Destroyer of Worlds

by Daniel G. Keohane

  Sam said, “Corey, the clock’s a bit slow, isn’t it?”

  He nodded, grateful for the distraction. “Yea, I noticed that this morning. Probably need to wind it better.”

  Vanessa looked back down at the clock, “It looks like an antique. Does it take batteries?”

  “A key,” he said, deciding then he didn’t want to mention where he’d found it, though unsure why. “I didn’t wind it much last night. Meant to do it this morning but we were in a rush.”

  She nodded absently, staring intently at the ugly thing. She still hadn’t told them how beautiful it was. One point for the neighbor.

  Sam asked, “Do you attend the other church?”

  Vanessa looked at her, smiled. “No. I’m a Druid, actually.”

  “A Druid? What’s that?”

  Vanessa laughed and waved one hand as if to dispel interest. “Mostly touching trees and having sex in the woods.” His wife laughed and covered her mouth in embarrassment.

  “Mommy,” Abby whispered, “she said a bad word.”

  Vanessa leaned towards the girl. “You’re absolutely right, young lady. I apologize.”

  Abby nodded, please with the apology, or perhaps simply with being called young lady.

  Sex in the woods, Corey thought, finding his brain moving in a dangerous direction. He looked back at the clock. “Maybe I should try winding - ”

  “I really should be going,” Vanessa said, then abruptly stood. “I’ve sponged off your hospitality too long.”

  Everyone else rose from their seats, though more in reaction to the suddenness of her movements than in agreement. Vanessa pulled Samantha into a loose embrace. “Dinner was wonderful. My turn next time.”

  Sam hadn’t blushed this much since their honeymoon. She nodded, said, “That would be nice.” Vanessa ruffled Abby’s hair, then gave Corey the same loose hug. She was feather light in his arms, barely there before moving away. Maybe it was because of her Druid remark, but he had the impression of fallen leaves, the smell of Autumn surrounding him, fleeting, now gone. Probably some brand of perfume.

  They walked her to the kitchen after she insisted on using the backyard path again. “I have good night vision, and it’s almost a full moon.”

  Not until they’d stepped onto the porch did Abby remember dessert. “Wait! We didn’t have pie!”

  Sam stopped. “That’s right! Can you stay just a little longer?”

  Vanessa considered for a moment, then, “How about I come by…” she looked sideways at some invisible planner in her head, “…Tuesday afternoon? We could share it then? It should keep. I really have to get back,” again a pause and sideways look, “some maintenance I’d promised to do for the town website.”

  Corey wanted to ask more about that, but his role had been relegated to the background so much tonight, he stayed quiet.

  “Tuesday should be OK. Abby and I will be puttering around the yard, planting. Can you come for lunch?”

  The woman looked about to hug her again, but only nodded. “Lunch Tuesday then.” She wiggled her fingers at Abby before trotting down the steps. They watched her shadow move onto the path and disappear. Corey would be working Tuesday. He explained this when they got back inside and cut himself a slice of the pie over the half-hearted objections of his wife.

  He’d completely forgotten about the clock.

  III

  Vanessa

  “Druid,” Vanessa whispered to no one. She allowed herself a quiet laugh. The idea would have been funny, if it hadn’t been such an unexpected statement. The imaginative mind could go into overdrive when it was needed. She looked up at the stars, so brilliant out here away from the lights of the city, free of the constant sheet of haze lingering over everything like a bad odor. She looked down, stepped along the path, breathing slowly and bringing herself into better tune with the stillness. What the hell was she doing out here? There were coyotes, snakes, God knew what else. She needed to be here, though, away for a while. She’d head inside soon, start it all over again. The Unions had such a perfect plot of land here, a corner of paradise tucked away, only for them. The idea was calming, and a little sad.

  This sadness was nothing Vanessa could dwell on. She had a job to do. As real as the leaf she held between the fingers of her outstretched hand—hoping it wasn’t poison ivy—the world Corey Union knew was an illusion, a veneer laid over a reality of death, blood running like an underground river, coming soon to the surface. She imagined it would break loose over them, directed in a macabre way by Hank Cowles. The old man should have no power, deserved no power. Not like this. As much as she felt the need to protect Corey, it was a struggle to remember that Hank Cowles had no real influence over her, or her actions. Corey, yes, there was no question Cowles—if not the man himself then certainly his existence—had an influence, like a wound that would reopen if she let it.

  And Corey was going to let it. The simple act of eventually winding the damned clock again would be like unlocking the door for the old man to step inside. At least, Corey’s interpretation of the old man. Vanessa needed to know the real Hank Cowles better. Hopefully Thursday, if Chen approved. Of course he had to, he’d promised. This was her week, her time.

  She rubbed her hands across her arms, looked around at the forest’s dark shapes wavering in front of other, darker shadows. Why was she so afraid to be outside like this, away from the house even for a little while?

  Samantha Union’s reaction to her presence was interesting, an eagerness in her attention, almost desperation. Maybe, deep down she understood what Vanessa had planned, who she truly was. Part of Samantha wanted to be pulled away from the family. Maybe Corey understood more than he let on, feeding some line into the river, seeing how it played out.

  What would he do when it became obvious that Vanessa was going to destroy the paradise he’d created, almost as thoroughly as Hank Cowles had done before and will again? Corey would never see her as a friend, let alone anything more than a friend. Vanessa turned around, looked at the lights of the Union house distant through the trees. He was going to despise her.

  Her chest felt like it was folding in on itself, over an empty center where her heart used to be. A black hole sucking her in until there was nothing left but—

  Stop it! You’re no better than his wife, hiding poetry under the bed! This is a job and nothing more. Grow the hell up and get to work!

  Get to work.

  That was the final sentence, no matter what she thought about the man. She needed to get to work destroying Corey Union, with love, before Hank Cowles could do the same in his own terrible way. He was the Destroyer of Worlds. Cowles did it with hate, arriving like a distant thunderstorm rising on the horizon, and there wasn’t a damned thing anyone could do to stop it. Except Vanessa. Maybe this time she could reach in and save someone before the storm passed over and wiped everything clean. Like it did before. Over and over, the cycle never ended. Vanessa wouldn’t be able to save Samantha or her beautiful daughter. When this ended, they would be dead, but Corey had a chance, always had a chance, if Vanessa kept her head and remembered all of this was for him. Him, not her.

  She fiddled with more leaves, thought about the clock. Nothing but an empty, ugly box but Corey would wind the stupid thing, eventually; nothing she could do about it right now. She hadn’t insinuated herself into his world enough, yet. He could wind it one more time. After that, however, it had to unwind and die, forever and ever.

  A buzzing sound pulled her attention away from the house lights. She turned towards the gloom beyond the path. Just some wasps sending out a warning before settling in for the night. Probably from the old shed, lost and forgotten out there somewhere at the edge of the property. Not entirely forgotten, she remembered. Corey knew about it. That’s where he’d found his little key.

  Something shifted up ahead on along the path. A white blur, like a miniature ghost. Nurse Charles, she thought, then cursed under her breath. It could not be the dog. Why was she acting like
such a frightened child?

  The white shape growled, two lights glistened and reflected the rising moonlight. Small eyes, on a small white dog—

  “Stop it!” she shouted, too loudly, recoiling from the sound of her own voice. More quietly, she said, “Get a grip on yourself, for heaven’s sake. The dog is not here! Not anywhere. This is your time, now.”

  Stating the obvious made her fell better. Vanessa was in control and if it took talking to herself in the woods to remember that, so be it. She looked again. No white blur ahead. No growling, no glowing orbs, no eyes.

  Even so, she’d be a fool not to recognize the danger in what had just happened. She had less than a week to do what she had to do. Every moment she needed to be alert and rational. If she couldn’t, she might as well dig a hole now and bury Corey Union in it. Because if she failed, he would be lost forever.

  SUNDAY NIGHT

  Corey

  Samantha watched him undress from her side of the bed, sheet pulled to her mouth like a little girl. Even so, Corey could tell his wife was smiling from the glint in her eyes. When he slid under the sheet, she let out a contented sigh and curled onto his chest. Her leg hooked around his, his arm under her, sliding lower, realizing she was naked. Jungle Boy and Jungle Girl, he thought. He tried not to get too worked up and end up not being able to sleep when she rolled over. But her fingertips slowly caressed the fine hairs on his belly. She wasn’t helping matters.

  Sam whispered, “She was nice.” It took a moment before Corey understood she meant Vanessa; he was too distracted by those wandering fingertips.

  “Yeah. You two got along well.” His arousal became stronger, more urgent. Down, Boy, he thought, then understood it was okay. Sam slid on top of him, raised herself up and stretched her legs down the length of his own, moving slowly back and forth. She covered his mouth with kisses, moving to his neck, hips always in motion, sending him into mad gasps. She was breathing deeply, too, when she reached down, guided him into her. She leaned back, nails digging into his chest.

  He came quickly, too quickly maybe, though he had the impression she’d already climaxed herself.

  She collapsed on top of him, arms and legs snaked around him, not letting him out, kissing and making contented sounds against his skin. He resisted the urge to say something stupid like, Wow, settled on running his hands along her back and legs, enjoying her presence, the softness of her on top of him.

  Eventually they moved apart, and an hour later, she was fast asleep beside him. Corey lay awake, right arm wrapped around her. The world drifted in and out of focus. He should have collapsed into sleep; he always did after sex but this time, as soon as he began to sink lower something pulled him to the surface. A memory, a nagging feeling that he was forgetting something.

  He slowly pulled his arm away from Sam’s body and rolled over, reluctantly checking the time. Just after eleven-thirty. He closed his eyes, tried to relax. That was when he heard them. With one ear muffled by the pillow, his sense of direction was skewed. It sounded as if the wasps were outside the bedroom window. It was open, but the sound through the screen should have been louder if they were there. He waited, wondering if they were in the attic.

  Wasps slept at night, didn’t they?

  Their heady noise reminded him of the shed. The key. The clock.

  I forgot to wind it.

  Not a thought that would send him jumping from the bed, however. He could always wind it tomorrow morning, reset the time. He let the sound drift past like the wind, imagined his body sinking into the mattress, legs liquid, muscles relaxed…

  Sleep came, but only as fitful flashes of dreams. Abby running in the back yard, the sun blazing, the scene shifting, the decrepit barn’s roof collapsing, Sam’s body on top of him, the walls of the barn folding in, Vanessa’s body on top of him, replacing his wife, black and white swarms roiling out of the destroyed shed like smoke, buzzing in rage—

  His eyes opened with a start. Corey focused on the digital clock beside him. Three Twenty-One. He swallowed, still dreaming, still hearing the wasps.

  Not a dream. The sound was still going, louder now, angry and…

  “Shit.” He pulled the dead weight of his body out of bed, feeling around for his bathrobe. The sound’s direction was more focused now that he was standing. Down the hall.

  Corey hesitated in the doorway. If the wasps had gotten inside the house he didn’t want to stir them up. The hall nightlight revealed nothing moving along the walls. He walked forward, head cocked to gauge where the sound was coming from. Past Abby’s closed door. The sound remained ahead of him, keeping its distance. It had to be coming from the living room. He hadn’t opened the fireplace flue, but someone might have.

  What was it about this place and wasps?

  On his left, the kitchen was vaguely illuminated by the blue numbers on the microwave. Corey flipped the light switch controlling the lamps on either side of the couch.

  The living room filled with light, and the sound of the wasps stopped.

  Finger still on the switch, he scanned the room for movement, waited for the sound to return.

  It did not. He resisted the urge to turn off the lights again to see if the buzzing started up. If that happened, Corey didn’t like what that might imply about his sanity. He left the light on and walked across the room, tapped the glass doors of the fireplace. Nothing. Giving the clock only a cursory glance, he knelt down and opened the doors.

  Nothing but new bricks, black smudges where they’d lit a small fire last weekend to cure the concrete. He considered, briefly, reaching up to test the flue trap, but decided that wouldn’t be the smartest choice at the moment. Maybe in the daylight, when the world seemed less surreal. He closed the doors.

  Content for the time being that the wasps were gone, Corey sat on the hearth, finally giving the clock and its silent, screaming boy more attention. He picked it up. Again his hands moved under the base rather than try to hold or touch the figure presenting the time with such enthusiasm. He rested it on his lap and wound the key, stopping only when resistance built to the point that any more might damage the mechanism. He adjusted the time ahead a few minutes, as well. The ticking was louder, now, almost happy, like a dog finally getting water, Sam might say.

  Corey laid the clock back on the hearth and watched it for a few more seconds. At least it didn’t chime every hour. Nothing else moved on it save the hour and minute hands. The creepy figure kept to the same position unlike his dancing Swiss cousins. Even so, Corey wished his Dad was still around to see the thing working after all this time.

  Something tapped against the glass behind him. Corey turned around and pulled the brass handle, opening the rightmost door.

  The fireplace was full of yellow wasps. They crawled inside the house, thumb-sized yellow bodies with short, stubby wings and pulsing abdomens, blending and contrasting with each other as they spilled onto the hearth. Corey fell backwards onto the carpet and crab-crawled a few feet away. The flow of insects poured over the clock, covering the face and the screaming figure.

  The inside of the fireplace was an undulating mass of black and yellow. The angry buzzing he’d heard earlier did not return, save a quick flit as one or the other shook its wings in some indefinable language. The did not fly, merely marched out silently, groggy, perhaps, from the late hour.

  Corey didn’t want to wait for them to realize he was there. He moved slowly backwards, keeping his motion as fluid as possible. He should close the fireplace door, but that wasn’t possible. Not right now. A few minutes ago he’d considered reaching up to check the flue. His arms crawled with the thought of them over his arms, covering him instead of the figure on the base of the clock.

  When he reached the juncture of the living room and kitchen, he got to his feet. He thought, Now what?

  Abby… he couldn’t let her wander out here without somehow containing these things. Their flow had ebbed. A few remained, wandering across the hearth, but the clock supported the bulk of
them, turning it into a fat yellow box, undulating with a thousand small bodies, all of them crawling, exploring, buzzing lightly as they moved.

  They suddenly stopped, frozen as if time had been paused. Corey didn’t know enough about wasps to see this as a good or bad thing. Bad, probably. He imagined thousands of multi-faceted eyes fixed on him, tiny stingers pushing in and out, filling with yellow poison, preparing to—

  “Aw, shit.” He reached out and found the light switch for the kitchen, heart pounding too fast, too loud. Always watching the clock, wondering if their combined weight might topple the thing off the hearth and shatter their calm, send them into flight to finish what had started in the shed. These aren’t the same bees, he thought. These are yellow. He turned on the kitchen light, then waited. If they swarmed, where would he go? Abby’s room. Protect Abby.

  How he’d protect her wasn’t a question he wanted to think about.

  The wasps remained motionless. Maybe they’d fallen asleep. Maybe they’d worn their little bodies out crawling to the clock, like exhausted penitents reaching a temple, falling to their knees…

  Stop it; just move!

  Corey stepped into the kitchen, listening intently for any changes behind him. Nothing yet. He opened the pantry door, moved aside a stack of rags and plastic Stop N Shop grocery bags until he found the can of wasp spray. It was old, unpacked from the house in Worcester and tucked far back on the shelf. In his hand, its half-full weight offered minimal comfort. But it was something. There was no way in hell he’d spray them, not unless they attacked. At least then he could take a few out before…

  OK, focus. Next step, get Abby out of her room and into his to make sure she didn't wander out here alone. He returned to the hall and gave the fireplace a quick over-the-shoulder glance.

  The wasps were gone.

  The clock and the figure shone in the lamplight with no sign that a swarm of wasps had a moment earlier covered every inch of them. Corey didn’t move, except to pull the red cap free from the spray can. His hand was slick with sweat. He looked around. Nothing crawling along the ceiling, nor on the couch or chairs or tables. Not that he could see everywhere from this vantage point. The right glass door was open and the fireplace’s back wall was visible. Nothing.