Doorbells at Dusk

by Josh Malerman

  The insects of the barn soon understood that Rusty’s presence represented no threat. Spiders took up residence in the crevasses of his body, where they spun webs and laid eggs, grew old and died as their younglings spun fresh webs across his eyes and laid their eggs inside his ears.

  Each morning before sunrise, the Farmer carried a leather bag and a cup of water into the shed, never speaking a word, never allowing Rusty’s eyes to make contact with his own. The Farmer would insert a straw into Rusty’s mouth, giving him a single long sip of water. He’d fiddle with feeding tubes, replace the IV drip bag and swap out the gatherings from a catheter, after which he’d not be seen again until the next day. Rusty was more livestock than human, nothing more than another farmyard chore.

  When the Farmer had first removed the tape from his mouth, Rusty had screamed and cried and threatened and begged. His reward had been the prompt replacement of the duct tape, forcing him to snort each and every breath through stuffy nostrils for another week.

  By the time the tape was removed once again, he’d learned his lesson. Rusty never uttered another word in the Farmer’s presence, though he sometimes spoke softly to himself when certain he was alone.

  After the chill of winter and dampness of spring had passed, the Farmer would leave the door open during the day, allowing summer breezes to flow through the steel shed so Rusty wouldn’t bake alive.

  Occasionally, he’d spot the Farmer, crisscrossing the fields atop some large piece of farming equipment or other, but never did he see or hear another soul. His hope of ever being rescued diminished with each passing day.

  Delirium overtook him as summer burned on. During these episodes, he ceded all grasp of time and space, of night and day, drifting in and out of consciousness, searing bouts of phantom pain his solitary tether to reality. When that agony struck, the nerve endings of his paralyzed body re-materialized, piercing and tearing him in places he would never again touch. He was powerless to escape the pain, to seek comfort, left to drench his foul flesh with tears until the torment receded and the phantasms of derangement returned to drag him away.

  His fevers decreased in frequency as autumn arrived, its coolness bringing the realization that almost a year had passed since his arrival. The harvest air, heavy with the scent of decaying cornstalks, reminded him of his Halloween scarecrows.

  Rusty couldn’t resist reminiscing on those former forbidden pleasures, his beloved scarecrows from Halloweens past. Obtaining a scarecrow had been an annual pilgrimage for him, eagerly awaited. He’d carefully plotted his trips, travelling far, taking his time, covering his tracks.

  His final scarecrow, Bertha, had been procured from a gas station in a squalid part of a decrepit rural town. Even though she had only been one of many, he remembered that night so clearly.

  He parked in the shadows behind a grimy convenience store, positioning his rental so it was hidden from the street. He stepped from the car onto ground littered with wads of burnt foil and broken syringes that sparkled like jewels in the moonlight—evidence of drug abuse and reassurance that his choice was sound.

  He peeked into the women’s restroom behind the station and found several filthy stalls, all empty, as he’d hoped. After checking that no one was watching, he slipped inside.

  He believed a single man could make a difference in the world. He was doing something. He was making a difference.

  Although many Halloweens like this had come before, nervous excitement surged through him as he sat on the seat in the far stall. Waiting for his scarecrow to arrive was the hardest part, even if the anticipation was sweet. He hadn’t tried a gas station bathroom before, wasn’t certain it would work, but could easily feign confusion if discovered.

  At last the restroom door opened. A pair of petite shoes appeared below the divider of the neighboring stall.

  The moment had arrived.

  He stepped out of the stall and tiptoed to the restroom door. A single beat-up car sat outside. With a convenience store around front, the woman might not be alone.

  Rusty walked over to the occupied stall and kicked in the door, grabbing the woman from the toilet and pulling a thick black garbage bag over her head.

  He retrieved duct tape from his pocket and deftly bound it around her head—one, two, three times—precisely positioned to seal her mouth and nose, then tightly around her neck—one, two, three times—choking off her cries for help. He secured her wrists behind her. Each move was precise, skillful, practiced.

  He dragged the woman out to his car and stuffed her into the trunk, closing the lid, leaving her to asphyxiate.

  As he pulled away from the station, he checked his watch: ninety seconds had passed between the woman’s arrival and his exodus. Not bad at all.

  He traveled down darkened back streets on a winding and unpredictable course toward home, away from surveillance cameras and potential witnesses, pleased to know that he was serving the public good, as would the new scarecrow in his trunk.

  Rusty had helped the community by removing another drug-addled leech from the streets and welfare rolls—this one was named Bertha, according to the driver’s license he’d found in her purse.

  Now she would finally contribute to society, as had all his other Halloween scarecrows before her, by decorating his porch for the delight of law-abiding neighbors.

  Behind the dusty webs that draped over his face, a smile came to Rusty’s cracked lips as he reveled in past pleasures, dreaming his dreams while tied to a wheelchair in the back of the shed.

  ***

  One morning that same autumn, the daily routine changed. The Farmer slid the shed door all the way open, startling Rusty awake as metal screeched upon metal. The battered pickup waited outside, tailgate down.

  The Farmer stacked Rusty’s old Halloween decorations neatly into the truck and then came to collect Rusty himself, removing his IV and catheter tubes, packing them back into his leather bag. The Farmer sealed Rusty’s mouth, placed a burlap sack over his head and stowed him neatly alongside the rest of the cargo in the back of the truck.

  Rusty lay there until sundown, inhaling the stench of his decaying teeth, left to wonder what was going on. Was he being disposed of, put out of his unending misery? He hoped so. He’d had more than enough. Death would be a blessed release.

  Shortly after sundown, the truck rumbled to life. Through the dead of night they traveled, over potted roads and highways until the truck finally rolled to a stop.

  The tailgate thunked down and he felt himself flying again, Rusty the disembodied head, floating up out of the truck and into the darkness.

  Blind inside the burlap bag, he listened intently to the world around him. It had been so long since he’d heard anything more than the patter of rain on the roof of the shed or the chugging of tractors through the cornfields. It all seemed so foreign to him: keys turning in a lock, a door opening, footsteps on a wooden floor, plastic sheeting crinkling against his face—the sounds painted pictures in rapid succession inside his mind.

  Artificial light bloomed somewhere above. The Farmer pulled the burlap sack from his head and walked away.

  Taking in his surroundings, Rusty wondered if he had died. He was inside of a house.

  His house.

  His heart leapt for joy, but landed with a thud as the Farmer returned with a bale of hay at the end of one muscled arm, folded denim overalls and flannel shirt clutched in the other.

  As the Farmer knelt down to dress him, Rusty’s eyes came to rest on the kitchen counter.

  A freshly carved jack-o’-lantern stared back.

  ***

  “I was so sad to hear about Rusty. Hard to believe it’s been a year already.”

  The man’s gravelly voice was instantly recognizable: Luther, his old next-door neighbor. Excitement coursed through Rusty. He’d been waiting all evening to see if Luther would still make his annual Halloween visit.

  “Massive stroke last Halloween, dialed me as he was collapsing, I suppose,” the Farmer
said, his voice strangely soft and caring. “Didn’t even get the chance to say why he was calling. I drove over to check on him later that night since he wouldn’t answer my calls.”

  Luther clucked as he listened. Rusty couldn’t see the man’s face from behind the pumpkin’s triangle eyes, only the front of his shirt. Its color shifted from purple to orange and back again in the flashing Halloween lights.

  “It was too late by the time I found him, the damage was already done,” the Farmer continued. “Uncle Rusty never regained consciousness, passed away last summer in the hospice, God rest his soul.”

  Rusty didn’t have much time. The conversation between the two men appeared to be wrapping up fast. He had to get Luther’s attention, somehow get his neighbor to see him inside the scarecrow, see that he was still alive. Then Luther could slip away and call for help. If he was rescued, maybe there was still a way to reverse his paralysis, get him up and moving again.

  “Would’ve been nice to say goodbye,” Luther said. “I know the community would’ve appreciated a proper funeral in return for all the fine things he did for us.”

  “I wish I could have made that happen, but consider this Halloween display to be a goodbye from Rusty, his final gift to the neighborhood.”

  “He loved Halloween, that’s for sure, especially his scarecrows. You’ve done a fine job with this one here, I might add, a proper tribute all right. The IV bag’s a nice touch.” Luther rapped the pumpkin head in approval, squatting to examine it more closely.

  As his neighbor peered into the jack-o’-lantern, Rusty found himself looking directly into Luther’s squinty eyes. Rusty sucked in a big breath. It was his one shot for salvation.

  “Damn, there are eyeballs moving around in there!” Luther said.

  Rusty took that as his cue, letting loose the loudest moan he could muster. Even with lips sealed by duct tape, he could still make noise.

  Luther jumped back, clutching his chest.

  “Goddamn. Now that’s too fucking scary,” he shouted. “Pardon my French, but that thing should have a warning sign on it. You almost gave me a heart attack.”

  The Farmer laughed heartily, patting Luther on the shoulder.

  “How do you make these scarecrows look so real, like they could jump right up and grab you?”

  “Sorry, Luther, but that’s a family secret.”

  “Well it was worth a shot,” the old man said. “Rusty was lucky to have such a fine nephew to put his affairs in order. Have a happy Halloween, son. I’d better get out of here so you can tend to these kids . . . and before this blasted scarecrow scares me again.”

  With those words Luther departed, almost taking Rusty’s hope along with him. But he’d gotten a response. Luther had heard him.

  As Rusty sat on his own front porch for what he figured might be the last time—dressed in a flannel shirt and overalls stuffed with hay, head inside a pumpkin, face coated in black greasepaint—he watched as daring trick or treaters gathered their courage to make their way through the flashing lights and billowing fog to confront him, the horrifying scarecrow.

  Relegated to being a passive observer, he was helpless, unable to intervene as the same kids he’d watch grow up over the years received sweets from a man he didn’t even know. A man who had easily tricked his neighbors into believing he was family and taken over his house, over his life.

  The Farmer grew bolder as the evening wore on. Amused by the elderly neighbor’s frightened response to Rusty’s cry for help, the Farmer encouraged the children to peek inside the pumpkin for a surprise.

  “It’s blinking!” one boy shrieked as he ran away, laughing, to tell the others about the horror he’d found the courage to face.

  As child after child peered into the pumpkin, Rusty tried to show them he was alive using only his eyes, afraid they’d be frightened away if he made noise. When the children leaned forward he squinted his eyes, popping them wide open once they were looking, blinking furiously to show them he was real.

  But his efforts only made the children scream louder as they took flight.

  Halloween night came to an end. Once the candy ran out and the trick or treaters stopped coming, the Farmer turned off the porch light, locked the front door, packed Rusty and the rest of the decorations neatly into the back of his truck and set off on the long journey back to hell.

  ***

  That night back at the farm, Rusty found himself granted a reprieve from the hellish steel shed, from the unrelenting regimen of spiders and darkness, of days spent inhaling his own dank filth and decay.

  The Farmer set Rusty the Scarecrow in a rocking chair on the creaky porch of his own modest home, placing the hollowed-out pumpkin back over his head.

  There Rusty remained all night, gazing towards where the moonlit driveway disappeared among fields of harvested corn.

  The next morning, the first rays of dawn fell upon an empty rocking chair. Farther off in the fields, a rapidly moving silhouette sliced into the sky.

  Elongated shadows scurried alongside the Farmer as he strode amidst brown stalks and scattered husks, Rusty the scarecrow tossed over one shoulder. Turkey vultures circled overhead, hissing as they followed.

  The Farmer stopped when he arrived at a tall pole in the middle of the cornfield, where, at long last, he granted Rusty Husk the right to die.

  ADAM’S BED

  Josh Malerman

  1

  Halloween. Also Adam’s birthday. Five years old.

  Dad, Ronnie, would rather have spent the day on the boat. But, for the love of Christ, he had a son. For five years now he’d had a son. It was tough. Sometimes. Being a dad. He loved the kid. Yes. Bragged about him endlessly. Bothered his friends with pictures, videos, and quotes. Yet, the Florida sun called, and the lake that lapped at Ronnie’s lawn was like an old college buddy who hadn’t given up the ghost, who constantly said, Come on, Ronnie. Let’s have fun.

  Still, Ronnie liked nice things. Especially things that made him look good. His Florida lake house was one. His cars another. His full head of red hair, his tan skin, and his athletic frame, too. And Adam. Yes. Despite the baggage, Ronnie couldn’t shut up about his boy. And he wouldn’t stop comparing him, either. What age was Tony when he started walking? Adam started before then. Jeremy drew that? Look at Adam’s drawing. It’s better. Good kid. Great kid. A little flighty, okay. Cries for Mommy on the days I have him, okay.

  Afraid of the dark in his bedroom at night.

  But aren’t they all?

  Ronnie was rich. Rich enough where the kitchen wall overlooking the lawn and lake was entirely glass. Rich enough that he could spend days on the lake, flirting with the women who boated, drinking ’til he blacked out, with no fear of work in the morning. There were people who were richer, but Ronnie was the richest of his friends. That meant something. To him it did. It was a great feeling, actually. Fucking fantastic. Most the time Ronnie felt fantastic. There wasn’t a holiday or reunion Ronnie didn’t look forward to. Why wouldn’t he? Every time everyone got together, Ronnie felt the glory, sporting, harmless, by way of his admiring friends. It felt good to be successful. Ronnie felt good.

  Halloween was one such holiday. So was Adam’s birthday. Both on the same day. Every year. And while Ronnie wanted to spend it drunk on the lake, a little love from his peers never hurt.

  “Over there,” Ronnie said, in shorts and sandals, standing on his deck, directing Ashley and her crew as to where to set up the tables, the props, the decorations. A lot went into being a good dad, especially if you wanted everyone to notice.

  Down in Florida, Halloween didn’t look much like it did in the movies. No colored leaves and crisp air. No sweatshirts over the costumes. No cloud of breath accompanying the words trick or treat. It was eighty degrees and sunny. And the lake in autumn kissed the lawn like it did at the height of summer.

  “Is Claire coming, Ronnie?”

  Ashley was asking. Ashley who had worked as Ronnie’s personal assistant for three ye
ars. Who knew Claire wasn’t coming, but asked it every time.

  “Naw.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  She stepped by him then, from the deck to the dark green grass, directing her crew as she went.

  Claire.

  Ronnie brought his drink to his mouth and smiled. His ex-wife was something else. Constantly haranguing him about being a better father, but never asking for Adam on his birthday.

  “It’s because she loves Halloween,” Ronnie said to nobody. A muscled man in a tight black shirt paused while hanging fake cobwebs in a tree, looked over his shoulder towards Ronnie on the deck. “She likes dressing up like a skank,” Ronnie said, cheering the crewmember, “while I provide the memories of a kid’s lifetime.”

  “You got a costume of your own, Mister Stern?”

  This from another guy in a black shirt.

  “Well, I’m not dressing up like a nurse, I can tell you that much.” Smiles from the crew. “But yeah. I’m game.”

  He pulled from his pocket a pair of Groucho Marx glasses, nose and mustache and brows attached. Placing the plastic on his face, securing it around his ears, he extended both arms, silently saying, See?

  The crew continued working. A speedboat passed fast across the lake. The echo of women laughing reached the deck.

  Claire, he thought. I could be out there right now, too.

  Ronnie would love it if Claire hosted one of these Halloween birthdays. Just once. That way he could stop in, make an appearance, play Dad for a couple hours, show off to some of her friends. He’d have time to get back home, here, play on the lake, make some magic happen. Halloween was the perfect day to pull up next to Lana Ann and her crew of half naked bombshells, ogle their costumes, offer them a joint, offer them a party.

  You know who didn’t wanna party? The parents of two-dozen five-year-olds.

  Maybe Claire knew that.

  “Hey, pal,” Ronnie called, gesturing to a man hanging a witch piñata from a low branch. “Let’s keep the center aisle open. A clear path to the dock.”