apparently thought it was important to score with this "city woman," as he repeatedly referred to her. It wasn't the fact that he'd grown up in a small town that bothered her, it was that he was a creep, and a lecherous one at that. Right now he was probably drunk and feeling blue.
"Jesus Christ, Larry, it's the middle of the fucking night." She knew he liked it when she talked that way, but this time she hadn't been able to stop.
"Hey Tab, it's strictly business, okay?"
Business? Why would the weatherman be calling her in the middle of the night on business? "You better make this good, dude. I gotta be at the studio by six, you know. I don't appreciate losing sleep—"
"It's good Tabby, it's good."
She hated it when he called her Tabby. She hated it when anyone called her Tabby.
"So get to the frigging point then."
"I've been getting all kinds of calls from people in Hobston. Something's going on there. Some sorta freak weather or something. They say the sky is full of fireballs or meteors or something like that. Might be a good story with some awesome visuals."
"So why don't you cover it?"
"Hey, I'm weather. You're news."
"You're a pal, Larry."
You're also a lazy son-of-a-bitch.
"No, really, some woman who called me said she thought the Russians had attacked. No shit. Just like in that movie—what was it?—The Day After. I figured you could get some shots of shooting stars, talk to some of the townsfolks, you know. She said it was a regular meteor shower."
The Day After, eh? That was an angle, all right. Might be worth a look after all. "Okay, Larry, one way or another, I owe you one."
She hung up without giving him a chance to reply.
With a groan she rolled naked from the bed and pulled on a pair of jeans and a light sweater. Then she dug her feet into her Nikes and laced them quickly.
A flick of the brush through her short spiky hair, a quick rinse with Listerine, and she was out the door of her condo and dashing across the sidewalk toward her Honda. The videotape equipment, in spite of repeated lectures from the news director, was locked in the back seat.
The defrost motor hummed, fighting to clear the windshield of condensation. It was a losing battle. The air was so moist she expected a rainstorm any minute.
Before her, the road to the interstate was deserted. In the darkness she could see faint, misty flashes far off in the eastern sky.
As she turned onto I-89, heading toward the village of Hobston, Tabitha sputtered to herself. This better be good, she thought.
The trouble with a little podunk station like WVVT-TV, Channel 21 in Burlington, was that they expected you to do far too much for what they paid you. Christ, some of her friends were making more money slinging beef at McDonald's.
Not only did Tabitha have to go on camera twice daily to read the news, but she also had to appear in commercials and organize, script, and host a topical interview show once a week. Not all that easy when you're new to the area and have no contacts. Shit, there were just so many gardening experts, bird watchers, and local authors to put on the air.
To top it all off, she had to go out, video equipment in hand, and record most of the on-the-spot coverage. And more often than not, without benefit of an assistant. At first she'd felt pretty stupid setting up the camera, then standing in front of it to talk. But after a while she got used to it. Sort of. Still, it was a major pain in the ass. Especially at times like this.
So where did anyone, especially a nobody like Limp Dick Larry, get off rousting her in the middle of the night?
This better be a real ballbuster of a scoop, a real attention getter, or that little fucker is going to be blowing his nose through his bellybutton.
The defroster whirred monotonously; the tires hummed on the pavement. Tabitha flicked on an all-night radio station from Burlington. She recognized the voice of Bouncing Bob Clawson who hosted a live talk show for insomniacs. Tabitha quickly realized he'd beaten her to the story; Bouncing Bob was on the phone with someone from Hobston.
"Well, I've never seen anything like it, m'self," an elderly woman with a pronounced Vermont accent was saying. "Whatever them things are, they're lightin' up the sky like a buncha bombs goin' off. Pretty enough, I s'pose, but it's scary, too. My husband, he says it's got somethin' to do with that Air Force base over in Plattsburgh, but—"
"Thanks very much, ma'am, we have another caller. Hello, thanks for holding. You're on the air…."
"Hello, Bob?"
"That's right, sir. Are you calling from Hobston?"
"No, but I just wanna ask some of them Hobston folks if they haven't stopped to think what's going on most probably is the work of the Lord. The Book of Revelation says—"
"Thank you very much, sir. Now I suggest you go outside and listen for the trumpet. Okay, here we go, I've managed to get through to the Plattsburgh Air Force Base and I have their public relations officer, a Lt. Ron Boudreau, holding. Lt. Boudreau, are you there?"
"Yes Bob, I'm right here."
"And what news do you have for our listeners?"
"First, Bob, I want to assure your listeners that there is no Air Force involvement in the phenomenon whatsoever. I think what we're dealing with a some kind of freakish weather anomaly, something akin to ball lightening or St. Elmo's fire, and. . . ."
On Interstate 89, Tabitha had traveled a few miles south of Williston when she distinctly saw the first flare. It was like an early Fourth of July rocket streaking across the sky at a hundred miles an hour. It was dramatic. Beautiful!
She quickly turned off the radio and rolled down her window to see if it made any sound.
No. Nothing to hear but the growl of the Honda's noisy muffler.
There was hardly any traffic on the road at this hour, but a few cars had pulled over to the side where they parked with their lights off. As she drove past, she could see young people reclining on the hoods or leaning against fenders, watching the sky.
As the Hobston exit became visible she saw a huge RV with Quebec plates at the side of the road. An elderly couple had set up aluminum arm chairs in the breakdown lane and were sipping drinks as they watched the fireworks.
Tabitha considered stopping for a couple quick interviews. But no, she wasn't in the thick of things yet. There'd be plenty of other witnesses to interview once she had her equipment set up in Hobston.
As she neared the Hobston town line she realized she was driving into a rainstorm. Fat, heavy drops pelted the windshield with sudden and surprising fury. Wind picked up. It whipped across the flatlands, lashing the Honda, almost knocking the little car from one lane to the other.
Tabitha clutched the wheel with both hands as her car ripped through thickening sheets of torrential rain.
(5.)
Tabitha's saga continues. This scene didn't follow the above section directly. In this multiple viewpoint narrative we skipped from character to character until we finally got back to Tabitha, but by now her fate was sealed. She was fired from the novel and banished to the editing room floor. In retrospect, I think the editor was right in his appraisal of the newswoman. Frankly, it was a good thing he was there to keep roping me in. At the time I was ready to throw in dinosaurs, cavemen, leprechauns, griffins, and who knows what else.
No competition! Tabitha Thornton was pleased as she looked around. "All right!" She was the first television reporter to arrive in Hobston.
From the center of the village, her Honda parked directly across from the post office, she could see the surrounding hills and the glowing amorphous light far in the distance. Funny. It seemed to rest like a cloud on the distant black mountainside.
The comets were coming less frequently now. She'd better get some shots of them quickly, before they vanished altogether.
Then, when another flashed across the sky, she realized something: all the comets moved toward that mountain. It was as if it attracted them, as if they were trying to draw peoples' attention to glowing cloud.
This is getting curiouser and curiouser, she thought.
Protected from the rain by the awning in front of Gorman's Super Drug, she worked at setting up her tripod and video camera. Her fingers were cold, numb, hard to manipulate. She wondered if temperature and humidity would adversely affect the electronic circuitry, too.
Angled correctly now, the viewfinder revealed a dark panorama that included the spire of the Congregationalist Church in the foreground, Stattler Mountain in the back. The glowing cloud, she feared, was too faint to record.
Tabitha turned the camera on, hoping to catch some activity in the sky. For now, shots of the town itself were not important. She could get those later, even use file footage if she had to.
Maybe a half dozen people were in the street, not the mobs she'd anticipated. Probably most townspeople were indoors, peering out their windows and staying dry. Two men watched from beneath the roof of the tiny tourist information booth on the street corner opposite the park. A woman with an umbrella held hands with a small boy in front of a wooden door. The glass transom above said "Eagle Hotel." Everyone ignored Tabitha as she made a final check of all the audio connections.
An elderly man with a newspaper on his head ducked from doorway to doorway, making his way up the street. Eyes on the mountain, he stepped under the awning with Tabitha. He wore a denim barn jacket and baggy green work pants. Tabitha guessed his age at around sixty to sixty-five.
"Hi," she said. "I'm Tabitha Thornton from Channel 21. I wonder if I could ask you a few questions for my morning news show?"
A fireball hissed overhead. Its stark white glare streaked along the street like a searchlight, illuminating cars and buildings as it passed.
"What about? We ain't on TV now are we?"
"No, but I'd like to interview you on camera. Not live, though; I'm just taping."
"Why, heck sure. Why not?" The man clapped his hands and nodded affirmatively.
She centered him in the viewfinder, just under protection of the dripping awning. With luck, a fireball would pass behind him, adding drama to the shot.
"Just identify yourself, state the town you're from, and tell me what you do for a living. Then I'll ask you a couple of questions, okay? It's really pretty painless. Go ahead now; camera's running."
He cleared his throat and set his shoulders, nervous, but suddenly filled with importance and formality. "Name's Hap Hautala. Hobston. Used to be janitor over the high school back 'fore I retired."
"What do you think is happening here tonight, Mr. Hautala?"
"Why Cripes, I never seen anything like it. Rainin' fire, that's what I'd call it. Rainin' fire."
"How many of these fireballs have you seen?"
"Me? Well, heck, I ain't been countin'. More'n a hundred, I'd say. A good deal more'n a hundred. You hear about the fish?"
"Fish? What do you mean?"
"Ain't just rainin' fire. Rained fish. Here and there, all over town, fish just dropped out of the sky. Confoundingest thing. . . ."
"Fish?" Tabitha wasn't so sure she'd chosen the right person to interview. Raining fish sounded . . . a little nuts. Still, she'd heard of such things though she'd never given them much credence. Just to be on the safe side, she quickly redirected the interview. "That mountain up there"—Tabitha pointed—"have you noticed that lighted area on the mountainside?"
"Yup. That's what they call Stattler Mountain. Always somethin' strange goin' on up there. Weren't more'n a year ago, ol' Stu Dubois disappeared up there. Poof! Gone, just like that. They say his buddy Al Barnes was with him at the time. Tell ya one thing:
Al ain't been the same since. Cripes, always somethin' strange goin' on up there. Always. Why, one time my father—"
"Yes, thank you. That's very interesting, Mr. Ha . . . Hau . . ."
"Hautala. It's a Finnish name. And if this weather keeps up, it's darn sure gonna finish me!" The man laughed at his own joke, variations of which he'd no doubt made a thousand times, and smiled at the camera. "Here's how you say it: How, rhymes with cow. Tah. Lah. Hautala."
"Okay, Mr. Hautala. Let's try a few more questions. But please try not to mention peoples' names this time. Just talk about what you know for sure or what you've personally seen, all right?"
Even as she spoke, Tabitha was beginning to realize there might be some unexpected depth to this story. The sky show was one thing. But a fish fall and a disappearance! And a mountain with a mysterious past . . .? She'd let Mr. Hautala answer a few more questions on tape. Then he could tell her anything he wanted about Stattler Mountain.
Maybe he'd even go up there with her.
(6.)
Well, as you can see, it's starting to get a little silly, a big mistake at what is intended to be a suspenseful point in the narrative. And any reader of scary books will no doubt recognize the name Hautala. Maybe not so much at the time I wrote this, but today Mr. Hautala has earned a fine and deserved reputation as a writer. Back then he was less well-known but he was my friend and I thought I'd poke a little good natured fun by naming a character in his honor. Bad idea.
Nonetheless, the Adventures of Tabitha and Hap continue…
With Hap Hautala navigating from the passenger's seat, Tabitha Thornton slowly drove her Honda up Stattler Mountain Road toward Hattie Rawlston's place. Hap not only gave her directions, but a running commentary:
". . . closest you can get to the mountain by road. Lots of folks use the turnaround up here as kind of a drop-off place to go huntin' or fishin' or whatever. You like huntin'? Always used to tell Hattie's husband—Rodney, his name was, Rodney Rawlston—I'd say Rodney, you should open up a little concession stand, sell beer and sandwiches to the folks who come outta the woods empty-handed. Yessir. Sell 'em breakfast, too, on their way in. Coulda been a little gold mine. LOOKIT THAT! See! There ya go! See the light right up there?"
The Reality Conspiracy Page 47