Paul was concentrating. Concentrating on swallowing his expanding fear. Concentrating on trying to hear that sound, get a positive ID on it, locate it, come up with a strategy to deal with it.
But the sound was gone, replaced by a tomblike silence.
He could hear Bobby Spratt now. Wimp. Lights go out and what happens? The kid turns into a wimp. Ain’t that somethin’, 13 and afraid of the dark.
Only I’m not afraid of the dark, I’m afraid of . . . What exactly am I afraid of?
Monsters?
Silly, there’s no such thing as monsters.
Then what did I hear?
Just the whisperings of my imagination is all.
He took a deep breath and tried to relax his leg and arm muscles, which seemed to have been locked by an unseen key. He kept listening, but there was nothing, only dead quiet. The silence was vaguely reassuring. It could even build confidence, if it continued.
Then came his vow: He wasn’t going to let it get to him. OK, so his imagination was running a little haywire, but he wasn’t going to let it get to him. No, sirree. He was going to change that GD fuse or flick that GD breaker switch, he was going to catch the end of Cosby, he was going to tuck the Bobbsey Twins up there into bed, and when Mrs. King got home from her meeting, he was going to tell her how hunky-dory everything had been here in her Home Sweet Home. Just thinking it, Paul felt better.
He fumbled his way through the mess of boxes and made contact with the concrete wall. It was cold and moist, as if water soaked through it every time it rained. He started moving along, his fingertips guiding him: Water pipes. A chaise longue hanging from a nail. A wreath of some sort. The garden hose. It was going fine now. Couple more steps, and he’d be at the fuse box.
He rounded the corner and his heart stopped.
This time, there was no mistaking that smell for oil.
It wasn’t dirty socks, either.
It was - oh, how sickening - the smell of rotted meat.
Garbage.
Right. Must be garbage. Lady keeps garbage in her cellar, can you believe it?
Only it isn’t garbage. I don’t know why I know, but I know it isn’t garbage.
The muscles in his neck tightened and spiraling red spots appeared before his eyes, like the aftereffect of fireworks. A low moan escaped him, and that was when he decided he had no choice but to use his second match.
His hands were shaking badly, but finally he got it lit. The orange-yellow glow illuminated more boxes, more furniture and, this time, the burner, off at the end of the L.
And something else, too, just before the match burned out . . . a flicker of movement in the shadows by the bulkhead. It didn’t occur to Paul that not only had he seen something, but he almost certainly had been seen, too.
“Tammy, are you down here?” He tried, but failed, to put some authority into his voice.
Wouldn’t that be just like the little toad, sneak outside and come in through the bulkhead to try and scare the wits out of him. So this is why the lady pays 50 cents more than everyone else, he thought - for combat duty.
Only, not so deep down, he knew it wasn’t Tammy.
Monster.
Only it wasn’t a monster, either. He knew now.
It was a burglar - unclean and unkempt, dirty and smelly, like all burglars. And the burglar had pulled that fuse so that he could loot the house.
Probably armed.
Oh, God.
Why hadn’t he thought of it before?
Why hadn’t he remembered his father every night, slumped there in his reclining chair like Archie Bunker, reading the police report from The Globe, complaining about the rising crime rate? Why hadn’t he remembered the Jacksons, who’d had their house cleaned out last month when they were on vacation? And why hadn’t he remembered Mrs. King’s own departing admonition, Keep the doors locked, dear, there’s been a rash of breaks in the neighborhood lately?
Paul looked into the black, squinting painfully, as if that might magically restore vision. He was trembling - one great, head-to-toe, violent seizure - and he couldn’t control it. He swore his teeth were chattering. Before, he’d thought that only happened in movies or books, but now it was happening to him. And in the strangest way it was almost funny, almost made him laugh out loud, thinking how easy it would be right now to wet his pants . . . or worse, throw up all over himself and the floor.
If only he had a gun, or a knife, or a Louisville Slugger, or even a pair of garden shears. But he had none of those, only a pair of legs and a growing conviction that . .
I’m being watched.
It was as if the cellar were crammed full of eyes, all of them wide open, all of them utterly unblinking, all of them locked onto him like radar following a jet on its final approach into a busy airport.
His legs were frozen again. His legs weren’t answering his brain, and his arms and fingers were numb now, too. It wasn’t just hot down here anymore, it was more stifling than it had ever been anywhere, and his breathing was becoming labored, irregular.
The sound was coming closer. It was breathing, no question this time, and it was coming closer.
Like a vaporizer.
Suddenly, Paul’s legs thawed.
They thawed, and he started off madly, blindly, anything it took to get out of the cellar.
The intruder was behind him, right behind, keeping pace, gaining, gaining, when -
He tripped on the boxes and was thrown violently to the floor.
There were the sounds of more breaking glass, of cardboard being crunched. And there was a sharp crack, like a thick, dry branch being snapped.
The snap was Paul’s jaw, which had sustained the impact. The pain was immediate, immense, radiating across his face and down his arms. The spiraling red spots were back, brighter, a whole night of fireworks inside his skull. He thrashed, unable to get to his feet.
The smell.
Closer. Stronger.
The breathing.
Almost in his face now.
Faster now.
On top of him now.
A cry managed to escape his dry throat. And was snuffed out by the darkness and whatever was here with it.
The medical examiner’s van had pulled away with its new cargo, and now the detective was in the kitchen, going over everything again with Mrs. King.
No, there didn’t seem to be anything missing. The TV, the silver, her jewelry, the checkbook - they were all here, untouched. No, she hadn’t seen anyone unusual around the neighborhood lately, but who’s paranoid enough to watch 24 hours a day, even with all these break-ins? Would her ex-husband be worth talking to? Doubtful, but if you’d care to fly to Los Angeles, feel free to go ahead, Lieutenant.
“Mind if we go over the house one last time?” the detective finally said.
“Yes. I mean no. Go ahead,” Mrs. King said, sounding confused and exhausted. She would need a tranquilizer before she would sleep tonight. Knowing they were going to post a round-the-clock police guard the next few days just wasn’t going to be enough.
“We’ll be careful, Mrs. King. I know how upsetting this must be.” He followed her into the living room, where Timmy was asleep on the couch. Tammy was still awake, but only barely.
“Is he in heaven now, Momma?” she asked.
“Yes, honey. He’s in heaven now.” Mrs. King smoothed her daughter’s brow. Until now, she hadn’t realized how badly her hand was shaking.
The detective was on his knees examining a window sill when a sergeant and two patrolmen came up the basement stairs. The patrolmen had a camera, fingerprint kit, tape measure, notebook, some other tools of this grimmest of trades. The sergeant was carrying a clear-plastic exhibit bag. He went over to the detective and the two of them, out of earshot, conversed for a moment.
When they were done, the detective asked, “Do you have a dog, Mrs. King?”
“No.”
“Have you ever had a dog - boarded one for a friend sometime?”
“No.
Never. Why?”
“Nothing . . . nothing at all.”
He motioned to the sergeant, who started toward the cruiser out front. On his way, the sergeant passed Tammy, who couldn’t help seeing what was in the bag: a large clump of black fur, matted and smelly, like a full hamper, or dirty socks.
The Devil at Bay
Is there such a thing as love at first sight . . . for a house?
After the events of the past month, Kate believed there was. Her husband, Matt, had to agree. So did their daughter, Jenny, 4.
For the three years they’d had an apartment in Providence, the Kirbys had wanted to be nearer the ocean. Of course, real estate and Matt’s modest salesman’s salary being what they were, it had been impossible to find anything affordable. So they had dreamed, the wildly optimistic dreams of young families with financial futures that always seem a step or two beyond reach.
Then, out of the blue, Kate had run across this rental in the Sunday classifieds.
On paper, it hadn’t sounded like much: three bedrooms, porch, garage, wooded yard. The rent was what had grabbed her: $450, utilities not included. Not bad for Bay, a coastal village that somehow had escaped the development boom of the past two decades. Having nothing else to do that August afternoon, Kate had packed Jenny into the Escort and taken a drive . . .
. . . and come back with a missionary’s conviction that this was it.
“It’s an out-of-state landlord,” she told her husband. “Agent says he hasn’t been here in years.”
“Ignorance of the market,” Matt said when they drove by it that evening. “It would explain why the rent’s so low.”
“Not to mention the fact that it looks like it’s ready to fall down.”
“The price you pay for privacy,” said Matt.
Certainly, there was privacy - more than the Kirbys would ever need. The house was on a gravel road, and there were no other houses for a quarter-mile. But there were woods. Except for the yard and drive, everything was woods.
After the exhaust and sirens and B&Es that are the urban dweller’s lot, the smell of pitch was a welcome relief. So what if the house needed a good paint job and the plumbing leaked?
That weekend, they signed a three-year lease.
Now here they were - Aug. 31, the third evening in their new home - when there was a knock at the door.
Down-cellar, where she was cleaning, Kate heard it.
“That you, Matt?” she yelled.
“No, ma’am. ‘Tain’t Matt.”
Kate bounded upstairs. The man at the door was short, bald, with wire-frame glasses and a wrinkled, tanned face that looked a good 80 years old. He carried a cane, and his stooped-over posture suggested immediate attention from a chiropractor was in order. And his clothes - the kindest word for them was “eclectic.” The tweed jacket he was wearing was threadbare in several places, yet his shirt and tie appeared freshly ironed; his pants seemed a better match for the jacket: faded gabardine, patched at one knee.
“I’ll only be a moment,” he said, and then, offering his hand: “Name’s Frank Nickerson. Live in the white Victorian, corner of Elm and Washington. Sits back from the road a bit. You probably’ve driven by it and not even noticed.”
“Katherine Kirby,” she said, shaking his hand. “But call me Kate. Please, make yourself at home.” Nickerson followed her into the living room, where he took a seat on the couch.
“You’ll have to excuse the boxes,” Kate apologized. “We still haven’t moved all the way in.”
“Moving,” the man said thoughtfully. “Never moved, myself. Seventy-eight years - which is all of ‘em - I’ve lived where I live.”
Something about his accent was familiar. She’d heard it before in Rhode Island - at county fairs, seafood festivals, anywhere the crustier old natives gathered.
Swamp Yankee, isn’t that what they call it? Charming expression. Even if no one seems to know quite where it comes from or exactly what it means.
“I’ll get right to the point,” Nickerson said. “I’m here in hopes of selling you a policy.”
“A policy?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“An insurance policy?”
“No, ma’am. A devil policy. To keep him away.”
“Keep who away?” Am I being thick? Kate wondered. Did I miss something?
“Why, the devil, that’s who.”
“You’re kidding.” Kate laughed.
“No, I’m dead serious.” He snickered. “That’s kinda my little joke.”
“But that’s ridiculous, Mr. Nickerson. Who’s ever seen the devil?”
“My grandfather, for one,” he replied matter-of-factly. “Bunch of his friends, too, when they were just kids.”
“I guess I just don’t understand,” Kate said.
“I’m afraid I don’t, either,” came a third, gruffer voice. Matt walked into the living room, a pair of garden shears in hand. “I couldn’t help but overhear what was going on.”
“Hon, this is Mr. Nickerson, a gentleman from up the street,” Kate said. “Mr. Nickerson, this is my husband, Matt.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
“Same here.”
“You were saying something about a devil policy?” Matt said skeptically.
“That I was,” the old man continued, cheerfully enough. “I was about to tell your lady here that I am prepared, at a very low annual fee, to sell you a genuine and original Nickerson’s Devil Policy, Guaranteed or Your Money Back. For 300 years and change, the Nickerson family’s been selling them. ‘Course, I can’t tell you how they work, that’s a family secret, but I can tell you this: All this time, we ain’t had a complaint yet. Not a one. Ain’t refunded no money, not that I’m aware, leastaways. Just ask any one of your neighbors here. Dollars to doughnuts, they’ll tell you they’re satisfied.”
“You are serious,” Matt said.
“Ayuh. Believe me, I can understand your skepticism. Most folks is like that at first. Wondering what the dickens the old bird’s saying. ‘Course, most folks don’t come here having lived in a town that had the devil. No, sir.”
“Let me get this straight,” Matt said. “You’re talking about Satan. The one with horns and a pitchfork.”
“No, he don’t look nothing like that, I’m afraid,” the old man chuckled. “That’s something folks have cooked up to scare their kids. Fact is, lately, he don’t look like nothing. Last sightings were, oh, a century ago - and then it was mostly by kids like my gramps, though why that should be is something I don’t pretend to understand. Gramps said he took on the form of a shaggy, clawed thing, closer to a bear than anything else. Since then, though, he’s chosen not to be visible.
‘Course, my family’d like to take some credit for that.”
“Excuse me for laughing,” Matt said, laughing, “but this is preposterous.”
“I wish it were,” the old man sighed.
“What you’re saying is if we don’t buy one of your policies something bad will happen. Is that correct?” Matt said.
“No, I ain’t necessarily saying that. What I’m saying is that you’ll be taking your chances. Some mighty big chances, I might add.”
“Chances on what?” Kate blurted out.
“On whatever. One thing we’ve learned over the years is that all you can predict about him is that he’ll be unpredictable.”
“I appreciate your concern, Mr. Nickerson,” Matt said condescendingly, “but I don’t think we’re interested.”
“Don’t forget you have a wife and child, Mr. Kirby.”
“What does that mean?” Matt’s voice was suddenly hot.
“It means what it means.”
“Is that some kind of threat?” Matt asked angrily.
“Matt - “
“Tell you what,” Nickerson said, unperturbed. “Even despite your misgivings, Mr. Kirby, I’ll do for you what I do for all my new customers. I’ll give you a free two-month trial period. You don’t have to say boo. What’s today?
Aug. 31? Until 12:01 a.m., Nov. 1, I’ll cover you, your family, your house. Got any pets?”
“Yes,” Kate said. “A cat.”
“I’ll cover it, too. The whole Kirby clan, for two months. ‘Long about Halloween - gosh, can you believe it, almost fall already? - I’ll be back. By then I hope you’ll be ready to buy one of our policies. At that time, we can discuss price, but I’m sure you’ll find our premiums reasonable. I hate to have to charge, you know, but it’s all our family has ever done to make a living. Well, good day to you.”
And with that, Frank Nickerson left.
“What do you make of him?” Kate said when he had gone.
“I think he’s off his rocker,” Matt said. “Probably has Alzheimer’s.”
“You don’t think he’s dangerous, do you?” The fact of the matter was, hearing Frank Nickerson had bothered Kate. More than it should have - which she was not about to admit to Mr. Rock of Gibraltar himself, Matthew P. Kirby.
“Nah. Disoriented, maybe - but not dangerous. I mean, how many 80-year-old ax murderers have you read about lately?”
“Not the type to sneak around the backyard some night when you’re working late?”
“Don’t be silly.”
Kate looked out the living-room window at their back lawn, which sloped down to a small pond . . . a pond that promised nightmares on the child-obedience front. On the far side of the pond were the woods - some of the thickest in all of Rhode Island. Thick enough to lose a Boy Scout for a day or two every summer, thick enough to have deer and fox and wild turkey . . . and even an occasional report of a bear.
A bear, can you believe it? And now this old creep. It’s enough to give you shivers.
“You’re not concerned,” Kate repeated.
“About my monthly sales quota, yes, I’m concerned. About crazy old loons, no.”
Kate was silent. “Can I ask you a question?” she said a moment later.
“Sure.”
“What would you do if I told you I were concerned? I mean, I’m not, but just supposing I became concerned. What would you think?”
Vapors: The Essential G. Wayne Miller Fiction Vol. 2 Page 13