On the next trip up, he knew it the second he hefted the thick handles; the wheelbarrow was overloaded. Still he set off anyway. By the time he had struggled half way up, Lee had to put his head down he was breathing so hard. Drops of sweat would form on the tip of his chin and then drop off taking the long fall straight down to splatter on the pebbly octagonal paving steps. His arms were burning and his elbows and shoulders strained. His blue jeans were soaking wet and chaffing his legs, rubbing against his thighs with every step. Finally, he had to give up; his hands were so wet he was losing his grip. With a heavy thud, he set the wheelbarrow down.
Lee strained to bend himself back upright. His fingers, though loosed from the handles, didn't want to straighten back out. Feeling light-headed, he wiped his arm across his sweaty forehead smearing stripes of mud across his eyebrows. The light from the sun was so bright it seemed as though he couldn't see anymore. Squinting, his eyes to just slits, he turned his head to catch a peek again at Mrs. Ballard who must be sweltering. The sun's glare burned the big window reflecting off like a mirror; he shifted slightly to the side to see because something was there.
Changing his angle slightly, the sun's reflection on the glass melted away. In the window a throng of desperate, terrified faces pressed themselves up against the panes. Girls mostly, some simply pleaded with their eyes, and others were shouting or screaming violently, but not a single sound escaped from within. Each had but a brief moment at the glass, peering out frantically, before being squeezed out by others moving in from the sides and behind.
Lee stood rigid, not believing his eyes.
Then suddenly they were all gone. The window was clear. Lee could see inside. Mrs. Ballard wasn't there. The table was there but the chair was empty. Where was she? She'd been there a moment ago. He noticed the door in the back; it was ajar. He stood just where he was, watching as it swung open, nothing but pitch blackness to be seen behind. He could feel something was emerging, a darker shadow rising up, step-by-step; then a pair of bright yellow eyes appeared. Something was definitely coming up the stairs, up from below, and he was for damn sure it wasn't Mrs. Ballard.
But he was wrong. She was there, still sitting in her chair, still as death. How could that be? He was sure the chair had been empty just a moment ago. He saw the old lady start. She flinched and suddenly came to life. She had been there. How could he have missed her?
And the something that was coming up from below was there. Lee could almost see it, at least the outline of a form. Then she came bolt upright and slammed the door.
Mrs. Ballard turned, her back pressed protectively up against the wood of the door. Through the glass, through the still air within, he could see the fear.
Then she saw him looking in.
In a single stride she was at the window, her face but inches from the glass. The wrinkled, leathery old skin hanging from her neck shivered with a violent spasm that coursed its way down, straining the tendons in her neck. Maybe she'd swallowed something? Her tongue? The flesh of her face, gray as a corpse, was all knotted with straining blue veins.
Oh, Jesus! He thought. Her eyes! As though she was strangling, each bulged out from its socket, now tainted a nasty yellow. Their stark color so bright, they cast out hazily within the windowpane, reflecting luminous little round halos in the glass. She was staring straight at him; her hands had come up, shaking, the spidery fingernails, trembling at the glass. Did she want out?
He stumbled, pasting the tender side of his knee against the handle of the wheelbarrow. In the blinding rush of pain he lost his balance. Catching his other leg between the wheelbarrow's two parallel arms he fell sideways, his weight taking the wheelbarrow over with him. He landed hard on the grass next to the walk, banging his elbow when he hit the ground. In the next split second he saw the shovel lose its place in the spilling pile of dirt and fall straight for his head. Just barely, he got his other hand up before the heavy handle could whack him across the eye.
Dazed and shaken, and feeling the nauseous pain from his knee clear up in his stomach, he dared a look back into the window of the little house. Mrs. Ballard at that instant settled back down in her chair. Or had she really moved? She was again so completely still facing the back door. Lee was flooded with waves of the exact same coldly eerie feeling as the other morning, when he had awakened in his room and not known where he was.
He gripped the knee, rocking back and forth, and cursing a blue streak. Maggie would have made him suck a case of soap if she'd heard such language. He was dizzy, almost sick with it. “Heat stroke,” he thought. “Calm down. Breathe. Breathe through it."
Heat stroke or not, the pain in his knee was certainly real. While the throbbing continued, sudden anger at the spilled load of dirt took over. When the pain had abated somewhat, and he had his breathing under control he untwisted his other leg from the handles, and using the shovel as a support, pulled himself to his feet. His right funny bone was singing out with sharp rays of tingling numbness, which made his little finger twitch when he rubbed the sore spot below the tip of the elbow.
After resting for a while, until he felt a bit normal again, with an effort, he righted the wheelbarrow. While refilling the spilled soil scoop by scoop, he kept looking back over his shoulder at the window. The old lady never moved a twitch, making him wonder if he'd seen what he thought he'd seen, or if the heat was playing tricks on him.
The rest of the morning he avoided looking at the windows of the little house whenever he passed. At mid afternoon, Mrs. Ballard left and floated silently back into the house. Lee was on his knees at the trellis pulling back some rose roots when she came by. He stole a glance out of the corner of his eye almost afraid to look at her face, but more afraid not to.
There was nothing different about her. Her skin was pallid and hung loosely as always. Her hair was soaked and beads of sweat stood out in a line above the thin, gray mustache on her lip. But there was nothing else. It made him feel like a fool. One thing he did know was that he felt better when she had gone inside, leaving him to the heat, the sun, and the damned sharp thorns of the never-ending roses.
CHAPTER TEN: MILLIE'S
"Hey Mom!” Lee called out from outside the laundry room door. “I'm leaving my shoes back here!” Then, keeping Flapjack back with his foot he slipped in the door. Looking back through the screen he made a serious face at the persistent duck.
"Yeah, Flapjack, you just sneak on in here."
Flapjack stopped banging his beak against the screen at the sound of Lee's voice, and looked up at him just like a dog.
"Let Maggie see any webbed footprints on her floor,” he continued just before closing the door, “and that'll be it for both of us."
The house was cool, and it was quiet inside.
"Hey, ya'll home?” he yelled, peeking around the edge of the doorway into the kitchen.
The empty den stared back at him.
Not having to worry about Maggie and her game of trying to embarrass him, or Patty's teasing either, he stripped down to only his underwear, leaving the stuff on the washing machine and ran back to the bathroom. Skirting the rug, the floor was slick and shiny beneath his bare feet. Worrying about leaving tracks himself, he had this fleeting thought that he almost liked it better when she hadn't given a damn about keeping a clean house.
Once inside the bathroom he locked the door, twisting a couple of times back and forth on the knob as he tested the latch. Satisfied it was locked, he stripped off his sodden briefs and threw them in the pile spreading out by the toilet. It was obvious Maggie hadn't done laundry today, or yesterday either. Some things hadn't changed.
The rings of the shower curtain scratched nosily as Lee pulled it back on its railing to turn on the water. For some reason, he always felt an expectant chill before opening the curtain. He hated doing it, but Maggie insisted on it being kept closed. It was as though he knew in the back of his mind, one time, when he wasn't really looking, he was going to open it and not like what was in there.
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Running his hand under the tap, the water was a just a bit too cold to step right in, so he turned on the hot, just a quarter turn, keeping his fingers under the flow. It was then he heard something outside the door out in the hall. Lee froze, expecting any moment for the door to burst open with Maggie and her damn spatula.
Then there it was again, a scratching sound like something heavy being dragged down the hall. He was staring at the door, no longer even thinking about the temperature of the water. Suddenly acutely aware, he could see every crack in the layers of paint, every facet on the cut glass doorknob. Something thumped against the door, causing Lee to shrink back.
"Maggie!” he called out, reflexively covering himself with his dry hand. “Hey! I'm in here!"
Nothing, just the running water. And was that aftershave he smelled? Aqua Velva.
He drew his hand out of the water and smelled his fingers. He shook his head. What was that smell?
The dragging noise came back, louder this time, and one of the bedroom doors must have slammed. The force of it was startling.
"Hey!” he called out. “Maggie, Mom, is that you? Patty? Dad?"
The reek of aftershave was becoming intense. Like a cold day, the soft parts of his skin were beginning to draw up. With both hands he turned off the water. He needed to hear. Was that laughing? Down the hall, it sounded like laughing, a woman's laughing. He reached for the doorknob. Right before his fingers touched, the glass facets moved left then right. Lee grabbed the knob with one hand and the latch with the other. He could feel it trying to move in his grip.
"Maggie!” he yelled. “Cut it out! I'm in here!"
Nothing.
For the longest time he stood, staring at the door, then called out, “Hey, who's there?"
Still nothing, no sound, nothing.
Down deep, he found his initial anxiety changing. Anger was taking over. This wasn't funny. Suddenly he didn't give a damn if Maggie caught him naked again. She could smirk all she wanted. With a quick twist of both hands he twisted the latch and turned the knob and jerked the door open.
Nothing. The hall was empty.
Keeping his body behind the door, Lee opened it a bit wider and stuck his head out. “Hey!” he called out. “Y'all home?"
The hall was empty. Down at the end he could see out into the den. Nothing but the stillness peculiar to an empty room. Looking around to his right, the bedroom doors were all open, but not a trace of anything. He almost stepped out, but then realized this might be some kind of game. He wasn't about to fall into Maggie's trap and get caught standing butt naked out in the middle of the hall. He could just see the gloat in her eyes. Closing the door, he again locked it, feeling foolish. Going back to running the water, Lee checked the smell with his fingers. It was just water. That aroma of aftershave was gone. Careful to not slip, he stepped in. Finally, drawing the shower curtain closed, he turned on the spray, actually enjoying the shock of the first chilly blast.
When he came out of the shower, Lee could hear the T.V. was on. He hadn't taken fresh clothes form his dresser before going in to shower, so he wrapped a towel around his hips and jumped across the hall into his room.
He dressed quickly, knowing that Maggie must have gone grocery shopping this afternoon. With Patty with her, there would probably be some pretty good treats. He pulled on a pair of shorts without even bothering to undo the snap or zipper. He hadn't done a good job of drying himself. The t-shirt balled up sticking stubbornly, resisting his efforts to pull it down. He almost had to dislocate his shoulders to get the thing to roll down. Then, excitedly, he ran down the hall his bare feet slapping on the hardwood floor.
Seeing the grocery bags on the table, he yelled excitedly, “What'd ya’ get?"
Patty triumphantly held up a big, red bullet Popsicle. Drops of juice were hanging at her chin, and a long runner had made its way down her wrist, almost to her elbow. “We got Popsicles!” she burst out.
Lee took one look, then set out straight for the kitchen. Maggie met him at the doorway holding one still in its frosty wrapper, dangling it pendulum style like some kind of bait. “Is this what you're looking for?"
"Did y'all just now get in?” he asked.
Maggie drew the treat back. “Yeah, just a couple of minutes ago. Why?"
Lee dropped his eyes from hers to the Popsicle. “Nothing, I was just wondering. I was taking a shower."
She handed over the confection. He didn't have to be looking at her face to know the smirk was there. “So I heard,” she said, turning back into the kitchen.
Lee's smile would have been thanks enough; even though he remembered to actually say, “Thanks, Mom,” as he ripped off the sticky paper.
"How'd it go today?” she asked, pushing past him to grab a bag of groceries off the table.
Lee had the Popsicle jammed into his mouth, so he just twisted his knee towards her so she could see the bruise.
"Ouch!” she said. “That's a good one."
Lee drew the Popsicle out of his mouth with a long slurping smack. “Did my elbow too.” He held it up proudly for her to see.
"Tough day,” she said working her way by him, a bag of groceries in each arm.
For a second, Lee though about telling her about how he had thought he had seen Mrs. Ballard look like something from a creep show, but he didn't know what to say that wouldn't sound stupid here in the living room.
He stuck the Popsicle back into his mouth and with three running steps, flung himself sideways into the big easy chair; landing with his legs skewed over one of the arms. “What ya’ watching, squirt?” he asked his sister.
Her Popsicle had broken, and she was struggling to hold the freezing end in her mouth and slurp up the melting drops that dribbled down the stick at the same time. Whatever she said, Lee couldn't understand.
"Hey Mom, Patty's makin’ a mess!” he yelled to the kitchen door.
Maggie appeared with a Popsicle of her own in her mouth and threw a dishtowel towards the center of the room. Lee snagged it out of the air with his foot and swung it over to his sister, the towel dangling from between his toes.
Patty grabbed the towel, wiping her chin in one swipe, then made a pass up from the elbow catching most of sticky, red trail of juice. Done, she tossed the towel on the coffee table and returned to sitting cross-legged in front of the T.V..
Lee looked at the screen but didn't recognize the show. There were only three commercial stations that provided service to the valley, and most people had a hard time picking up one or the other of those. If you had your antenna aligned to pick up channel 2 you couldn't get channel 11 and vice a versa. But with their monster antenna, they got reception on all three pretty well. He knew all the afternoon shows, except for the soap operas, so this must be something new.
These were hand puppets. A baggy puppy dog with droopy eyes was floundering around a cardboard room pursued by an Arabic looking magician with an enormously long and pointed nose and beard. The magician's attempts to collar the fleeing pooch were consistently being foiled by a really dopey looking puppet that always managed to get in the way.
"What's this called?” asked Lee.
"Lucky Pup!” Patty squealed, sucking on the Popsicle stick sideways and alternating with licking it like an ear of corn. “It's new."
"Since when?” Lee asked, just as the dopey one creamed the magician, smashing him across his painted face with a long wooden stick.
Both Lee and Patty laughed.
"Since last week I think,” she said turning her head to peer back at him. She looked back to the screen and pointed. “That's Foodini,” she indicated the magician puppet, who was now throttling the stupid one, while the puppy made good his escape. “The other one's Pinhead. They want to take Lucky Pup's five million dollars."
"Five million dollars,” Lee shot back. “Where'd a dog puppet get five million dollars?"
"He's lucky!” squealed Patty, giving Lee a look like he must be stupid.
"I'd feel lucky
if there was something better on,” he said returning her look. “Let's check channel eleven."
"Mom,” yelled Patty. “Lee won't let me watch my show!"
"Lee!” Maggie hollered back from within the kitchen. “Leave your sister be!"
"Hey! I'm not doing anything. I just asked her to check channel eleven. She's got a stupid puppet show on."
Patty stuck her tongue out at Lee.
The set on the screen widened out to reveal a pretty, young woman. Lucky Pup had made good his escape from the two bumbling villains and was now perched on her soft shoulder. She was stroking Lucky Pup and admonishing Foodini and Pinhead for their greed. Neither Foodini nor Pinhead looked like they had ever even heard of the word remorse. Lucky Pup had gotten away for now, but smart money said they'd all be back at it tomorrow.
"I've got to pick your father up from work,” Maggie said coming out of the kitchen. “You kids be good. I'll be back in just a little bit."
Maggie looked at the screen and stopped in her tracks. “What's this y'all are watching?"
"It's Lucky Pup!” chimed Patty, exactly as she had to Lee.
Maggie thought for a moment, then slowly said, “I remember this.” She pointed at the woman on the screen. “And that's Doris Brown. Look! That's her!"
Lee was looking at Maggie. She appeared both shocked and confused like she was a contestant on a game show and the emcee had just asked her the square root of some ridiculous number instead of her own last name.
A clown appeared on the screen, its legs hidden behind a convenient desk as it waddled over to Doris and Lucky.
"That's Jolo the clown, Lucky's pal,” Maggie said with real surprise.
"See,” taunted Patty, glaring at Lee. “Mom likes the show."
A commercial for Ipana toothpaste suddenly flashed into view. The tube had a grinning, plastic Jolo the clown head instead of a normal cap.
"I want that,” asked Patty, looking at her mother hopefully.
Maggie suddenly started, as though coming out of a daydream, probably remembering she had to go.
Evil Heights, Book I: The Midnight Flyer Page 22