by Brian Hodge
"Fuck, give me a break, will yah?" Al said. His voice sounded chattery because Marty was shaking him so hard. "I'm sharing it with you, ain't I?"
"I can't believe you stole this from Woody. Jesus Christ, he's heavy into dealing. I'll bet you this wasn't his own personal stash. I'll bet you this was some stuff he was getting set to deal."
Al stuck out his lower lip and shrugged when Marty let go of him. "What the fuck do I care?"
"Woody's in jail. Did you know that? And I'll bet you didn't realize my old man's trying to get him out, and do you know what for? For beating up on your sister."
Al tossed his hands up. "What the fuck do I care? Woody's a fucking idiot. He's always slapping her around. I figure he'll be freaked out for a week or two 'n then it'll blow over. What's the sweat?"
Marty began pacing back and forth, running his fingers through his hair. "Come on, Al—this is serious shit. Woody got thrown in jail for what he did to your sister. My father said he might be facing some time in Warren, but if you've got pot Woody was supposed to sell for someone, then that someone's gonna get burned."
"Serves 'em right for doing something illegal," Al said with a snorting laugh.
"Yeah?" Marty said. "But what if they find out we have it? We'll be fuckin' dead."
Al's snicker turned into a braying laugh. "Well, then, we'll just have to smoke it up as fast as we can before they kill us. Come on. Let's get out to the caves, and then we can round up some people and have one helluva part-tee."
Marty wanted to throttle him, but he held back and cast his eyes up and down the trail. The woods seemed to draw closer, tightening around him like his own clammy T-shirt. Sure, he thought, it was one thing to smoke pot and screw off at school, but stealing pot from a dealer—even someone as small-time as Sid Wood—was getting into it just a wee bit deeper than he wanted to.
What were the chances Woody would actually do something to them if he found out they had stolen his grass? Well, for one thing, he'd beaten up Susie bad enough so she'd been taken to the hospital. It was possible he could do a lot worse to them.
"Hey, man," Al said when Marty's hesitation finally cut through his stoned fog. "Com'on. You wanted to see it? Let me just show it to yah." He reached up under his shirt and started slowly drawing out the package.
In spite of himself, Marty couldn't help but step closer. All around him, the woods seemed to go silent as Al brought the package to the edge of his shirt, paused dramatically, and then produced it with a magician's flourish.
"Mother-fucker," Marty exclaimed, his voice low and awe-stricken. He couldn't believe what he was looking at, but there it was right in front of him. The transparent baggie looked as big as a five-pound bag of flour. The contents of the bag were so compressed Marty thought he was holding a brick when he took it from Al and hefted it.
But it wasn't a brick. He could see the yellowish green leaves and buds, and he didn't have to open the package and sniff it to know how powerful this weed was. He had tried it yesterday. He couldn't believe Al had this much weed, especially weed so potent.
"That certainly is some righteous weed," Marty said in spite of himself.
"And this is just one of the two bricks I took," Al said.
He seemed to be a little nervous while Marty was handling the dope, and he took it back quickly, cradling it in his arms like a treasure. "I've got the other one broke down. I've hidden ounces around here and there, for personal use. This is my little summer vacation gift to you and the guys."
A grin began to spread slowly across Marty's face as he absorbed the reality of what they had. This was a brick of Columbia's finest. Man, oh man! The parties they could have with this. It would easily last them the whole summer, maybe even right up until Christmas unless they really went wild with it. With Al, that was always a possibility.
"Well," Marty said at last, looking one last time back the way they had come and then turning to Al. "You may be a sleazy son of a bitch, but you're okay by me. Come on. Let's get out to the Indian Caves and get this stuff hidden."
4
When Kip left Joey's house, he hadn't gone straight home as he at first thought he would. The tension inside of him was so hot and tight he felt like he was going to explode or, if he didn't explode, he thought he might go crazy or something. There was some relief in just pedaling his bicycle as fast as he could, so he ended up riding right past his house.
But where was he going to go? he wondered.
His three closest friends were still back at Joey's, and none of them had picked up on how he had been feeling. He wasn't sure he could have explained what he was feeling even if they had. Another one of his friends, Jimmy, was home with the flu and had missed school Friday, so Kip couldn't go over there, either.
Marty might still be home. Kip knew Marty well enough to know that he was probably dragging his butt about mowing the lawn. The job usually took Kip no more than two hours, but Marty could take all day to get it done. It didn't matter whether or not Marty was home because he was the last person on earth Kip would ever turn to for help.
That pretty much narrowed his options. The only other idea he came up with was to ride out to the house site where his father was working. But that would mean...
Facing it.
"Facing what?" Kip asked himself as the wind whistled past his ears. His thighs ached from pedaling so hard, but he kept at it, racing down the streets, darting around corners, doing anything he could just stay moving. For now, that's all that mattered.
He knew no matter how much he tried to avoid it; eventually he was going to have to face it. That's what his father kept telling him. That's what Dr. Fielding kept telling him. That's what he kept telling himself. He knew he was running away from something. Whatever it was, at least for now, running away was a lot easier than facing it.
He rode up the street to the deserted schoolyard. A man and woman were playing tennis on the courts behind the school. Kip slowed down and rode in tight circles as he watched them. But even the steady plonk-plonk of them hitting the ball back and forth started to get on his nerves. Uttering a low moan and feeling like something was chasing after him; he started riding again and sped toward the street, pedaling harder than ever as he raced down the road.
He knew he couldn't keep this up all day, but he was frantically trying to think of where he could go. He needed to find someplace safe.
Safe from what? he asked himself.
His lungs were burning from exertion. Looking down at his hands, he saw that his knuckles were bloodless from the grip he kept on the handlebars. Still, he pumped his bicycle harder... harder, and all the while, he was wishing to God that the darkness he knew was closing in on him was something he could leave behind in the swirling dust of his passing.
But he knew he couldn't. He knew he would never be able to outrace it. This was a darkness that was thicker and deeper than midnight. It was a darkness that churned and bubbled until it finally took form, and the form it took in his mind—
Has claws!
Tears from the wind streamed from his eyes and across his temples as he rode faster, almost blindly, until he realized where he was heading.
Without making a conscious decision, he had directed his bicycle down Beech Street toward Kaulback Road. The darkness he knew was out there. It was in the cellar hole where his mother had died. Instead of going away from it, he was heading toward it as if it was drawing him like a magnet. He couldn't resist.
His bicycle chain rattled when the tar road ended and turned to rutted dirt. The sound drove like a scraping piston into his skull. All around him, thick, dark pine trees leaned inward, but his eyes were watering so badly everything was a smear until he saw up ahead his father's car parked at the end of the dirt driveway.
Reflexively his hand gripped both brake grips. The bike's tires skidded in the dirt, sounding like tearing cloth as the rear tire started to swing around to the front. Kip had to put one foot on the ground to keep from falling. With an awkward stumbl
e, he lurched to a stop in the middle of the dirt road.
Yellow dust spun into the air around him and slowly settled as he stood there, panting like a frantic animal and staring wide-eyed at his father's parked car. His throat was making a funny clicking noise that sounded oddly distant to him.
What in the name of God am I so afraid of?
What had happened up there five years ago was over and done. Gone. Five winters had crushed whatever was out here with snow and ice. Five springs had turned it to mud and washed away any traces of blood that might still be down there in the cellar hole. Five summers had baked it dry... and five autumns had blown it all away.
"But what if they're still there?" Kip said aloud, his voice nothing but a thin croak. "What if they're out there right now? And what if Dad's—"
In trouble?
He couldn't even finish the thought out loud as he stood there in the middle of the road, staring up the driveway. All around him, the woods were hushed, and then a terrible thought hit him with the force of a freight train.
Dad was going to be using the chainsaw today, he thought. The car was still there, but he couldn't hear the chainsaw.
Is he taking a break?
Is he sitting in the shade with a drink?
Or did he go up to the cellar hole?
Is he there right now? Kip thought, his mind almost going blank with fear. Right now, is he lying there in the bottom of the cellar hole, nothing more than a tangled mess of blood and shattered bone?
Kip started to whimper as he started to move slowly toward the driveway, but he checked himself, glancing at both sides of the road and listening. There was nothing—no sounds other than birds chirping and insects buzzing. No breeze stirred the trees around him, and as far as he could tell, there was no sign of life up at the house site.
He wanted to believe his father was sitting in the shade, taking a break, but there was no comfort in that thought because still, all he could picture was a tangled mess of flesh and bone sprawled in the cellar hole like a rag doll, carelessly tossed away.
He tried to take a deep breath to help push his fear to a distant corner of his mind... He wanted to be just as brave as could be and walk up to the house site, calling his father's name, but—
What if they're still there?
The pressure in Kip's chest was too much to handle. It was so hard to catch his breath he was afraid he was going to suffocate. All of his senses were keenly tuned, trying to detect even the slightest sign of activity up there, but it was too quiet...deathly quiet.
"Dad?" he finally dared to call out, his voice little more than a feeble echo.
Silence answered him. From far away, a dog barked. Even such a normal sound as that sent a chill racing up Kip's back. The silent, empty car seemed almost to mock him.
"Dad?" he called, a bit louder, but still it was barely enough to carry up the slope to the house site.
Why is it so quiet? he wondered. His fear pulsed cold in his veins, draining strength from him. With a sudden pained squeal, he spun his bicycle around and started pedaling back down the road toward town as fast as he could. Each downward stroke on the pedals made the rear tire scruff in the dirt, shooting gravel and dust out behind him in a plume. His throat was raw and dry. His whole body was thrumming with exhaustion, but all he knew was, he had to get the hell out of here. He had to get back home. Maybe his father was done work and would be there by the time he got home. He wanted to believe that, but all the while he was burning—burning with shame that he had failed because he hadn't been able to go up to the cellar hole and see what was really there.
5
"Hey, Kipper!" Bill called out, sounding almost jaunty as he strode into the kitchen. He peeled off his sweaty T-shirt and tossed it into the laundry room on his way by, then dropped his keys onto the table and poked his head into the living room.
Kip was sprawled on the couch, listlessly watching the Creature Double Feature on cable. A half-empty bag of popcorn and an empty can of root beer were on the floor by his feet. He had a pillow scrunched up against one ear. As he rolled his head around, he grunted a greeting to his father.
"How was your day?" Bill asked. He walked past the couch and started up the stairs but then stopped, his hand resting on the railing.
"'Kay, I guess," Kip replied as he turned his attention back to the T.V.
"I see Marty got the lawn done. He did a good job, too, don't you think?" Bill took two steps back down, watching Kip the whole time. There was something he didn't like about the boy's listlessness.
Kip shook his head and snickered. "Not without plenty of bitchin', I'll bet," he said, but not loud enough for his dad to hear.
"You feeling all right?" Bill asked. He thought Kip looked drawn and tense. A deep furrow creased his brow, and his eyes had a vacant and unfocused look. The way he was sitting on the couch looked uncomfortable, like he didn't have the energy to move.
"Yeah," Kip replied. "I'm feeling okay."
"Hmm. Well, then, are you going to ask me how my day went?" Bill asked. He took another step down, but Kip just kept staring blankly at the T.V.
"Oh, yeah... how'd it go?" he finally asked.
Bill nodded his head up and down. "It went really well. I was kind of hoping you'd make it out there."
Kip shrugged, still not looking away from the T.V. His lips moved as he said something else that Bill couldn't make out.
Is he really that engrossed, Bill wondered, or is something bothering him that he just doesn't want to talk about?
"Well, look—I... umm, I'm going out tonight. Can you and Marty get your own supper?"
Kip shrugged, but Bill couldn't tell if that meant yes or no.
"There are some frozen fish sticks in the freezer. You could heat up some frozen French fries and maybe some frozen beans or something."
"Whatever," Kip said, still not turning away from the T.V.
On the screen, a man in an ill-fitting lizard suit was carrying a shrieking woman off into the swamp. Bill thought there was just no way Kip could be that involved with such a dumb show.
He'll talk when he's ready, he decided as he turned and started up the stairs again. He was surprised to be feeling so energized. For the first time in months... years, actually, he felt excited about something. The contrast between how he had felt this morning and how he was feeling now was startling.
Walking into his bedroom, he grabbed clean under-wear from his top bureau drawer and started down the hallway to the bathroom. He rapped lightly on Marty's bedroom door but wasn't surprised that he got no answer. If Marty was home, there would have been music blaring in his room.
"Oh, and Kip," he called out before shutting the bathroom door. "Marty did the lawn, so I don't want you giving him any grief about helping you get supper ready, okay?"
When no answer came, he walked to the head of the stairs and yelled down. "Okay?"
"Yeah... yeah," came the hollow reply. "Okay."
CHAPTER THREE
"Out of the Mist"
1
It had been a rough night for Kip. He felt as though he never really dropped off to sleep until some time just before morning sunlight slid slowly down his bedroom wall to the floor. He had lain awake in bed, staring at the red glow of his digital alarm clock, his hands folded behind his head. The darkened ceiling was such a featureless blank that, after a while, he couldn't even tell if his eyes were opened or closed.
The clock had told him that his father had finally gotten home at 1:57 in the morning. Kip had listened as his dad tiptoed up the stairs, softly whistling as he walked down the corridor toward his bedroom. Trying to be as silent as possible, his dad had eased Kip's door open a crack and peeked in on him. Kip had quickly rolled over onto his side and faked the heavy breathing of deep slumber. As soon as he heard the door ease shut, slicing off the light from the hallway, he rolled onto his back again and continued staring up at the ceiling.
The thoughts that filled his mind confused him and seemed to
take on an actual physical presence in the dark, bearing down on him like a weight. Why was he letting himself get so upset by something as simple as his father's plan to start building the house again?
It would be laughably silly... if it weren't so damned scary.
And after all these months, all these years of talking with Dr. Fielding, he still hadn't cut through all of the crap, this "excess baggage" as Dr. Fielding called it. He still hadn't gotten down to what was really bothering him. He knew Dr. Fielding was right. She couldn't do it for him, and he couldn't do it until he was ready. But why now? Why after so long were those thoughts—and those blurred mental images—coming back so strongly?
Sometime around four o'clock in the morning, he awoke with a start from a dream. At least it felt like a dream. Maybe it had just been his imagination playing a trick on him while he courted sleep.
The rectangle of his window glowed with a luminous gray light. A quiet blanket of pre-dawn fog was pressing up against the house like an animal pushing against the door, trying to get in. But in his dream, Kip had become aware of something else—
Easing himself up onto his elbows, he stared at the window.
A dark silhouette subtly materialized outside the window, resolving out of the fog and condensing as if the fog had suddenly taken on life.
In his dream, Kip sat up cross-legged on his bed, staring at the shape in the window. How something—anything—could be outside his second floor window never crossed his mind. It was there, and the longer he looked at it, the more real, the more solid it became.
The darkness of his bedroom clamped down on him, crushing the breath in his chest as he watched, spellbound. The fog swirled and glowed with an eerie phosphorescence. Vague shapes whirled in the mist, but eventually several more figures resolved out of the darkness.
Panic leaped within his chest, but when he opened his mouth to cry out, no sound came out, not even a strangled whimper. On some level, he knew this had to be a dream, but the cool crispness of his sheets, the thin lines of sweat that trickled down his face, and the steady hammering in his chest all helped convince him this was really happening.