Entropy in Bloom

by Jeremy Robert Johnson

  Roger watched the prints slug trail their way down the wood fence for a moment, disturbed by the musky animal scent that hit his nose.

  He looked toward 17th, wondering if the one he’d pursued had made it back to the so-called house of horrors. I’ve got to show these prints to Clem tomorrow.

  Except when Roger looked back to the fence the fluid was already fading. It almost appeared that it had seeped into the wood. The fence made a cracking noise, as if it were expanding ever so slightly as it absorbed the evidence.

  “They don’t even try to hide because nothing sticks.”

  Roger looked up at the sky and took a deep breath, then another. He was exhausted, or knew he should be at least, but he felt something. An urge to see more. To not give up the chase just yet. Maybe he could find a way to finish this.

  Let’s go see that house.

  ONCE HE WAS ON 17th, he didn’t even need to use Clem’s description to find the place. Clem’s house was obvious: the squat white ranch, with an old hooptie Buick sitting out front, sporting a bumper sticker which read “Support Your Local Police.” Right across the street was the new and aggressively mundane beige foursquare Clem had complained about, looming over the neighboring houses.

  And there, somehow smaller and darker than the surrounding houses, was the house at the center of the old man’s stories.

  At the very least, Clem was right about one thing: the building had an aura, though to Roger the purple shimmer Clem had described looked more like a mist of ultraviolet light hanging over the place, wavering like the fumes from a pit of toxic waste. Made his eyes water.

  How are people not seeing this? Or are they ignoring it? Or am I imagining it because these fuckers won’t let me catch a wink and Clem gave me some world class heebie jeebies?

  Even without the shimmer, there were other things off about the house. Someone had used what appeared to be white sand or borax to draw a series of lines and circles all over the black roof shingles. Maybe it was only moss killer, but there was something about the shapes and intersecting lines that made Roger’s eyes vibrate from side to side and lose resolution. He found he couldn’t look straight at the place for the disorientation.

  The yard itself was too perfect and clean. Grass only, a pattern without variation. Was it AstroTurf? Nobody did that here. The grass grew like crazy. But nothing lived in this yard. There wasn’t a single growing thing to be maintained or tended. It was more the appearance of a yard than an actual human space.

  The windows were dark, but it was the dead of night, so he couldn’t fault them for that. Still, the vibe of the place was actively hostile. The house sat low, as if hunched, ready to spring. The breeze shifted in Roger’s direction and he caught another whiff of that strange animal smell. Made him think of the time they’d had to pull a dead squirrel from their chimney. Smoke and rot.

  “Ain’t too pretty, is it?”

  JESUS!

  Roger jumped out of his bones and stopped just short of wind-milling around with the baseball bat at skull level.

  Clem was behind him, his white hair in disarray and swaying above his head, his shriveled body covered by light blue pajamas decorated with covered wagons. Old leather flip flops on his feet. The left side of his moustache was bent down at a right angle.

  “I been checking on the place every hour or so. Wife got me a phone with a fancy alarm in it. I can keep it under my pillow and it vibrates me awake without bothering her. Once I talked to you today, I had a feeling I might still find you here tonight.”

  “I think you might be right about this house, Clem. They spiked my tires tonight and I almost got smeared across the interstate by a semi. And I chased a guy over here but he jumped a fence and left behind some kind of disappearing oil print.”

  “Huh . . . never heard of them doing that before, but like I said, they’re always changing how things work. They don’t seem to take our reality too seriously. I hear ’em laughing sometimes. They got an awful laugh.”

  “‘Our reality’? What does that even mean? What are they, Clem?”

  “Stop asking, Rog. Go home. Lock your doors, wait for daylight. Stop playing their game. Book your family one of those nice long-term suites a town over and get your realtor on the horn. Please. I’m tired. I can’t keep doing this.” The old man brushed his hands together in each direction. “I’m washing my mitts of this whole travesty soon. Don’t make me watch them take you. Go home.”

  With that he turned and walked slowly back toward his house, his flip flops smacking his heels and the road in turn. Roger decided to follow him, see him in and then go home. Whether Clem was crazy or not, his kindness meant something and he didn’t want to keep him out and worried in the cold.

  “Night, Clem.”

  “Head straight home now, pardner. Don’t stop for nothin’.”

  It was good advice. Roger followed it and made it back, hoping to finally sleep through till morning.

  EXCEPT: THE DOG IN the alley wouldn’t stop barking.

  He tried to let it go. Let the dog bark itself out. Let him finally get some goddamn sleep. He might actually call their realtor tomorrow. Something about that house, about the way he felt they were playing with him . . .

  The barking grew louder. It felt like it was closer now, or coming in through an open window.

  Cocksucking fucking dog. Somebody wake up and bring his mangy ass back in the house.

  Nobody cared about the dog. The bark was incessant.

  No sleep would be forthcoming.

  Now I can’t wait to move. Shitty dog owners are the worst.

  The barking intensified. Panicked. Hoarse. The dog whined loudly between the rounds of frantic barking.

  “Hell, they’d nailed Dan’s dog Chester to the tree in his front yard.”

  Roger couldn’t sleep. And no matter what was going on, he couldn’t listen to the dog suffer if something terrible was happening. He didn’t have it in him to sit through that.

  He slopped into his clothes—so tired, so fatigued—grabbed his bat, and walked out the front door. He almost forgot to lock the front door behind him and had to turn back to snap the deadbolt into place.

  The dog’s barking was riotously loud out in the open air.

  How am I the only one hearing this?

  He walked toward the unpaved alley that ran by the right side of his house, where the sound was coming from. But right as he stepped into the alley, his foot crunched on gravel, and the barking came to a sudden stop.

  Roger looked over his shoulder toward the center of the alley. There was a man standing still under the single streetlamp illuminating the dark stretch, facing him. The guy was huge, not like the one he’d chased earlier, and wearing the same outfit—black hoodie and white pants.

  He tightened his grip on the baseball bat, and walked closer.

  “Hey, you see a dog running around here?”

  The man said nothing. He stood unmoving under the lamplight, staring straight at Roger and saying nothing.

  It wasn’t until Roger got within ten feet of him that his eyes properly adjusted and he noticed something that couldn’t be real. It looked like the man’s eyes were . . . missing.

  No, not missing. They shimmered in the light. His eyes were pools of black liquid, held inside the man’s face by the corroded purple light which rimmed them.

  Roger stopped and began to choke up on the bat when the man smiled, opened his mouth, and began barking.

  Roger turned and ran, never once looking back, gauging the distance between him and the man only by the terrible tortured dog yowling which trailed. He had his key pulled and ready before he reached the front steps, and he swore he could feel the hot breath of the man fall across his neck as he slid through the entrance and slammed the door behind him.

  And then, of course, he heard laughter. It sounded like it came from one man, then many, just outside his door.

  “They got an awful laugh.”

  Clem was right—it was a terrible s
ound, and it echoed in Roger’s mind long after leaving his ears. Only once the maddening noise had ceased and the early sun began to crest did Roger manage to fall asleep with his back still pressed against the door, doing what he could to keep out whatever that had been on the other side.

  V.

  FUCK THIS. WE’RE MOVING.

  All Roger had to do was figure out a way to sell Claire on the whole venture without scaring her and Julie to the high heavens and/ or getting himself institutionalized. Roger couldn’t spend another night living near the house on 17th. Whoever or whatever were living there, they had his number and he knew they weren’t going to let things go.

  He put a call in to Claire and told her he’d be coming to stay the weekend with her and Julie, assuming her mom and dad didn’t mind having guests a few more nights.

  “I’ve been here for too long, dealing with the burglary. I think it’d be good to have some time away with you guys. Maybe have some pizza and root beer floats and all that.” And then I’ll have a very long, strange conversation with you at night about how we’re going to sell our house and I’ll be the only one going back there, and only during daylight hours, and I’ll have to hope you still love my kind of crazy, at least a little bit.

  “That sounds great, babe. We’re missing you pretty bad. Julie’s asking a lot of questions about the burglary. She wants to know who was in our house, and how we know they won’t come back in. She thinks they’re after her toys, which is cute, but still . . . it kind of breaks my heart.”

  “Yeah. Shit . . . I’ll bring the laptop tonight, look up how to talk to kids about dealing with something like this. I’m sure I can find some advice.”

  “Sounds good. Hey . . . what did the insurance company say? Do you know how much they’re going to reimburse us for?”

  Shit! I’ve been so busy with . . . everything. She can’t know I haven’t even called them yet.

  “Still waiting to hear back on the claim. I’m sure they’ll call soon.”

  “Good. Thank you so much for taking care of all this. I can’t wait to see you. And when we get this mess straightened out, you and I need a serious date, mister.”

  “Oh my god. Yes. I’m barely feeling human these days. Can’t wait to see you guys either.”

  “Okay then. Finish up and get over here.”

  “I will, I will. I promise. I love you.”

  “Love you too. See you soon!”

  Roger held out his phone to thumb the End Call symbol when he heard Claire’s voice start up again.

  “Oh, hey, wait, babe . . . are you there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “This is a little weird . . . I almost forgot to tell you. The other thing I was thinking for tonight was that it might be cool if we could have a slumber party and all crash together. Julie’s been having these really intense nightmares. Last night she woke up screaming and she said, ‘They got him.’ And I asked her who and she said, ‘Daddy.’ Then she said something like, ‘The dog man got daddy in his van and he’s taking him to where they kill the doggies nobody wants.’”

  “What the fuck?”

  “Yeah. So I think she could really use some time with you. And if she stays like this at night, we might want to talk to her school and see if they recommend anybody for counseling.”

  Roger could barely hear her last sentence, his head flush with the surge of blood brought by new panic. What were the odds she’d see that in her dreams? Are they manipulating her too? How did they find her?

  “Did she mention any kind of funny lights or pressure headaches or . . . ” He failed to hide the alarm in his voice.

  “Roger, what’s wrong? What are you talking about?”

  It’s my fault. They want me and now they might be messing with Julie. Even once we get moved, my kid’s going to have to go into counseling because of this. How are they doing this to us? Will they be able to follow us? What if Clem is wrong? What if moving changes nothing?

  Roger held the phone away from his face and tried to take a calming breath before responding, but was still betrayed by a shaking in his voice. “Nothing, babe. Nothing, I swear. Just exhausted. I had some bad dreams last night too.”

  “You sound weird. Are you sure we shouldn’t come your way and help out?”

  “NO! How many times . . . ”

  “Jesus. You don’t get to fucking yell at me, Roger. This is hard on me, too.”

  “I know. I know. I’m sorry. I just need to attack a few more things and I’ll be headed your way, I swear. But I need to go.”

  Claire said, “Okay, fine. Go then. Get it done and come back to us. We need you more than that damn house right now.” And with that she ended the call.

  Roger sat down his phone with shaking hands and felt anger thrumming through his body in a way he’d never before known.

  The dog man got daddy . . .

  He pictured a hooded figure crouched on the roof of his in-law’s house, shining something down, invading his daughter’s dreams.

  “You were so easily penetrated.“

  His jaw clenched, teeth grinding. His hands balled into fists.

  “Stop feeling here, Roger. Think. Think about you and your wife and your child, and get out of here.”

  He pictured J. P Schumacher—impaled on a burning steel rod, screaming through a mouthful of glass, knowing before his death that he’d killed his family.

  “He charged into a world he couldn’t understand, and it destroyed everything he loved.”

  Roger slowed his breathing and unclenched his fists and he thought: No. This is over. Daylight is wasting. My family is waiting. It’s time to finish up and get the hell out of here. They’ll never even know I saved all of our lives. They’ll never believe me.

  He pictured himself later that night at the “slumber party” in his in-laws’ guest room, Claire passed out on one side of the bed, Julie sleeping peacefully between them, and he knew that none of his other concerns mattered. Not really. He’d keep a clear head, he’d close out the last details, and he’d be the man they needed him to be.

  HE SURVEYED THE HOUSE, dialing down a mental list of what absolutely had to be done before he could leave.

  He grabbed and bagged a handful of Julie’s favorite books and plush toys.

  He packed a suitcase with photos—their wedding album, Julie’s Baby Book—in case anything prevented him from returning.

  He shaved as fast as he could and put on the aftershave that Julie had used her Tooth Fairy money to buy him for Father’s Day.

  He filled a thermos with coffee to offset his sleep-deprivation, and was headed for the front door when he spotted the spread of documents on the kitchen table.

  The insurance.

  Fuck.

  The fact that Roger had dealt with spontaneously-generating bird corpses and barking humans with black oil eyes in the last week didn’t negate the fact that he still had to call the goddamn insurance company. Both those awful realities existed and somehow the latter felt more surreal to him. Despite the absurdity, it demanded his attention—especially if he was going to pay off the credit card binge he went on to get the house squared away. And they needed to look financially solvent if they were going to start home shopping as quickly as he wanted. And Claire thought it was already taken care of. And he didn’t want to do it later—Claire and Julie didn’t need to hear any more details about the burglary than absolutely necessary.

  So: the insurance.

  He jumped through the standard hoops, gave their agent all the info he had. She let him know that even though she was his actual agent, he’d be receiving a follow-up call from someone at the adjustment center and they’d go into greater depth regarding the items stolen and their respective values. She told him she was truly sorry for the loss his family had suffered and he guessed from her cool, even tone that she spent much of her day being “truly sorry.”

  What he had not guessed was how quickly he would receive the follow-up call from the claims adjustor.


  “Mr. Stephenson, we seem to have a bit of an issue with the info you provided. Would you mind giving me the case number and the name of the officer you dealt with again?”

  Even as he flipped Officer Hayhurst’s weathered card over in his fingers and recited the info, the shitstorm of the last few days told him where this was headed.

  “Yes, that’s the information you gave us the first time. This is a bit strange, sir. We’re having difficulty locating an officer in your city with that name, and the police department told us the number you gave is three digits short of being an actual case number. We’re going to keep this claim moving, for your family’s sake, but it would be very helpful if you could go back over all your records and maybe speak with the local police department to get this information clarified for us. As is, this is a bit strange. But it’s common for victims to have some confusion after an event like this.”

  Some confusion. How about a full-fledged mental breakdown?

  Roger knew there would be no clarified info forthcoming.

  Had he been playing this awful game from the very goddamn moment they arrived home?

  The 911 call? How did they intercept that signal? What were they using on me from the roof? Is that why they knew my name?

  Hayhurst was no officer. Between the post-party buzz and the post-burglary adrenaline, I let a giant flashlight and a handful of cop props fool me entirely.

  These motherfuckers. Treating me like a goddamned puppet.

  As if on cue, a single solid knock rang out from the front door.

  He sprinted across the room to look out on the landing from the living room window. No one there.

  They’ve never messed with me in the light of day. Maybe I’m hearing things because of the sleep dep.

  Roger opened the front door. There was something on the welcoming mat: a single opened envelope. Extended auto warranty junk mail. Nothing special about it, but the post office never would have put his mail on the doorstep. So it was them, taunting him. Always them. He looked up towards the end of his driveway.

  Don’t open the mailbox. They’re fucking with you, daylight or not. Remember what Clem said—they’re always changing the way things work. So get in your truck, and only come back to this place with a few armed friends from the mill, and only if you absolutely have to.