by Brian Hodge
"So—umm—how come you never got married?" Kip asked, saying the first thing to spring into mind. All he wanted to do was get the man's attention off whatever was bothering him.
Watson suddenly stopped in his tracks, turned, and glared at Kip, who shrank back into the couch.
"What makes you think I was never married?" Watson snapped. His eyes flicked in the direction of the kitchen, and Kip craned his neck to try to see what he was looking at. As far as he could tell, there was nothing unusual about the kitchen. Maybe Watson was expecting the untcigahunk to attack the house, but Kip figured he would have warned him if he thought they were in any danger. At least, he'd have a gun handy if he was expecting trouble.
Kip shrugged as he shifted around. "I dunno. I mean, I never heard that you were married or anything. Were you?"
Watson strode over to a chair and sat down heavily, letting his feet kick up onto the footstool. He should have been relaxed, but Kip could tell the man's body was practically humming with repressed energy.
"I was," Watson said, his voice barely audible. "A long time ago." Again, his eyes took on that hazy, distant look, but only for a moment; then his face hardened as he looked at Kip.
"My wife's name was Joanne... Joanne Sanderson," Watson said. "But we was divorced, goin' on more 'n twenty years now."
He was about to leap to his feet and begin pacing again—or else do something worse. Kip had no idea what was making Watson so edgy. He decided to keep pressing, thinking small talk might loosen him up.
"So what happened?" he asked.
"What the fuck's it to yah?" As soon as the words were out, Watson's expression dropped, and Kip knew he instantly regretted his outburst.
"I was just... you know... curious." Kip took another sip of water, trying hard to look relaxed, but all the while he was struggling to figure out why Watson was so edgy.
Maybe he did expect the untcigahunk to come tonight.
Maybe he should just get the hell out of this house.
He wondered what his father and brother were doing now. Surely they'd be in a panic by this time. It might be best if he just went home and forgot all about running away.
"Well," Watson said, "we ain't really divorced, but she left me after our daughter died."
"You had a daughter?" Kip was taken completely by surprise. That fact alone went against everything the kids at school said about the old man.
Watson nodded slowly. That weird, glazed light still filled his eyes, and in the dim living room light, he wasn't sure, but tears might have been forming in Watson's eyes.
"Lisa—my daughter—was born back in 1954. She was the sweetest thing you'd ever want to see, but I—" His voice choked off, and he cast another, almost longing look at the kitchen before continuing. "I wasn't the best father around, I guess."
Kip grunted, thinking how his own father didn't seem to have much... or any time for him lately.
"'S the goddamned booze 'at did it." Watson slammed his fist onto the arm of the chair, raising a puff of dust. Slowly, he uncurled his fingers and held up his hand, studying the wrinkles in his palm.
"The goddamned booze. See, I was... I'd been drinking a lot... just 'bout every night. 'N one night I was pretty bad off, so this cop—Chief Pulanski. He's been dead ten years or more. But he calls my house and gets Lisa on the phone and tells her she's gotta get her mom to come and pick me up or else I'm gonna get thrown into jail. But my wife wasn't home, so Lisa, thinkin' she had to do whatever to keep me outta jail, gets into the car—an old Mustang, and comes to pick me up."
His throat closed off with a strangled sound, and he paused for a moment as he ran his tongue over his lips. Suddenly, he darted forward and snatched the glass of water from Kip's hand and drank it down greedily, smacking his lips as he handed it back to Kip, empty.
"Shit! She was only thirteen at the time. Not much older 'n you, I guess. She was doin' all right drivin'. When she was little, I'd set her up in my lap and let her steer, but she'd never driven on her own or anything. Anyway, she was comin' down River Road, 'n just after she crossed the bridge, she took the turn kinda fast and she drove into the back end of a loggin' truck. The tree trunks smashed through the window 'n killed her instantly."
"Aww, jeeze," Kip whispered. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"
"The only good thing about it, I spoze, was knowing she didn't suffer."
Kip could see that it took a lot for Watson to tell him this. He wondered if he was the first person he'd talked to about it. It pained him to see Watson so choked up, and he wanted to say or do something to comfort him, to let him know that it was okay, but he just sat there, his mouth hanging open and gasping like a beached fish.
Finally he got off the couch and walked over to put his arm around the old man's shoulders. As he patted him, he could feel the old man's body shaking, not from repressed energy, but from the sobs that wracked him.
"If I hadn't been drinkin' none of this would've happened," Watson said, choking. He was careful not to make eye contact with Kip, but Kip saw the tears glistening on his cheek. His own eyes began to sting.
"Even after all these years, I blame myself for what happened. If it hadn't've been for me, she still be alive. It should have been me that died, not her."
"That's what I used to think sometimes...about my mom," Kip said as he hugged Watson close. For the second time that day, he wasn't at all mindful of the dank, sweaty smell of the man. All he wanted was for the pathetic old man to feel better.
"I know exactly how you feel," Kip said softly, his voice twisting as tight as a wire. "Exactly how you feel."
6
A few minutes after three o'clock that morning, two things happened in two separate houses in Thornton, Maine.
In the Howard home, Bill Howard woke up where he had dozed off in the hard-backed chair by the telephone table in the living room. His neck felt as though Hulk Hogan had given it a vicious twist, and the small of his back seemed to be on fire. When he stood up and stretched, blood rushed from his head to his legs, and dozens of pinpoints of light squiggled across his vision.
He leaned against the table until his head cleared, all the while staring at the telephone... the goddamned telephone that hadn't rung all night to let him know Kip had been found and that he was all right.
The goddamned telephone!
Bill picked up the receiver, his fingers poised to dial the police station, and if he didn't get any satisfaction there, he'd call Parkman at home. But before he started dialing, he slammed the phone back into its cradle, making it ring once.
It won't do any goddamned good, he told himself, and he knew he wasn't doing himself any good, either. At last, admitting there was nothing else he could do until daylight, he trudged up the stairs and flopped down on his bed without undressing or washing up. But as tired as he was, sleep wouldn't come. His mind was racing, and when he finally drifted off, the sleep he got was as thin as a skimming of pond ice in November.
At the same time in Watson's house, Watson was sitting in his chair, his eyes drooping but still focused on Kip, who was wrapped up in the old afghan and sound asleep on the couch. The regular stirring of Kip's breathing lulled Watson into a pleasant mental state, but still he was burning for a drink of whiskey.
"No, goddammit," he hissed. He squeezed his eyes shut, clenched his fists, and told himself that this was it—no more booze. After all these years... after killing his daughter, he was through with drinking. He had to be through with it.
But there was a bottle out in the kitchen cabinet, and it was calling him now even stronger than it had been calling him earlier that evening. All too easily, he could imagine how it would taste, how the amber liquid would slosh in the bottle; how its aroma would sting his nostrils and bring tears to his eyes; how its fire would scorch his throat and stomach and—maybe, if he was lucky—cool the flames in his brain.
One little drink. How could that hurt?
He eased himself to his feet quietly and started movin
g toward the kitchen.
Just one little drink to take the edge off a day that had brought him a lot more stress than he needed or was used to. If he was going to quit drinking, it could be tomorrow. All he wanted now was just one little drink...just one tiny, little farewell sip.
Bending down, he opened the bottom cupboard door and reached inside. His fingers wrapped around the neck of the bottle, feeling the cool, slick surface. His hand was shaking as he gripped the cap and gave it a firm twist, tearing off the sealing paper. Once the cap was off, the smell of whiskey wafted to his nose like a slowly uncoiling snake, teasing... tempting him.
A muffled whimper from the living room made him jump, and whiskey slopped out of the bottle and onto his hand. For an instant, he had forgotten about Kip, sleeping there, and his mind filled with an image of Lisa, his daughter, sleeping on the couch.
He paused with the bottle halfway to his mouth, his eyes wide open and fixed on the doorway leading into the living room as if it was an open grave, freshly dug. He tensed, waiting to see his daughter come out into the kitchen, her face decomposing, dropping off flaps of rotting flesh...her hands, mere bony claws raised in front of her to embrace him.
"Papa...I'm home," the fleshless mouth would say.
The hand holding the bottle began to tremble, spilling whiskey onto his arm and the floor. The aroma that moments ago had been so alluring, so tantalizing, now filled his nose with the stench of a body, rotting in an ancient grave.
"Papa...I'm home... See what you did to me."
"No!...No!" Watson said, his voice rising in a wavering, frantic howl. "No!... No!... NO!"
Clamping his teeth together, he cocked his arm back and, with a grunt that started deep down in his groin, he threw the bottle as hard as he could. Whiskey fanned out of the bottle as it flew, spinning end over end until it smashed against the wall. The sound of breaking glass seemed louder than a shotgun as glass and whiskey exploded everywhere.
"Goddamnit! No!" Watson wailed as grief and anger welled up like black sludge in his mind. He closed his eyes and jammed both fists into his eye sockets, pressing hard until spinning colored lights exploded across his retina.
He barely knew where he was or what he was doing as he staggered back into the living room. When he saw Kip, sitting up on the couch and staring at him, wide-eyed with fear, his mind cleared enough so he remembered—just a little—who he was and what was happening. Pitching forward, he fell face first into the easy chair with his arms and legs sprawled on either side like he was trying to embrace it.
"Settle down... go back to sleep," he mumbled, his voice muffled by the cushions, and then almost instantly he lost consciousness.
CHAPTER TEN
"Attack Plans"
1
"So...?"
"So what?"
"So what 'd'yah think we outta do about it?" Watson's teeth looked yellow in the morning light as he bit into a blackened piece of toast smeared with grape jelly. The crunching sound he made as he worked his jaw reminded Kip of a dog chewing Gravy Train.
Kip was resting his head in his hand, his elbows on the table, trying to make his own breakfast—a bowl of corn flakes—look interesting, but it seemed as though nothing was going to help. This cereal was going to taste like cardboard no matter how much milk and sugar he put on it. At least the orange juice was good. It went a long way toward clearing out the remaining shreds of dreams that lingered from the night before.
"I dunno," Kip finally said.
He started massaging his forehead, wishing he could block out the vague, frightening memories that still swam in the darker reaches of his mind.
The blackness—the arms—the claws—the eyes!
The images were all still there, but now—thankfully—they were... How could he describe it Certainly they were as vivid and strong as always, but after what had happened yesterday in the cellar hole, they somehow seemed to have lost a bit of their power and the grip they had on him.
Watson finally swallowed the mouthful of toast and took a gulp of black coffee. His first and practically only thought was that, normally by this time, he would have already had a shot of whiskey to get his motor running. He felt... different, as though his head was packed with Styrofoam. Everything in the kitchen, all the old, familiar things now seemed strangely different, as though he was looking at where he lived through a different kind of filter or lens.
"I think we outta do something," Watson said.
"Like what?" Kip was surprised by the anger that suddenly blew out of him. When he shifted in his chair, his elbow knocked the bowl of cereal and spilled a slop of milk onto the table. "What the hell can a drunk, old Indian and a dumb twelve-year-old who's so freaked out he's seeing a shrink do against them?"
Watson ran his fingers through his oily, black hair. The expression of confusion on his face was unsettling, and Kip immediately regretted his outburst. After all, Watson had no doubt saved his life by not letting him stay out in the woods overnight. If this was the time for the untcigahunk to be abroad—and after what he had seen in the cellar hole doorway yesterday, he had no doubt of it—he would have been easy prey. He wouldn't have been missed for a few days, but his body might never have been found.
Watson shrugged before taking another bite of toast and chewing thoughtfully.
"I 'spoze you could call your dad," he said between chews. "He must be some worried, wonderin' where you were last night."
The mention of his father instantly made Kip think about why he had run away in the first place, but after yesterday, he saw it differently now. He understood a little better that it wasn't just that his father seemed to ignore him and his brother was picking on him all the time. Since his mother had been killed, of course his father had been...different, but it was only now that Kip realized his father—like him—had been grieving. He got at least a glimpse of his father's sadness and maybe his father's feelings of guilt that he hadn't been able to help his wife.
His running away, Kip saw, had more to do with losing his mother than with his father's failings. Since her death, he had been feeling as though she had deserted him.
"No," Kip finally said, grimacing as he shook his head. "I don't want to call him. Not yet, anyway. I want to know what you think we can do about the little brothers."
Watson jammed the last piece of toast into his mouth, then turned in his chair and put the crumb-covered dish on the counter. Turning back around, he took a swallow of coffee and wiped his mouth on his shirtsleeve.
"The untcigahunk were here long before my people were here," Watson said, his voice assuming a deep, commanding tone. Kip knew this must have been how his father and grandfather had related tribal history to him, with a deep, solemn voice.
"They were created before the Human Beings. The land, particularly underground, has always been their domain since the Great Spirit created Men and banished them there. With the spread of the tribes, the untcigahunk couldn't have gone very far underground. In order to survive, they needed to come above ground. They do this every five years."
"Why do they come up to the surface every five years?" Kip asked.
Watson shrugged. "Legends say they have to remind themselves of what they'd lost because they displeased the Great Spirit, who we call 'Old One.' But the untcigahunk missed the freedom of moving about on the surface of the earth. In the darkness, their hatred of Human Beings who had taken their place in Old One's favor had grown. My grandfather said it was like toad-stools that thrive in closed, dark places. Who can really say why? They come. That's a fact. And when they do, they bring death and destruction."
"Why don't more people know about them? After all these years—"
"Before the whites came, we lived with the untcigahunk. Certainly not peacefully, but they—like all of the Old One's creations—have a right to exist. As the whites took over the land, the untcigahunk lost great numbers. Those that live here on the edge of the White Mountains feel the pressure the most 'cause this is the most settled par
t of the country."
"There can't be very many of them, though," Kip said. "Wouldn't there'd be more reports of people seeing them?"
"I told yah, though, that there's reports of things they've done! I ain't saying everybody who gets lost in the woods and every cow that gets mutilated is their fault, but if you know what signs to look for, you can always tell when the untcigahunk have been around."
"And that's how you knew they killed my mother?" Kip surprised himself by actually not choking on the word mother.
Watson nodded. "I figured it was them even before I went out there. But after the cops had left the cellar hole, I took a good look around. I saw things the cops didn't see, mostly 'cause they weren't lookin' for what I was lookin' for."
"And that's when you discovered the doorway?" Kip asked.
Watson nodded. "If I'd known 'fore then, I would've warned your folks when they started buildin' out there."
"But you didn't."
Watson shook his head sadly. "No... I didn't. 'N once I knew, I didn't tell your father. I should've, but I figured he wouldn't believe me, anyhow. You said it yourself a minute ago. I'm nothin' but a drunk, old Indian." He looked at Kip as he said this, and Kip caught the tears glistening in his eyes and the slight trembling of his lower lip.
"I... I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. Honest. I was just pissed off, that's all." He reached across the table and gently placed his hand on Watson's shoulder. Watson reached up and covered Kip's hand with his huge paw of a hand.
"I know you were," he said mildly, "'n I know you got every right to be pissed off. You loved your mom, 'n 'cause you were there when she died, I know you saw things nobody should ever have to see. But you still ain't answered my question."
Kip raised his eyebrows in silent question.