Ratcatcher

by Chambers, V. J.

  But Lark wasn’t going to think about that. Not right now. It wasn’t important anyway. She just wanted Tim away. She wanted the memories of Jimmy safely buried away from everything. She had enough to deal with right now without worrying about that kind of thing.

  As she stared out the window, she saw a figure approaching the house. He was nothing more than a dark shadow in the scant light of the fires. He walked right past the police officers and straight toward the house. Lark’s heart started to beat faster. Weren’t the police going to stop him? And what was he going to do?

  But as he got closer, Lark recognized him. It was Damien!

  She leapt up, opened the door, and went outside.

  “Damien!” she called, running to him.

  He caught her in a tight bear hug. “Hi Lark,” he said.

  “It’s so good to see you,” said Lark.

  “Yeah,” said Damien, releasing her.

  “How are you? Any news on Rainey? What are you doing here?”

  Damien looked away, a smile playing on his lips. He jammed his hands into his pockets. He didn’t answer any of her questions. Instead, he said, “I need to get into the house.”

  “You can’t ask me to do that,” said Lark. “I’m sorry. I just can’t. Why do you want in anyway?”

  “Lark, it’s important. I can’t stop thinking about it. I can’t stop thinking that once I get into the house, everything’s going to be better. I need to be near Shane. So, please, you can let me in?”

  “No, I can’t,” said Lark. And Damien didn’t seem like himself. His voice had a calm, lilting quality to it, but there was a look in his eyes. Obsession or need or crazy desire. Lark didn’t like it. She didn’t even think she liked being near Damien right now.

  “Let me in,” said Damien.

  “Damien, you need to go back your van,” said Lark.

  “Let me in,” he said.

  “I mean it. Get away from me.”

  Damien took a step towards her.

  Lark couldn’t help it. She screamed. And the police were there almost instantly.

  Damien backed away, hands in the air. “I’m going,” he said. He turned and trudged back into the darkness.

  * * *

  Upstairs in his bedroom, Shane had locked his door. He told the others that he didn’t want to be disturbed for a while. That he needed some time to think. Truthfully, he just wanted to play guitar, and he didn’t want anyone to hear him. If he played in secret, he hoped that he wouldn’t hurt anyone. He knew that to be very, very safe, he shouldn’t play at all. But it was hard not to play. He loved to play. It was his life. It was hard not to do it now. Hell, it was damned near impossible.

  Once he arrived in the room and locked the door, he toyed with the idea of not actually playing. Of just sitting up here and thinking, like he’d said he was going to do. He sat on the edge of his bed and picked up one of his rats. He scratched the rat on its head, and it snuggled into his fingers, seemingly content. The other rats gathered around him, rubbing against his legs. He thought about just sitting here and thinking, playing with the rats. What would he think about?

  He didn’t want to think about any of it. How he was a prisoner in own house, by his own fans. How people were dying left and right. How it was his own fault that all of this had happened. He just didn’t understand how it had all gotten so bad. Why was everything so bad?

  In the beginning, right after he’d seen the ash man, he hadn’t given any credence the hallucination, because it had seemed implausible. But that wasn’t the only reason, was it? He hadn’t believed it because he was arrogant. He’d believed his rise to fame had been because of his own skill. He’d always been popular. The Wrenching had played in this town for years when he was in his early and mid twenties. And they’d easily been the most sought after band in town.

  Even then, Shane remembered feeling a little like a rock star. It wasn’t uncommon for twenty-year-old girls to approach him at parties, gushing at him about how wonderful his music was and how in awe of him they were. And his shows always packed local venues. He knew this wasn’t typical. He saw other local bands play. They weren’t surrounded by the throng of dancing bodies, screaming their lyrics along with the band. No. But The Wrenching always had been. So, Shane had always believed he was talented. He’d never had much of anything else going for him. He wasn’t smart. He’d dropped out of high school for God’s sake. Music was all he’d ever been good at.

  When the fame ball started rolling, Shane hadn’t questioned it. One of their friends in town, a girl named Kelly, had moved to New York City after graduating for college. She called up Chris one day and said that she was dating this guy who was a rep for a major record label. She said that her new boyfriend was so intrigued by the way that she gushed about their band that he wanted to hear them play. He was coming with her to visit family in town, and they were coming to watch a show.

  The rest all happened fast. Of course, her boyfriend loved The Wrenching. They were signed. They were recording. They were on tour. And that had been life for a while. The record sold well. So did the next one. The whole time, Shane never thought that it didn’t make sense. That it was too good to be true. He believed in himself. He believed in his band. Of course they were good enough to be this famous. Of course they were. It wasn’t until the kids started disappearing that he started to put it together. And by then, it just seemed too late. Suddenly, Shane had felt as though his fame was a prison. There were so many people who counted on him for their livelihood. He felt as though his life wasn’t his own. As though his music wasn’t his own.

  But whatever the ash man had done, he hadn’t changed the way that Shane played. Shane’s music was his own. It always would be. Nothing could take that away from him. So he got up and got a guitar that was nestled in the corner of his bedroom. He settled back on the bed, feeling how perfect the guitar felt in his hands. Like coming home. For a few moments, he didn’t do anything but move his hand on the neck of the guitar, fretting different chords. But then he couldn’t help himself. He wanted to play so badly. He strummed. One chord. It filled the room.

  The rats all looked up at him. He could swear they looked eager.

  He strummed another chord. And then another. And then before he knew it, he was playing “Get the Fuck Out of Hamelin,” plowing through the verses and driving himself to the throbbing chorus of the song. He felt the way he did when he wrote the song. It was a good song. It was always a sort of magical feeling. Writing a good song. Feeling it as you sang it. Rediscovering it. It didn’t sound the way it did on the album. For one thing, he was playing acoustic. For another, there were no other instruments or effects or chances to rerecord parts that didn’t sound exactly right. But the song was still alive in its raw power. In his hands and voice.

  As he strummed the last chords, Shane sighed and stared out over the rats, feeling empty. How could he keep from doing this? How could he ever stop? He didn’t know if he could.

  * * *

  Lark woke up early the next morning. Shane was still sleeping. He looked so peaceful nestled next to her. One of his arms was thrown over her torso. She shifted in bed next to him. Stroked his sleeping face gently. She sometimes wondered if men ever felt this way next to their lovers. Was it something female within her that caused her to feel this maternal, protective feeling? Sleeping men always looked something like little boys. As if all their bravado was just a show they put on. She felt a bursting feeling of love for Shane. She felt the urge to fight for him. To keep him safe. She felt as if he belonged to her at that moment. As if he’d been entrusted to her for safety. He was her responsibility.

  She lay next to him for a while, looking at him sleeping like that. She tried to go back to sleep. But after a while, she realized it was a lost cause and eased herself out of the bed, careful not to disturb Shane. The rats weren’t awake either. They slept in piles in corners in the room. Surveying them, Lark felt certain that there were definitely more rats than she remembere
d. Their numbers had grown. Lark swallowed, not wanting to think about it. Not wanting to remember the creepy way that Damien had begged her to be let into the house last night. She left the room quickly and went downstairs.

  Outside, a morning fog had settled over the sleeping Entourage. It was silent and still. The cops were changing shifts. Two new cars had driven in and were chatting with the men who were leaving. Things would stay quiet until the sun rose high enough in the sky to burn off the fog and wake the sleeping fans. Maybe they’d go home today. It looked as though it would get very hot today. It had to be uncomfortable for them, waiting outside in the oppressive humidity, with the hot sun burning down on them. Why were they here? Lark had followed The Wrenching for the music. These guys were following Shane for some reason. There was no music. And yet, they were all here. Was Shane right? Was he the Pied Piper? Did his music have some supernatural pull over these people? Couldn’t they help themselves?

  Lark stared out the window a little longer. She had a strong sense of foreboding. It wasn’t good to be surrounded by all of these fans who were crazy enough to try to break into the house. If Damien’s desperation matched the desperation of each of them, it was only a matter of time before something bad happened. They had to get rid of them. Or Shane had to get out of here. She didn’t know what they should do, but it seemed to her that several good options had been offered the day before. Something needed to be done.

  It was then that she saw them. Three rats were huddled up against the door, outside the house. They were sleeping.

  “Fuck,” Lark muttered, quickly unlocking the door, opening it, and pulling the rats inside.

  When she picked them up, they woke up. They looked around wildly at their new surroundings inside Shane’s house. Lark guessed she had to take them upstairs to Shane’s room. That was where the rats hung out. But she didn’t want Shane to see them. Besides, it was strange. Three at once? They’d always shown up singly before. Why were there three?

  And besides, Shane hadn’t even played guitar yesterday. Well, maybe that thought would cheer him up. Maybe he wasn’t the Pied Piper. Maybe instead, he was the rat whisperer and rats just showed up at his house. That explanation was just as weird as anything Shane cooked up, but it was better than thinking the rats had the souls of his dead fans in them.

  She started up the steps with the rats, which still seemed a little nervous and frightened. When she got back in the room, Shane was still asleep. She set the rats down and went to get them some food, in case they were hungry. The rats sniffed the lab blocks, but didn’t gnaw at them. Some of their fellow rats were waking up now. They had smelled the food. Lark took the new rats to the adjoining bathroom and put them in there with the food and some water. She didn’t want the old rats to bother the new rats, who’d spent the night outside in the elements.

  She realized she was done making the excuse that the rats were simply ones who’d gotten out. She knew these rats were new. As she closed the door the bathroom, Shane said, “Good morning,” from the bed.

  She sat down on the bed, leaning down to kiss him. “Hi baby,” she said, the feeling of tenderness from earlier returning.

  “Whatcha doing up so early?” Shane asked.

  “I couldn’t go back to sleep,” said Lark.

  “Why is the bathroom door closed?”

  “There are some rats in there. They showed up at the door this morning.”

  “What?!” Shane said, sitting up.

  “I know. Weird, right?” said Lark. “Because you didn’t play yesterday, so clearly it doesn’t have anything to do with that.”

  Shane flounced back on the bed, covering his face with his hands. He didn’t say anything.

  “Shane?” Lark asked.

  Shane got up. He searched through his closet for some jeans and pulled them on. “I need a drink,” he said.

  Shane hadn’t been drinking since the night he’d passed out at the bar. Lark had thought, had hoped, that maybe it was the stress of being on the road that caused him to drink so much, and that maybe his drinking would stop now. But for some reason, he was going to start drinking again.

  “It’s like seven-thirty in the morning, babe,” said Lark. “What’s up?”

  Shane turned to her, his face twisted in agony. “I did play yesterday,” he said. “I played by myself, but I played. I don’t know if I can stop.”

  * * *

  Chris was sitting in the kitchen with an open bottle of whiskey and an empty rocks glass when Shane barreled into the room. Chris didn’t know how long he’d been in the kitchen. He’d gotten up at some point during the night to get a drink, because he hoped it would help him sleep without the dreams. He couldn’t stop the fucking dreams anymore. He hated the dreams. Didn’t even want to think about them. He’d hoped that a few drinks would help. Apparently, he’d fallen asleep at the kitchen table.

  And the drinks hadn’t helped. He’d dreamed anyway. Now he was awake, and he wanted another drink even if the drinking didn’t stop the dreams. He didn’t feel as though he could face himself sober. Every time he shut his eyes he remembered what the ash man wanted him to do. He saw blood arcing out from wounds, splattering against walls and dripping down them. Anyone would need a drink if they couldn’t stop from seeing that. Anyone would.

  Shane looked at the whiskey bottle and then at Chris. “Great minds think alike,” Shane muttered, reaching for the bottle.

  “Are you having dreams too?” asked Chris.

  “What?” said Shane.

  Apparently not. Maybe Chris was the only one having the dreams. The ash man was angry. Chris had to fix things to that the ash man wasn’t angry anymore. It was all Shane’s fucking fault. If he’d never heard of the ash man, his imagination wouldn’t have dreamed up all this—except Chris didn’t really believe that. Not anymore. Or...maybe he did. It wasn’t really important anymore.

  Lark had said she’d dreamed about the ash man. But Chris knew he couldn’t believe anything Lark said. She’d do or say anything. She was—

  But wasn’t all of that crazy?

  Chris waited as Shane poured himself some whiskey and then took the bottle from his friend. He filled his own glass.

  Shane proffered his glass bitterly. “To drinking in the morning,” he said.

  Chris clinked his glass against Shane’s.

  Shane sat down across from Chris at the table. “So why are you drinking?” he asked.

  “I told you,” said Chris. “Bad dreams.”

  Shane’s brow furrowed. “Hey, are you okay?”

  “Would I be drinking at eight in the morning if I were okay?” Chris asked pointedly. What did Shane care anyway? Shane only cared about Lark, that fucking bitch.

  Shane shrugged. “You pissed at me for some reason?” he asked.

  “Why would you think that?”

  “You just bit my head off for asking if you were okay.”

  Chris didn’t feel like dealing with Shane’s over sensitivity. “I’m not pissed. Not at you.” But if Shane kept being such a—but no. He couldn’t hurt Shane. Shane was important.

  Shane shrugged. “Okay.”

  Lark came into the kitchen. “There you are,” she said to Shane. “I’ve been looking for you.”

  “I told you I was going to get a drink,” Shane told his girlfriend. “Where else would I go but the kitchen?”

  Good. Shane sounded irritated with Lark. That was a start, anyway.

  Lark sat down. “Why are you drinking?” she asked Chris.

  Chris didn’t answer. He didn’t want to talk to her. He hated her. Hated her so much. Especially when he thought about holding her body against his in the dark. How small and soft it was. He hated that the most of all.

  “Bad dreams,” said Shane.

  Lark got up and got herself a rocks glass. She poured herself some whiskey. “You dreaming about the ash man again?” she asked Chris.

  Chris just glared at her. This was none of her business.

  “You w
ere dreaming about the ash man?” Shane asked.

  “It’s not a big deal,” said Chris.

  “Obviously it is if you’re drinking,” said Shane.

  “We drank like this all the time on tour,” Chris said. “I don’t want to talk about it anyway.”

  “Why not?” Shane demanded. “You’re dreaming about my ‘hallucination’ and you don’t think that proves that I’m telling the truth? He’s coming after you too!”

  “No,” said Chris. “No. It means that I hung out with you too much, and my imagination ran away with your story.”

  “I dreamed about him too,” Lark said quietly. “A few times. Not recently, though.”

  “You both were dreaming about him?” Shane yelled. “And neither of you believe me?”

  Tim came into the kitchen. “Good morning to you guys,” he said. “Yell any louder, and you’ll attract the police on duty to break this up.”

  “We weren’t yelling,” Shane said. “And this is none of your business, anyway.”

  Tim sat down at the table. “It sure as hell is my business. Whitney’s gone. You guys are screaming about ash men and dreams and things, and I happen to have been having some pretty weird dreams about this smoky guy who lives in hell or something.”

  “You’re all dreaming about him!” Shane exclaimed. “All of you. Do you believe me now? Do you?”

  ”I do,” said Lark. “I mean, I think I do. Kind of. There are definitely more rats than there used to be.”

  “Thank you,” said Shane.

  “Whatever, Lark,” Tim sneered. “You’ll say anything to twist Shane around your little finger.”

  “I told you,” said Shane, half-standing, “not to talk to her like that.”

  Tim shrugged. “If my brother had never met her, he’d never have committed suicide.”

  “You don’t know that,” said Shane. “Besides, it doesn’t sound like your brother was really much of an asset to the world.”