Silas: A Supernatural Thriller

by Robert J. Duperre

A man – Paul – enters the scene. He walks with his head hung low. He is virtually naked.

  “Yeah, here we go.”

  From behind a tree emerges a child. The child is dirty, with long hair and features so vague that Paul can’t tell if it’s a boy or girl. The child approaches him and holds out a hand.

  CHILD: Papa Paul, is that you?

  That’s when everything went blank. I tapped my foot, feeling impatient, but still nothing would come. And when I say nothing, I mean nothing. It was as if my thoughts had been sucked out in some cosmic purge. I pounded the keys randomly – ;aidfj;lkcxjv;isaj – screamed, “Shit!” and slammed the laptop cover shut.

  I jumped from my seat, thought about snatching a beer from the fridge, and then decided a cranberry and vodka cocktail would do the trick faster. In the end even that was too slow, and I drank the vodka straight-up. I poured a full pint’s worth and kicked Silas’s water dish. It bounced across the floor and spun to a stop after hitting the wall.

  For the next hour I sat in front of the television, letting useless images flash across my vision. There was an Action News special about a missing girl named Molly Ferenz that I quickly flipped past. I wanted to wallow, but in my own pain not anyone else’s. Each time I sipped from my glass I winced. As I approached inebriation I found myself wishing Wendy was there, to hold me the way she used to, to assure me everything would be okay. It was something she’d done far too many times over the years – aka whenever I had writer’s block. I closed my eyes and thought of happier days, when ideas flowed smoothly and we were more than content to sit in our separate rooms and work. It had been a long time since I’d felt that, and it was all my fault. Then I thought of the way Wendy’s doe eyes shimmered with joy when she laughed and I beat myself up even more. Though I’d seen that look on her face many times over the last week, the realization came over me that her happiness wasn’t my doing. It was his. Silas’s. How appropriate.

  I felt useless. Used-up. Inadequate. So I performed the one duty I’d become best at over the years, an act that came easily when mired in a period of self-hatred.

  I slept.

  7

  Squandered years tend to carry with them an immense weight that can drag a man down, physically as well as mentally. I found out as much one day in late April.

  I’d been sitting at my desk in my company’s Hartford office building, arguing over the phone with a Florida orange distributor about how much we’d have to pay for fifty crates of merchandise. He assured me the cold they’d experienced over the winter had driven up prices, while I argued there’d only been two days of sub-freezing temperatures over the last four months. Heat erupted in my neck as the guy on the other end of the line started up with yet another barrage of excuses. My mouth opened. I wanted to scream. Every fiber in my body stood on end.

  That’s when it happened.

  My chest seized up and my left arm went numb as I struggled for breath. Saliva gathered beneath my tongue and bubbled over my lips. My coworkers gathered around me and stared. I was in so much pain all I could do was lie there and writhe.

  An ambulance whisked me away to Saint Francis Hospital, where a fleet of doctors and nurses examined me. They affixed an I.V. and put me in a private room, where I passed in and out of consciousness for God knows how long. I still couldn’t feel anything from my chest on down and my heartbeat seemed erratic. I wanted to cry out, to beg for help, but the energy it took to clench my teeth against the pain left the rest of me drained and unresponsive.

  After a while I passed out. The drugs the doctors pumped into me helped. It was the weirdest sleep I’d ever had, though. There were no dreams, only a strange mishmash of images that collected in my brain during brief forays into awareness that played in a loop behind my eyelids. I couldn’t hear anything and the odd smell of copper was the only scent my mind registered. I figured this was it. I’d die alone on that stretcher, surrounded by folks who cared for me only because they were paid to care. As I lay there, I realized how little my life meant in the grand scheme of things.

  When I finally woke up I saw Wendy sitting beside me, holding my bandaged hand. Her face, withered and distraught an instant earlier, brightened.

  “Oh, Ken!” she proclaimed, leaning forward and kissing my face.

  “Hey, Wendy,” I replied. My voice sounded small and tinny in my head.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Been better.”

  She chuckled. “Of course you have.”

  “What happened to me?” I asked. “How long have I been out? Have you seen the doctor?”

  She put a finger to my lips. “Quiet down, okay? I need to go get him. He’ll explain everything to you.”

  The physician came in. He was a young man, probably not much older than me, with a voice that was soft yet succinct. I sensed a hidden tenor beneath the calm flow of his words.

  Disappointment. The scathing, judgmental kind.

  “Mr. Lowery,” he said, “your cholesterol is way above where it should be. Your blood pressure is through the roof. There’s not enough iron in your blood and your blood sugar is far too low. You haven’t been taking care of yourself, have you?”

  “I guess not,” I muttered.

  “Well, that’s all going to change. And don’t you even think about smoking another cigarette. You’re done with that nasty habit for good.”

  The thought of losing my crutch filled me with panic. Wendy squeezed my hand. I stared at the young doctor in desperation and said, “What? Why not?”

  “You had a heart attack, Mr. Lowery. A few of them, actually. Minor, yes, and not imminently life-threatening seeing as you received medical attention rather quickly. But if you don’t change your ways, more will come. If that happens, the episode you had today will feel like rocking on a hammock by comparison.”

  So there you have it. I had a heart attack. At thirty-two years old. I’d always assumed this sort of thing was reserved for the old and out of shape, neither of which described me.

  I guess I was wrong. Again.

  * * *

  I was released from the hospital after three days, and then sentenced to a month of bed rest under the watchful eye of my wife, who monitored every ounce of every substance that entered my body. Wendy created a workout regimen for me, one she promised she’d hold me to once my body recovered. She scheduled all my meals – a cup of fruit and bran cereal for breakfast, soup and toast for lunch, and whatever vegetarian concoction she could come up with for dinner. If that wasn’t enough to sustain me, she said, I could snack on salt-free crackers. She even went so far as to stand in front of me while I lay in bed, crumple the last pack of Camels I’d ever own, and toss it in the trash.

  No red meat? No alcohol? No smoking?

  I was in hell.

  “It’s for your own good,” she said with a smirk.

  “You’re loving this, aren’t you?”

  “Of course I am.”

  That first night I sat in our bedroom, pad and pen on my lap while the television screen flashed silently in the background. I heard Wendy downstairs chatting on the phone, probably with Cyan. Undoubtedly she was discussing my condition – in between her friend letting her know how much better she would have done if she’d played the field a bit longer. Have I said yet how much I disliked that woman?

  I closed my eyes and leaned back, letting the pillows envelop me, and my mind drifted. Nervous pinpricks tapped against my flesh. It was the same sort of sensation I’d get on a roller coaster during the initial plummet. I had no idea why I felt that way, but I accepted it without question. It was the first time since the heart attack that I’d sensed any sort of excitement.

  A familiar bleat sounded from the doorway, and the pinpricks vanished. I opened my eyes and looked at the door. There was no one there. The whimper came again, more forceful this time. I bent to the side, leaned my upper body over the edge of the bed, and glanced down.

  Silas stared at me from just outside the room. His head was coc
ked as if trying to match mine. It was the first time I’d seen him in four days – Wendy left him in our neighbor’s care while I was away – and I couldn’t help but think he looked bigger than the last time I saw him. It wasn’t a huge difference, but I still noticed. His brilliant green eyes seemed slightly darker, though they still shone like headlights when reflecting the light of my desk lamp.

  I stared at him for a while, expecting him to break into his frenetic jump-catch-chase-wrestle-bite routine. But he didn’t. He didn’t even pant. He simply sat there, tail still as stone, and gawked.

  “It’s good to see you, too,” I said.

  His head tilted to the other side.

  “You miss me?”

  He stretched his legs out in front of him.

  I chuckled. “You just gonna sit there, you stupid mutt? Get over here.”

  As if released from suspended animation by my words, Silas snapped into action. He bounded across the carpet, his long red tongue uncoiling from his jaws between yips. He rose up on his rear legs and placed his paws on the bed. I rubbed my palm over the thin black fur on the top of his head. An illusion of a grin appeared in the creases of his mouth. The way he looked in that moment was amazing, almost human. He barked, and that fantasy vanished.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked. “You wanna come up?”

  He barked again.

  I scrunched my forehead and thought it over. Wendy had already set the ground rules – Silas could be in the bedroom but not on the bed. He had his downstairs crate, she’d said, and if we started letting him sleep with us he’d never stop.

  “Sorry, buddy,” I said, tugging on his ear. “No go. Mom’s rules.”

  He yipped again and licked my hand. There was something about his mannerisms, the way his body shook when he wagged his tail and his lower maw tucked beneath his canines, which melted my heart. Ah hell, she’ll forgive me, I thought. It’ll make her happy to see us bonding. And I did have a heart attack, after all. How mad could she be?

  “Okay then, little bastard. Come on up.”

  I lifted him onto the bed. It amazed me how much he weighed, small as he was. I set him down on my stomach and allowed him to begin his routine of prancing around like a Super Ball. It knocked the wind out of me a little and every once in a while he’d step this close to the Family Jewels, but I happily dealt with any discomfort. It seemed that being around his carefree spirit lifted my own.

  He rolled onto his back and writhed, staring at me the whole time. His upper lip sagged, revealing his tiny, sharp teeth. His tongue flopped over his nose. The scene was quite comical and I laughed. It started as a deep, hearty chuckle, and then Silas twisted from side to side, looking like he was trying to imitate a Playgirl model, exposed nutsack and all. I let out a mad cackle, something I hadn’t done in a very long time.

  I ended up paying for it, too.

  The stressed and vulnerable organ beneath my ribcage skipped a beat. My laughter stopped and I froze. My chest seized, my breathing grew tense. Shit, shit, shit, ran through my head.

  Silas stopped his gyrating. He flipped to his feet and leaned into me, pressing his body against my breastbone. I felt his heartbeat – calm, vibrant, constant – and it seemed to ease my own. Gradually the fear tapered off and my heart began to beat normally again. My breath came easily. And never did Silas look away from me. His eyes were hypnotic as they stared into mine, in both their beauty and concern.

  When I’d fully regained my bearing, the dog – our dog – placed one of his floppy ears to my chest, looking like a Cherokee listening for the vibrations of an approaching herd of buffalo. I sighed and patted his side, relieved.

  “I think it’s over, boy,” I said. “Crisis averted.”

  He drew up his hind legs and draped one paw over the arm petting him. His eyes closed and he breathed in shallow bursts. Every so often a snort would escape his nostrils, coating the crook of my elbow with snotty mist. I didn’t care. Merely having him laying on me was comforting, so much so that I clicked off the television and closed my eyes. The image of what we must’ve looked like flashed through my mind – contented and secure, easing back after a long day’s work. As I started to drift off into sleep, one thought repeated over and over in my head, a statement that rang true no matter how silly the concept seemed.

  The asinine little mutt had just saved my life.

  8

  Time heals all wounds. Well, maybe not all of them, but at least my heart stayed true to the cliché.

  As the first month following the heart attack closed I’d started to feel better, enough so I could venture up and down the stairs without fearing the worst. I would join Wendy outside during the late afternoon hours, talking to her without any feelings of hesitation or unrest. The sparkle of excitement returned to her eyes as she discussed plans for opening a shop to sell her pottery. I told her I’d help in any way I could once I was fully recovered. It was as if we’d been given a new lease on love, and we weren’t about to take that for granted.

  The calendar flipped from spring to summer. I returned to work in late June after three months of redundancy, dreading the prospect of getting back to the daily grind yet eager to resume a life of going forward. There were no more extended hours or desires to escape home. I cut my workdays short more often than not, feeling eager to get back to my loving family, which now happened to include a rambunctious dog. My lungs thanked me every day for quitting the cancer sticks, showing their appreciation by allowing me to breathe without a hint of congestion or coughing. As one part of my body recovered it seemed the rest followed suit.

  Wendy quit her job at the flower stand at the end of July and used her meager savings to lease a small building on Main Street in Middletown. The Spinning Wheel, she called it. When she was home, which wasn’t often, she hovered over the pottery wheel in her basement studio, which left me with copious amounts of alone time. In the past this would have driven me crazy; perhaps I’d develop a wandering eye, or maybe beat myself up with thoughts that Wendy was happier when I wasn’t around. This time, none of those notions ever crossed my mind. In fact, my free time was spent doing something I would’ve thought impossible only a few months before.

  Hanging out with a dog…and loving every minute of it.

  I hadn’t noticed how much the little guy had grown until I flipped through the pictures Wendy took the day she brought him home. He’d almost doubled in size over a span of a hundred and forty days. His maw protruded further out, forming creases in the flesh around his cheeks and neck. The effect gave him an odd manifestation of age, even wisdom. His formerly brilliant green eyes faded into a pale hazel, though they didn’t lose any of their luster or brightness. In fact, the way they softened made him seem more soulful, as if he could suck the misery from me simply by staring.

  I guess you could say I’d come to adore the not-so-little guy.

  We became best buds, for lack of a better phrase. We were so close that during Labor Day weekend that year – a day that saw Wendy stowed away at her shop, painting the walls – I looked at him and felt a twinge of sadness. Here he was, an innocent creature all alone in an empty house for hours upon end, going to the bathroom on the newspaper we placed by the front door while we both worked, with nothing but his doggie thoughts to keep him company. I imagined him running through a field with other dogs, forming a pack of likeminded free spirits recalling their primitive pasts, and decided it was time my little friend developed some friends of his own.

  I grabbed my keys, took a bottle of water from the fridge, and said, “Hey, mangy mutt, we’re going for a ride.”

  His tail wagged out of control. I walked down the hall and opened the front door. He bolted outside and came to a halt beside the car. There he sat patiently, his tail wagging as if it were all he could do to keep from exploding. I opened the passenger door, but Silas didn’t hop inside until I told him to. “Thank you, Wendy,” I said with a grin. I never realized how good a job she’d done training him, whether he now s
lept on our bed or not. I’d taken the fact for granted, just like most everything in my life up until that point.

  Not anymore.

  There was only one dog-friendly park around – a wide pasture in a neighboring town that doubled as a soccer field in the spring and fall. It was noon when we arrived and there were only two other people, both women with much smaller dogs, milling about when we arrived. I clipped on Silas’s leash. He gave me a sideways, almost pouting glance.

  “Sorry, bud,” I said. “It’s gotta be this way.

  He gave me a workout early on. I jogged alongside him while he dashed back and forth across the fenced-in area, chasing the smaller mutts. Fortunately the two ladies didn’t seem to mind, actually giggling as Silas dragged me around. After a while one of them told me I should let him off the leash and let him run free for a bit, so I did. My shoulder and wrist both thanked me. I sat on a fencepost in the shade and let my sweat-drenched shirt dry out a bit. It took a long time for me to realize that I never got scared, even when my heartbeat was going a mile a minute. It was good to feel somewhat normal again.

  The park didn’t stay empty for long. By two o’clock there were a good fifteen dogs in the field, taking turns chasing each other. Silas did his part, melding into the crowd of canines, not sticking out like one particularly aggressive Doberman that showed up, not sitting aside timidly like an old man’s spotted terrier. He simply played and ran about like the puppy he was, one side of his face twisted up in that uncanny smile of his. It was a beautiful sight to behold.

  His carefree energy ended the moment she arrived.

  She was a young African-American girl, her kinky-curly hair tied up in two bobbing pigtails. She sat on the opposite side of the fence next to her father while their dog, a medium-sized collie, joined the canine fray. I waved at them, welcoming them to the park, and they waved back. When my attention returned to the pack, I realized that one of the dogs had stopped moving.