Henry backed the truck out of the driveway and drove by a field of grazing cows, the early morning mist rising from the ground. In the rear view mirror, his house shrank away to nothing, a speck of dust that shifted sideways when he turned onto Route One.
My little monster is a good boy, Henry thought, shouting down the tiny hateful voice.
~ ~ ~
When Henry entered the post office that morning, he found the other uniformed mailmen leaving the supervisor’s office one by one, muttering under their breath. He walked up to the supervisor’s door and knocked.
“Hey,” the supervisor said. He waved him inside.
“What are they all moaning about?” Henry asked, hooking his thumb towards the men that just left.
The supervisor pursed his lips and sighed. “Conrad Roth is a no call no show.”
Henry groaned. “Again? What is that, three times this month?”
“Only two unless you want to count the day he switched his off day with Peter and forgot. Regardless, I’m willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.”
“He’s just hung over,” Henry said, sneering.
“Well, he’s not answering his phone, so who knows? Maybe he has a good excuse. In the meantime, we have a job to do,” he said, looking over some paperwork. “I’ll need you to deliver his route in Chadds Ford today.”
“Chadds Ford...” He thought on this then swore. “That rotten old lady lives out that way,” he said.
“Peter took her last time,” the supervisor pointed out. “And Roth deals with her the rest of the year.”
“Yeah.” Henry nodded. “No wonder he drinks.”
They both laughed and Henry left his office, quickly setting to sorting the deliveries that day. The others trash talked about Roth. One man said he didn’t stop by Duffers yesterday. Someone else said they should send someone over to check on him just in case. Henry kept his focus on sorting the mail, wanting make good time with the extra stops. After an hour he loaded his truck up and drove off.
Alice Tarth, he thought. It had been months since he last delivered to her when Roth called in sick with the flu. The woman chewed his ear off about being late and when he left he felt exhausted by the experience, glad he didn’t have to see her every day. Now it was his turn to see her again.
By noon he had nearly finished his own route, starting the stretch of stops Roth had in Chadds Ford. He turned off of Route One onto Walnut Street, climbing up a narrow hill to reach 231 where Samantha Hall lived. The red flag was down, but there was a letter addressed to Samantha, one without a return address. It felt cold and heavy in Henry’s hand and he tossed it into the mailbox, lifting the flag up before setting off for Alice Tarth’s house.
He sighed. “Just one more stop,” he told himself. “Then you can have yourself a drink.” He laughed, thinking again about Roth’s perpetual hangover.
The address to Alice Tarth’s house was listed as 232 Walnut Street, but in actuality, the road she lived on had no real name. It was a dirt path that forked off of Walnut, crossing a tire worn stretch of grass between a withered corn field and uncut grass, bordered by wooden pegs of wire marked with the occasional No Trespassing Sign. Further ahead the dirt path went through a roof of barren trees, giving it a cavernous glow.
Roth called this Devils Road, Henry remembered. It was something about the trees, how they were haunted and at the end of the path was an ugly, gnarled oak called the Devil Tree. The notion made him think of Isaac’s stories and he grinned. The path entered the forest where the air was gray with the few drops of light that managed to trickle through the branches. The exit shrank in the rear view mirror. He turned his headlights on and sped up.
“You scared or something?” he asked, laughing nervously. He took a deep breath and eased on the gas, lurching the remaining distance. The clearing lay up ahead and the road curved slightly to the right, leading to the old woman’s house. As he came around the bend, he saw the Devil Tree, it’s trunk black and bulbous. The surrounding ground was barren and veined with tree roots that stretched out as far as the shadow cast by the tree itself. A dog sat beneath the tree, appraising him lazily.
He pulled up closer and parked. The house leaned over him and stared with cracked windows thick with dust. A bird hopped off the tin roof and the house seemed to quiver. Henry stepped out and walked up the steps of the rickety front porch.
He knocked. The door opened and the old woman stood there, sneering.
“You’re late,” she snapped. She wrinkled her nose at him. “Who are you? You smell different today.”
“I...” Henry swallowed.
Alice was in poor health the last time he had seen her, but now she looked like she had one foot in the grave. Her right eye was swollen shut while her left eye was the shade of a dead light bulb, gray and darting about like a frightened bird. The sour stench of pus intermingled with the musty odor of the thick black cloak she wore. Henry looked down at her feet. They were bare and her toes were furry with mold.
“The other mailman is out sick,” Henry finally pushed out. He breathed through grit teeth.
She snorted and her dead eye darted about. “Good,” she said, grinning. “He kept showing up late. Sometimes not at all.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I simply can’t have lateness. Not now. I told him if it happened again I’d find someone else to do his job,” she said. She turned around and felt the path before her as she entered the darkness of her home. A small fire was lit under a pot of stew. The room was dark and hot, nearly suffocating as Henry took the first step. He crept back and breathed in the cool air that rushed past him towards the hungry fire.
“He’s a drunk,” she prattled on. “I gave him too many chances, but what does a drunk do but make excuses? Now he’s been put to better use.” She cackled and felt about her table, missing the stack of letters. “Damn it, where are they?”
Henry entered the hot darkness. “Ma’am, if I may,” he said. Another step and he felt something crumble under his shoe.
“Mind the dog shit,” she said with a toothy grin. She snatched the stack of letters and walked over to him, holding out the mail. “Take these and be quick about sending them.” She snorted her nose again. “Are you a coon?”
“Excuse me?” Henry said, narrowing his gaze.
“You smell,” she said, sneering. “Well, never mind. Just do your job and try to be on time tomorrow. Kike or coon, I don’t care as you don’t act like one and get here on time.”
Henry felt a knot tighten in his chest. He looked over the letters. None of them had return addresses written on them. He thought of telling her, offering to fill in the information himself. Instead he swallowed and backed away from the old woman.
“Have a nice day,” he said coldly.
The old woman slammed the door shut. Henry walked off the porch, feeling his hands grip the bundle of mail. Anger twisted the knot in his chest tighter. He sat down in his truck and set the mail with the other pickups that day. Sweat broke over his brow. In all his years of living and working in Pennsylvania, no one had ever called him a racial slur before. Anger was a mosquito sucking him dry, leaving him feverish.
Old white bitch, the tiny voice of anger said. Henry allowed the voice to speak as it desired. You should throw her mail away, just say you don’t know what happened if she asks. No return address? You can just lie, say it probably ended up in the dead letters office. Or burn it, burn her mail!
He clenched his teeth. After a moment of silence, he turned around and grabbed the old woman’s mail, tossing the entire bundle over the containers into the trunk of the truck.
“Whoops,” he said. The tiny voice of anger cheered and Henry felt its satisfaction, but the draining feeling didn’t recede. He turned the truck around and the house shifted across the rearview mirror, followed by the black mass that was the Devil Tree. The dog stood up and walked to the edge of the shadow beneath the tree. Its eyes were gray coins. Henry watched, think
ing it would chase after him.
Hit the fucking dog, the tiny voice said.
Henry laughed at the tiny voice and drove on, watching as the tree shifted out of view. He switched to look into his side mirror, watching the dog as it remained poised in the tree’s shadow. Tiny corpses surrounded it. Squirrels, raccoons, a cat. All of them bled dry with their bones poking out of their rotten skin.
The dog stood in the shadow, watching as he left.
~ ~ ~
He dropped off the mail and drove home, trying to forget Alice Tarth. When he walked through his front door, Caitlin was in the kitchen chopping up vegetables for dinner. Isaac rushed towards him and clumsily wrapped his arms around his body.
“Dad!” he yelled. He hugged him tight and set one of his feet on Henry’s left foot. “Walk to Mom. You’re King Monster.”
Henry forced a smile while the tiny voice of anger shouted terrible things. He pushed the voice away and thought of harmless ways to decline and shrug the boy off. Isaac was far too big to carry around like that and he was tired after dealing with the extra stops that day.
“What’s a King Monster?” he asked, curious.
“A big monster.”
Henry laughed. It was silly, simple logic, the kind of thing that made him forget his tiredness for a moment. “That’s all?” He took the first step.
“Yeah,” the boy said. “You eat people but not me because Imma little monster,” he said into his father’s shoulder. The dog circled them both, tail wagging. “Oh and Otis is a little monster too.”
“Sounds pretty scary kiddo,” Henry admitted, taking another step.
“Go get Mom!” he shouted, wrapping his arms around him.
Henry struggled at first but after a few steps he managed to carry the boy’s weight and they lumbered side by side towards Caitlin, roaring cartoonishly. She gave a fake scream and raised her hands in the air, darting about the kitchen counter as Henry goose-stepped with his son latched onto his side. The dog circled them both, barking in excitement. When they finally managed to capture Caitlin, Henry pretended to gnaw her shoulder hungrily until Isaac commanded that he stop.
“Mom’s a King Monster,” he argued. “Monsters don’t eat other monsters.”
“Well thank you very much,” Caitlin said with a curtsy. She lifted her hands and displayed imaginary claws. “I’ve always wanted to be a monster.”
Henry slid his arm around her waist. “You’re too pretty to be a monster,” he said, drawing her close.
“Dad,” Isaac said, “Did you bring stories?”
“Aw sorry kiddo. I left all the junk mail in the truck. But it’s not locked if you want to grab them.”
“Okay!” The boy stomped off, leaving them. Henry drew his wife close.
She smirked. “You trying to buy us some time?”
“Only if you’re still a monster,” he joked, kissing her neck. She laughed and clawed his back before pushing him away. Henry grabbed a beer out of the fridge and cracked it open at the dinner table.
“A beer already?” she asked him. She grinned while sliding the vegetables off the cutting board into the frying pan. It hissed and whispered smoke. “You usually have a beer after dinner.”
“Long day,” Henry said.
“Oh, I’m sorry baby. Want to talk about it?”
“Nah...it’s nothing really worth talking about to be honest.”
Isaac stomped back inside with the small bundle of mail and set them out over the kitchen table. Without pause he ripped open several pieces of junk mail. Henry glanced at the boy’s busy hands, noticing the letters Alice Tarth had given him. The knot in his chest tightened again, but the tiny voice of anger cackled at how the boy was destroying her mail for good.
Finally that mongoloid son is good for something!
Henry smirked and watched as the boy set aside the junk mail, deciding that they told no stories. He moved onto Alice’s letters, opening the first one. He cooed in excitement.
“A bug,” the boy said with glee.
Both parents looked at what he held in his hand. It was a brown leaf with black veins.
“That’s a leaf sweetheart,” Caitlin said. She shot a glance at Henry. “Whose mail is that? That’s not someone else’s mail, is it?”
“Dead letters,” Henry quickly responded. “There’s no return address so there’s nothing we can do with them.” He saw her concern. “I checked to make sure it wasn’t anything important.”
Isaac opened the other letters from Alice, all containing leaves. “They’re bugs,” Isaac said again. He held one in the palm of his hand and brought it to his ear. “Talking bugs.”
“Talking bugs huh?” Henry said. He sipped his beer. “What are they talking about?”
“They’re thirsty,” Isaac said. “They want to grow and they’re thirsty.” He held it out to Caitlin. “They want to drink Mom.”
“They don’t want a drink from me?” Henry asked jokingly, gesturing with his beer.
“No,” the boy said with a frown. “They said you killed the witch. So they need you.”
Caitlin rolled her eyes and glanced at Henry. “Alright now let’s not let it get too violent. And why would Dad hurt a witch?”
“Hell if I know.” Henry sipped his beer.
Alice Tarth is a mean old witch and I hope she’s dead, the tiny voice said.
Isaac gestured with the leaf, holding it out to his mother. “They’re thirsty Mom.”
“Well we’d better get some water for them then,” she said, keeping her eyes on the stir-fry.
“They don’t like water,” Isaac groaned.
“Trees like water,” Henry pointed out. “And leaves grow off of trees.”
“It’s not a tree,” Isaac said, getting frustrated. He began shouting. “They’re bugs and they’re thirsty.” He started stomping his feet and Caitlin looked over his shoulder at Henry.
“Hey...” Henry placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Let’s calm down little monster.”
“No!” the boy shouted. He thrust the leaf towards Caitlin. “She needs to hold the bug in her hand so it can drink.”
“Isaac,” Henry said, turning the boy towards him. “How about you help me clean the table off and you can tell me a different story at dinner.”
The boy stomped off with the leaf in his hand, leaving the others on the table. Caitlin watched him go and moments later a bedroom door slammed shut. She shook her head and returned to the stir-fry.
“I don’t think he’s ever gotten like that before,” Caitlin admitted. “Even if we tell him a story is getting too violent, he usually stops without fussing.”
“Yeah.” Henry sighed and bundled up the junk mail. He picked up one of the leaves and turned it over in his hand. It was dense and cold, and the veins were wiry and black. Caitlin watched him.
“Better be careful with that bug,” she joked. “It’s thirsty.”
“Oh no, they need me for something else,” Henry quipped. “Remember? I killed the witch...whatever that means.”
He threw the junk mail and the leaves away—every leaf, except for the one that Isaac kept.
~ ~ ~
That night, Henry dreamed of his father. The man told him about the Devil Tree. Now and again they would find one of their friends hanging from a limb, covered in tar. They tried burning it down but no matter how long they kept the fire going, the tree wouldn’t burn. Instead it simply grew blacker and blacker.
Where’s your little monster at? father asked.
Henry looked into the back yard. Isaac stood amongst the trees, watching them with his worn eyes, smiling. The trees were tall and gangly and their limbs greedily caught the moonlight, casting thick shadows upon the ground that looked like so many skinny corpses covered in tar, swinging from side to side in the fetid air.
Henry looked back to his father. Alice Tarth sat in his place, a withered corpse with black veins that grew under her skin like the roots of a tree.
The King Monster ne
eded to drink, Isaac said giddily. But you threw its mouths away and the King Monster drank the witch instead.
The stars burned and collapsed into black holes that turned to leaves falling from the sky. So many fell that it buried Henry in darkness, filling his mind until there was nothing left.
~ ~ ~
Henry awoke in a sweat. It was morning and a dog was howling in the distance. He looked over to where Caitlin lay and found an empty space instead. He graced his hand over the sunken in sheets where her body once lay. It was still warm.
Probably went to check on Isaac, he thought. He sat on his side of the bed and rubbed his forehead. It ached from the few beers he had last night and he quickly felt for the glass of water he set beside the bed, drinking it greedily.
He flipped a light on and grabbed his pants off the floor. After tying his shoes and finding his dress shirt, he walked down the hall to see if Isaac was still in his room. The door lay open and his bed was empty. The TV spoke quietly from the first floor of the house, tiny voices followed by tiny explosions and screams.
Another night of monster movies, Henry thought. Maybe we should give him a break from those for a while...
He walked down the stairs and looked at the TV. A black and white movie showed a woman being attacked by a strange beast with tentacles. Henry stepped into the shadows cast by the couch, peering down. Isaac sat there, eating a messy peanut butter sandwich.
“Little monster,” he said quietly, tussling the boy’s head.
Isaac looked up and grinned a mouthful of brown sludge. “You’re awake.” He got up from the couch and walked towards the kitchen. “Come see the tree.”
“The tree?” Henry asked. He stood in the television’s gloom for a moment before calling after him. “Where’s your mother?”
“She’s feeding the tree.”
“Right,” Henry said, rolling his eyes. He followed his son into the living room, finding him with his nose pressed against the screen door that faced their backyard. Morning was just beginning to break but already Henry could see that there was something tall and black in the yard. He quickened his steps and crept up beside his son. Growing in their backyard was a black oak tree nearly eight feet tall.
American Nightmare Page 17