People of the Dark

by Wright, T. M.

  He hit the ground, sat for an instant, then thudded backwards, hand still at his nose. An "Uh!" came out of him, followed by a muffled "Fuck!"

  I stepped forward, reached to help him up, straightened. Nearby, John said, "Hey, good one."

  "Yes," I whispered, "wasn't it?" And I walked quickly back to my house and locked the doors.

  The house was cold, the kind of cold that slides over the skin and pushes into the pores. It even smelled cold, like a freezer that needs defrosting. I went into the dining room, turned the thermostat up, heard the furnace kick on, felt momentarily grateful for that small distraction.

  "Jack?" I heard distantly, from the second floor. "Is that you?" It was Erika's voice. "It's your turn to cook tonight, Jack."

  CHAPTER FOUR

  She was at the top of the stairs. She was wearing blue jeans, a cream-colored long-sleeved blouse, the wristwatch I'd bought her for Christmas three years earlier. And when I looked at her from the bottom of the stairs, she smiled and said again, "It's your turn to make supper tonight, Jack." It was well lighted there, where she was standing. I could see that the left-hand sleeve of her blouse was unbuttoned; it caught my eye because she was holding that arm up, elbow bent, and she was idly rubbing her cheek.

  I said her name of course, a low and incredulous whisper, and she cocked her head to the right, looked bemused, and asked, "What's wrong, Jack?" She noticed her blouse was unbuttoned then, and began buttoning it with her right hand. "I'll be down in a few minutes." She disappeared into the bedroom.

  I screamed her name. Once. Then again, halfway up the stairs, and again, softer, as I entered the bedroom. I was aware that a quivering, disbelieving smile was on my lips. "Erika?" I hesitated, said it again, "Erika," glanced about, saw the rocking chair, the unmade bed, the tall, dark chest of drawers. "Erika?" I said once more. I looked into the open closet; I stepped into it. "Erika?" I swept my arm into the clothes hanging there, said loudly, "Erika?" I swept the clothes to the floor; I screamed, "Erika!"

  It was several hours before I left the bedroom. I spent some time mumbling her name. I spent some time hunched forward in the rocking chair, my fists clenched in front of me, my head down. And I spent some time weeping, a lot of time weeping. Then I sat back in the chair, put my head back, and whispered her name. I wasn't calling to her anymore; I was admitting how much a part of me she was and how much a part of the house she was. At last, mid-afternoon sunlight broke into the room and I pushed myself out of the chair and went downstairs to pre-pare the dinner. I found spinach and garlic pasta in the cupboard, which pleased me, and a large can of Italian-style tomato paste, which makes an excellent sauce. The house had warmed up considerably, so I turned the thermostat down. I hesitated, went to the stairway, and called tentatively, "Erika?" waited a moment, got no reply, went into the kitchen and made a lavish dinner. I prepared the table lovingly. I set two places, of course. I put some daffodils that I'd found just outside the kitchen door in a vase in the center of the table. I put candles on the table, too, on either side of the vase, and lit them. I ladled out the pasta, the sauce, the salad. I stepped back, congratulated myself. Then I turned my head slightly. "It's ready, Erika," I called.

  And I sat. And waited.

  She loved the meals I prepared, was always on time for them, so there was a clear purpose in waiting, but even as I waited (and I waited a long time—until the pasta got cold and the salad went limp), I asked myself if I was really doing something rational. I supposed that I wasn't. I supposed that I was merely putting time off, that waiting at the dinner table was a kind of timeless thing.

  But I wasn't sure I wanted her to come to dinner. I didn't know who she was; she was playing games. She'd played games with Will, and now she was playing them with me, and I started asking myself just how she'd conned me into sharing my life with her.

  I even said at one point while I waited, "Goddamnit, Erika, will you cut the horsing around!"

  She did not come to dinner. I ate both plates of cold pasta, both limp salads, snuffed out the candles, and went into the living room to sleep.

  It was dusk, almost 7:00. The big window in the living room faced west, so the view I had from the couch was warm and comforting. I said to myself, "There can be no trouble on a day that ends like this." It was simple and untrue, and it wrapped me up and made me feel good.

  "Are you in the house, Erika?" I said. "Where are you? Are you hiding? Don't hide. Come down; we'll talk." I paused. "I want to know you, I need to know you."

  The view I had out that window was panoramic. It took in the front yard, the road, all of the mountain beyond. I could see the path that led to Martin's house, too, and I could see someone on it, a man, I supposed, because of the way he walked—arms swinging casually, legs stiff. He wore dark pants and a short-sleeved white shirt. It didn't come to me that it was the young man I'd seen in Martin's living room until he had reached my driveway and had started up it.

  We have a number of spotlights on the house. When they're all burning, the place looks like a carnival.

  The young man was partway up the driveway when I switched the front light on. It seemed to take him by surprise. He held his arm up to shield his eyes and I could see that there wasn't much left of his arm, only half of it perhaps, laterally, down its length. Then he put his arm down and I watched as he made his way to the front storm door. I heard him push on it several times. I heard it open, heard him walk across the porch, knock on the front door.

  I called, "What do you want?"

  "Hello?" he called.

  "What do you want?" I repeated.

  "Is someone home?" He knocked again.

  "Go away!"

  "Could I talk to someone, please? Is someone home? I need to talk to someone."

  I said nothing. I went to the window that looks out on the porch, bent over, looked through a space in the inside shutters. He was in partial darkness on the porch. The spotlight was illuminating the back of his shirt, some of the back of his head. I saw his arm go up, saw him knock again. "Is someone in the house, please? Could I talk to someone in the house?"

  I called spontaneously, surprising myself, my gaze still on him, "What are you doing here?"

  He turned his head so the spotlight lit the side of his face; he saw me, called back, "Oh," as if surprised. "Hi. Am I bothering you? Could I talk to you? Could I talk to someone in the house?" He smiled. "I need to talk to someone in the house." It was not a good smile. Much of the side of his face was gone, in a ragged vertical line from the middle of his cheek to what had once been the back of his head. Without that, his smile would have been pleasant and good-natured, and I thought that lots of doors had been probably coaxed open by it.

  "No," I said, my voice low.

  His smile increased, so the edge of it was lost in the darkness at the side of his head. "I have an offer for you, Mr. . . . Mr. . . ."

  "Please," I said, my voice still low. I couldn't bring it up much past the level of a whisper. "Go away."

  "I have an offer for you. I have an offer for you, sir."

  I was stuck on that spot, of course, at the window, and I could feel that I was starting to hyperventilate; I forced myself to take a long, slow breath.

  The young man rattled on, "I have an offer for you, sir."

  "Do you?" I whispered.

  "Sorry?" he said.

  "Do you?" I repeated.

  "I do. I have an offer for you. Open the door, please." I saw movement behind him, between the porch and the little stream to the south of the house—a slow and graceful kind of movement that came and went quickly. "I have an offer for you, sir." His voice was high-pitched, and scarred, as if his vocal cords were in the process of shredding.

  I yelled at him, "Get out of here, goddamnit; get off my property—I don't want you here!"

  Someone was singing to the south of the house. An aria from Carmen.

  "Land is your best investment, sir," said the young man on the porch. His voice sounded very bad now. It so
unded like sheet metal being torn.

  "Nothing is quite so precious as the land, sir. It nourishes us, gives us pleasure, so why don't we grab a piece of it, sir." He paused meaningfully. "I represent Dominion Properties, of Colorado, sir. My card." He put his fingers into his shirt pocket, brought them out, empty, held them up. "My card." He smiled yet again, but the edge of his smile was gone now; it had vanished into the darkness that was pushing forward from the back of his head, up his arms and his legs. He put his fingers back into his shirt pocket. His smile vanished. He took his fingers from his pockets, turned back to the door, knocked on it. "I would like to speak to someone in the house," he called. "I need to speak . . ." His voice stopped. His lips continued moving, but his voice stopped, and I could see that jagged darkness overtaking him.

  Sarah said, They sprang from the earth, Jack. Like the trees did. And the mushrooms. And the azaleas.

  The earth conjured them up, Martin said. Just like your mother and father conjured you up. And now they are going back to the earth. It's all very simple. They're going back into the earth.

  I stepped away from the window. I heard quick shuffling noises on the porch. I whispered, "Go away! Damnit, go away!" The shuffling noises stopped. I heard distantly, to the south of the house, bits and pieces of Carmen, and from above, from the bedroom Erika and I shared, I heard someone moving about quickly and fitfully.

  I remember pulling the front door open. I remember hesitating on the porch, though very briefly, just long enough to see that the young man had backed himself into a corner where Erika kept a rake, a shovel, a large bag of grass seed, and I could see that he had fallen there and was sitting on the grass seed. He was in darkness, so I didn't see much, only that he'd raised his hand, that he was trying desperately to pull himself up; I could hear slight, soft brushing noises, too, and I guessed it was his shirt brushing against the aluminum siding behind him.

  I remember backing away from him to the screen door. It always stuck when it was opened, and because he had pushed it open, it had stayed open. I remember turning, hesitating again at the top of the porch steps, listening, hearing nothing at all for several moments. "Erika?" I whispered. A car sped past down Hunt's Hollow Road.

  "Jack?" I heard. It was Erika's voice.

  I muttered several low curses. Then I ran to my Toyota, fumbled for the keys in my pocket, cursed again because I was sitting on them and had to do a number of contortions to get at them.

  I turned the ignition key and looked back at the house all in the same breath. I saw a female figure at our window. The bedroom light was on behind her, so all I could see of her was her dark outline against the light. I rolled my window down. I stared at her for several seconds. "I love you, Erika, I do love you," I whispered. "But, my God, you're scaring the hell out of me."

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Near the beginning of Hunt's Hollow Road, where it branches to the north and south—Cohocton is south—Knebel flagged me down. He was walking his aged German Shepherd, Hans, on a short, black leash, much like the leashes blind people use, and was carrying a small suitcase.

  I pulled up next to him, put the parking brake on because I was pointing downhill, and rolled the window down. Knebel leaned over and grinned at me. I recoiled from the odor of the little cigars he smoked.

  "Jack," he said, still grinning, "we got trouble in Cohocton tonight. Got lots of people leaving Cohocton tonight."

  "I have trouble of my own, Knebel," I said.

  He didn't hear me. I'd said it at a very low whisper. "I didn't hear you, Jack," he said.

  I tried again. "Goddamnit, Knebel," I said, and my voice gurgled higher as I said it, "I've got trouble of my own!"

  "Can I get in? We'll talk." He didn't wait for an answer. He went around to the passenger side, opened the door, shooed Hans into the backseat, and got into the front, with his suitcase on his lap. He was still grinning. "People," he said, "standing by themselves, in the dark." He lifted his hands, swept them wide; his right hand hit the passenger window. "Everywhere, Jack." I heard Hans groaning in the backseat. "Everywhere," he repeated, and swept his arms wide again, hit the window once more; a little "Ouch!" came from him. He held his fingers up close to his face. "Turn the light on, Jack." I turned the over-head light on. He studied his fingers a moment, glanced around at Hans, said, "No, Hans, not now!" and looked at me again. "Jack," he began.

  I cut in, "I don't have time for you tonight, Knebel."

  His grin reappeared. "No one's got time for Knebel, and I understand that. Knebel's old, and Knebel's feeble"—his grin strengthened—"and Knebel's not playing with a full deck, as the saying goes, but this time Knebel knows, and I'll tell you what Knebel knows—"

  I reached past him and pushed the door open. "Out," I said. "I don't have time for you tonight; I have problems of my own."

  His grin vanished. "I'll tell you what Knebel knows, Jack. He knows that there's trouble in Cohocton tonight, and so he's getting out. Lots of people are getting out. Because the trouble's just started." He got out of the car, leaned over, pushed the seat forward. "C'mon, Hans," he said. Hans had been licking himself; he continued licking himself. "C'mon, Hans!" Knebel said again, more forcefully, reached in, grabbed Hans's leash, and yanked hard on it. A little squeal came from Hans, and he reluctantly got out of the car. Knebel slammed the door. I took the emergency brake off. Knebel leaned over. "Hey, Jack?"

  I looked at him. "Yes?"

  He gave me the finger, quick and hard. "Fuck you, Jack!"

  I drove to the bottom of the hill and turned north, away from the center of Cohocton.

  I saw a man jogging soon after I made the turn. I had seen him before. I had even stopped to talk to him once. He wore yellow running shorts tonight, a white T-shirt, blue sneakers, and as I passed him I glanced quickly at him. I saw that much of his face was gone and most of his chest, too, I guessed, because the T-shirt described a large and ragged pit there. And as I glanced at him I saw a young woman in a long coat leave her house, a little blonde girl beside her, also dressed in a long coat. The young woman saw the jogger and stood bolt upright, put her arm around the little girl, then hurried her toward an ancient Ford wagon parked in the driveway.

  I stopped the car, looked back. I saw the jogger stumble, saw him fall face first, saw him try pathetically to push himself up in the roadway.

  And beyond him, in the village, dozens of people were hurrying stiffly from place to place, from the bank to one of the five hardware stores, to that bizarre little clothing store, to their cars, from here to there and back again, without so much as a nod to one another, as if they were doing something that was necessary, even desperately necessary, but very unpleasant, too.

  I saw the woman and little girl get into the Ford; I saw it back out of the driveway.

  And I saw the jogger give one great heave upward with his arms, get himself up several inches, pause, push again, get himself up another few inches. And collapse. I looked away.

  Moments later the Ford roared past me, out of Cohocton.

  I sat quietly in the car for several minutes, my hands hard on the wheel, my head shaking nervously. The dusk turned quickly to darkness, and when I glanced in the rearview mirror, I saw a slight black swelling in the road where the jogger's body was. Beyond it, in the village—lighted by a half-dozen yellow street lamps—I saw that people still were coming and going very quickly, very purposefully, some with their heads down. I turned back. Several hundred feet in front of me, at an IGA store Erika and I used, people carried bags of groceries to their cars, then went back for more.

  I heard the wail of Cohocton's volunteer ambulance after a few moments. In the rearview mirror the ambulance's pulsating red light appeared distantly. I watched as the ambulance approached the spot where the jogger's body was, then slowed, the siren winding down like a top. That's when Knebel tapped on my window with the end of Hans's leash and scared the hell out of me.

  "Jesus!" I reached over, opened the door.

  He did
as he'd done before. He shooed Hans into the backseat, climbed into the front, grinned. "You been watchin' what's been goin' on here, Jack?"

  "Christ," I said.

  "Yes, you have. I can tell." He nodded backwards to indicate the town. "And you been watchin' what's goin' on there, have ya?"

  "Yes," I managed.

  He nodded sagely. "Some of these people around here are nuts, Jack, though I guess you figured that out for yourself. But they're not so nuts that they're gonna try and share their town with a bunch of spooks." He let out a grisly little chuckle. "Know how long I been here, Jack? I been here, in Cohocton, for fifty-five years. And that's a long damned time to be in one damned place, believe me; long enough, in fact, to see lots of things come and go. And come again." He turned in the seat, looked out the back window. I looked in the rearview mirror. In the lights from the ambulance, the body of the jogger—what was left of it—was being put on a stretcher. "Like that one there," Knebel said.

  "I don't understand."

  "Like that one there," he repeated. "Like that jogger. He's been here before."

  I nodded grimly. "Yes. I know. I've seen him a couple of times."

  Knebel shook his head. "That's not what I mean, Jack. That's not what I mean at all. I mean, I seen him ten years ago, and I seen him twenty years ago, and I seen him thirty years ago."

  The ambulance turned its siren on once more, made a wide U-turn, headed back the way it had come.

  "Along with some of the others. Like your wife. They come and they go; they come and they go."