“Yeah,” Lenny said, knowing even then he was lying. “Sure.”
Walter’s face dissolved, morphed into Sheena’s.
He held it there in his mind a while before he realized it was a nineteen-year-old version of her, the only one Lenny had ever known.
For some reason, it had never before occurred to him that his visual memories of her were frozen in time and severely dated. Even prior to her death, that Sheena had been gone for years, transformed into a woman of nearly forty.
My God, where the hell had the time gone?
He wondered if she would’ve recognized the thirty-nine-year-old version of him. Did he really look that much different? He probably would to her. How could he not? Life changed everyone.
Lenny drove on, leaving the city behind.
* * * *
After nearly six excruciatingly monotonous hours, during which he covered parts of Connecticut and Massachusetts, Lenny finally arrived into New Hampshire. More than an hour later, he came across a large rest area which also housed a diner and an information center. Across the street was a small roadside motel. The diner was still open, so he pulled off for a pit stop. He’d not eaten all day, and hadn’t stretched his legs since a quick bathroom break he’d taken several hours before. According to his directions, he was still about thirty-odd minutes from his destination, a small rural community known as Trapper Woods.
The lot mostly consisted of eighteen-wheelers and other commercial vehicles, but there were a few cars as well. From the limited amount of traffic he’d encountered on the highway, Lenny was surprised to find the lot so busy.
He stepped from his vehicle, gathered his coat in around him and lit a cigarette. It had been chilly in New York, but the temperature here was significantly lower. If nothing else, after hours of watching endless stretches of dark highway passing beneath his hood, the cold helped clear his head. He took a few quick drags then flicked the cigarette away and strode across the dirt lot to the diner. A neon sign advertising the place illuminated the area enough so that Lenny could read the face of his wristwatch: 11:23.
He slipped inside. A burst of forced hot air greeted him along with the smells of brewing coffee and fried foods. Lenny sidled up to the counter, chose a stool then reached for a laminated menu stuck between two napkin dispensers. He glanced around. Formica and stainless steel everywhere, a grizzled short-order cook working furiously in an open kitchen just beyond a back counter, two waitresses jockeying plates of steaming food and numerous travelers and truckers huddled in booths along the counter area. Near a section to the right of the entrance, several video arcade games, pinball machines and vending machines lined the walls. Beyond them were restrooms. The sound of sizzling meats, utensils clanking plates, and a steady hum of voices filled the greasy air. All his years of acting had taught him to study things, to see things others might miss. A large part of being an artist meant studying the world—everyone and everything in it—with a keen eye, mindful to absorb and notice all that was playing out before him. All of it—any of it—could be used later, in his work. Lenny flipped open the menu. What used to be my work, he thought. Still, it was a hard habit to break.
One of the waitresses appeared before him, pad at the ready. Lenny ordered a turkey club and a coke then leaned on the counter and slowly panned his head back and forth, eyes casually moving from one person to the next.
Two truckers who seemed to know each other sat on stools a ways down the counter.
A middle-aged woman in a business suit sat in another booth, talking into a cell phone. She caught his stare and raised a disapproving eyebrow.
He looked away.
In another booth a man and his young son devoured cheeseburgers, thoroughly enjoying each other’s company. It struck Lenny as odd that the boy was still up at this late hour, but perhaps he and his father were traveling together or on their way home from some event and had decided to stop off for a bite to eat. Perhaps it was a special occasion that allowed for the boy to be up well past his bedtime. Maybe it’s his birthday too, Lenny thought. It made him think of times he and his father had gone out to eat, just the two of them. Those had been rare occasions, but memorable ones. His father had passed away a few years before, and he envied the little boy, sitting there so full of hope and innocence, having a burger with his dad.
As Lenny’s gaze moved beyond the end of the counter, he saw a man playing one of the pinball machines in the adjacent room. Tall and thin but powerfully built, the man was early twenties and dressed in black jeans, black boots, a black hooded sweatshirt and a black leather jacket. His black hair was thick and wavy but slicked straight back off his forehead, and he wore a perfectly groomed goatee. A pair of dark sunglasses hung from the neck of his sweatshirt, stuck there at some earlier point in the day and perhaps forgotten.
The waitress returned and slid a plate in front of him. His turkey club sandwich sat atop a mountain of thick onion rings sopping with grease. He could already feel the heartburn.
“Anything else, hon?”
“I’m headed to a town called Trapper Woods. Do you know if they have any decent motels there?”
“They don’t have any motels, isn’t but five hundred people in the whole town.” She pointed at the motel across the way. “That’s it right there.”
“How are the rooms?”
She smiled mischievously. “Now darlin’ what makes you think I’d have any idea?”
Lenny laughed, and rather than answer, took a quick bite of sandwich.
Still grinning, she moved away, but under her breath said, “Nothing special, but cheap and clean.”
* * * *
It was an apt description. The room was small and boxy, with low ceilings, inexpensive carpeting and cheap wood paneling on the walls. A television that looked like something out of the 1970s was bolted to a table against one wall, and a rickety bed was pushed against another. A pressboard nightstand held a lamp and a telephone, and the bathroom, though also dated, was tidy and clean.
The only mirror in the room was a full-length model attached to the back of the door, which made looking in that direction without seeing himself impossible. At first he’d stood before it a while, looking at his reflection like he’d never seen it before. But it had nothing to do with narcissism. His reflection worried him. He switched on the TV, kicked off his shoes and climbed onto the bed. The mattress was thin but adequate, if not wholly comfortable, and it felt good to stretch out and relax after so many hours in the car.
A local channel was showing the classic film The African Queen, so he watched that a while. But soon, his mind wandered and his eyes drifted off to the watermarked ceiling and all the cracks and lines traversing the plaster overhead.
He rolled off the bed, went to the door and flipped open his cell. The push of a button led him to his voicemail, and a second selection played the message his mother had left for him earlier. Though he’d already listened to it once, he felt the need to do so again.
“Happy Birthday, sweetheart, it’s Mom.”
Lenny smiled. He loved the way his mother always identified herself when she left him a message. As if otherwise he’d have no idea who she was.
“Sorry I missed you. Did you get the card I sent? I’m sure you and Tabitha have plans, just wanted to let you know I love you. Happy Birthday.”
He played it again as his eyes filled with tears.
She’d be all right, he assured himself. Besides, it was better to let her think he was out somewhere celebrating.
He snapped the phone shut and pulled the curtain back enough so he could look out the window to the lot beyond. The diner was still open but nearly empty now. A set of headlights passed along the highway and were gone, returning the road to darkness.
The phone rang, startling him. He checked the ID on his cell. Tabitha. Christ. Nearly one in the morning, she’d be in rough shape by now. “Hey Tab.”
A muffled cough, and then: “Lenny?”
“Yeah, you OK?”
Heavy breathing and what may have been quiet sobbing.
“Tab, are you all right?”
“Happy Birthday, baby,” she said, voice badly slurred. “Happy…”
“You need to go to sleep, OK?”
“Happy Birthday, I…”
“It’s OK, time to get some rest now. You’ll feel better in the morning.”
“Just…Happy Birthday, OK?”
“OK. Thanks.”
“Where are you?”
“New Hampshire. In a motel.”
“Are you with that girl? That girlfriend you had, that—”
“Sheena? For God’s sake, she’s dead.”
“I know you, I know what you’re doing you fucking liar!”
Lenny rubbed his eyes, hoping it might slow the headache he could already feel pulsing in his temples. “If you keep drinking like this—”
“Fuck you!”
“Yeah OK, I gotta go. Hang up and go to sleep.”
“I can’t sleep,” she said, voice calmer now but still trembling.
“Turn off the light and put your head on the pillow. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“I’m scared. I’m having bad dreams, Lenny.”
“There’s nothing to be scared of.”
“They’re about you. They’re scaring me.”
“They’re just dreams.”
“You’re dead in the dreams, Lenny.” She began to cry. “You’re bleeding.”
An icy finger tickled his neck. “You had a nightmare, that’s all.”
“You were bleeding.”
“I’m not bleeding. Now go to sleep.”
She sniffled then coughed again. “I love you.”
“I know you do.”
“Do you still love me too?”
He cleared his throat, forced a swallow. “Yes.”
“You mean it?”
“Yes, I mean it.”
“Lenny, are you coming back?”
He pictured her sitting up in bed, nude, barely conscious and struggling to hold the phone to her ear; empty vodka bottles lying around, the ashtray on the nightstand overflowing with spent butts, her eyeliner smudged and smeared across her cheeks and her hair a tangled mess. And on her knee, that horrible scar. “Yes,” he said, biting his bottom lip like this might somehow exempt him if his answer turned out to be a lie. “But not for a few days. I’ll call you tomorrow. Hang up and go to sleep.”
Tabitha muttered something unintelligible and the line went dead.
He placed the phone on the nightstand, and turned toward the bed.
Something dark darted past the corner of his eye.
Terrified, Lenny spun around, hands raised defensively.
He’d fully expected to see an intruder standing there, but it was only his reflection in the mirror on the back of the door, silent and staring at him from the shadows.
For a moment, the reflection held his attention.
And then he looked away.
* * * *
Nothing made sense. It was all backwards and distorted. Unclean and depraved, he could feel their presence there in the room with him. With sight and sound out of synch, his eyes strained through the darkness toward strange patterns gliding along the ceiling and floor.
Terror took hold, strangling him like a helpless child.
There’s something there, I—I see it…something…moving.
His mouth opened, but he couldn’t speak.
Help me…what is that, what—what is that?
Visions of Sheena burst through the darkness and those things creeping within it, winding through his head like runaway film, burning, blistering, popping and coming apart, psychedelic dreams dissolved by the heat of a light bulb.
Sitting on old cement steps, a stack of books in her lap, her head turned away, eyes looking sadly at the dusty wall, the worn floor, or maybe nothing at all, Sheena seemed to see everything but him.
Lenny knew this scene, remembered it well. He knew, for example, that he’d stepped closer, and the shadow he cast had finally caught her attention. He also remembered how she looked up at him with a coy smile. Painfully innocent but with a hint of mischief, her smile shook him, left him unsure of what to say. All he could think to do was wink at her, like they shared some profound secret.
Sheena winked back. Their secret was safe with her.
He crouched before her just as she reached into her jacket pocket and came back holding a ballpoint pen. Their eyes remained locked throughout… even when her smile transformed into something hideously demonic….even when she nonchalantly turned her hand palm-up and stabbed the pen down into her exposed forearm, ripping it free only to slam it into her mangled flesh again and again…even as blood pooled in her wounds and sprayed her neck and face.
An intricate web of whispers lured him from the visions and back to the darkness of the motel room…or something similar.
“All your idols turn to sand.”
The murmur from the shadows next to the bed sounded like countless voices layered one atop the other to form an eerie echo of foul whispers. As one voice trailed off to silence another slithered past, thousands of snakes hissing from a nearby nest, the sighs of ancient demons hot against his face.
Guilt…regret…sorrow…fear…anger…tears…it only made them stronger.
Lenny’s back arched but he was otherwise paralyzed, arms out straight and legs stiff as if in seizure. Mouth open and drooling, his eyes remained wide, bloodshot and glistening in the darkness.
God help me! Please, I—I can’t breathe, I can’t—
“Your gods are false.”
A noise crackled faintly in his ears.
Like leaves crunching beneath someone’s feet, Lenny thought.
“Not leaves,” the unseen whispered. “Bones.”
* * * *
After a night of sporadic sleep plagued with hellish nightmares, Lenny was relieved to see morning come. His body ached like he’d been up digging graves all night. Perhaps he had been. A slight headache still tingled along his temples, and though a hot shower helped quell the muscle pain, it did little to relieve the headache. The strange dreams had been reduced now to mere flashes—bits and pieces of some larger lost whole—but much of the imagery still clung to him, a residue left behind from some other place and time.
The memories of Sheena had always been part of his life, but generally he managed to keep them bound and in the background. This latest glut of memories and dreams—one often indistinguishable from the other—had begun six months before when Lenny first learned of Sheena’s death. Of late, they’d become more severe, but he’d never experienced anything like he had the night before. It was almost as if the closer he got to the last place Sheena had been alive the more powerful and jarring they became.
Not long after sunrise, he was back on the road.
3
Lenny sped along the winding country road, watching for street signs but finding only mile upon mile of dense forest looming on either side of him. He’d followed his directions to the appropriate exit for Trapper Woods but had yet to see another car or any hint of civilization since. He was just about to consult his directions again when he saw an aged sign on the side of the road emerge from the forest up ahead.
TRAPPER WOODS, est. 1782.
Lenny slowed the car.
Finally, just around a bend in the road, the beginnings of a town.
He bore to the right, following another sign—this one for Main Street—and continued directly onto a charming little boulevard. Quaint as a postcard, the sidewalks were immaculate and the buildings meticulously maintained. Rather than chain stores, generic architecture or fast food restaurants, Trapper Woods commercial district, such as it was, consisted instead of modest rustic buildings sitting on square manicured lawns all arranged in a tidy row. Small independent businesses dominated the area, and just beyond lay an attractive town square, complete with benches, a public park and a small fountain. At its center stood the statue of a
grizzled frontiersman straight out of a James Fenimore Cooper novel, a musket clutched in his hands and a coonskin hat atop his head.
Located on a nearby street set back on a large hill in the distance, he saw a post office, town hall and a library. All looked like historical structures from another era that had been restored and refurbished over the years. If Trapper Woods had its own police and fire departments, they were apparently located elsewhere in town, as Lenny saw no evidence of either.
He pulled into a vacant parking space and considered his surroundings a moment. Traffic was practically nonexistent, and he counted only three people strolling along the street. This place was the absolute antithesis of the congested, noisy traffic and hordes of human waves surging across Manhattan sidewalks he was used to, and all things considered, maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.
Lenny stepped from the car into the brutal cold and hurried across the street to a lawyer’s office at the corner.
Once through the door, he found himself in a nondescript reception area.
A middle-aged woman behind a desk looked up over half-glasses and smiled. “Good morning, can I help you?”
“Morning,” Lenny said, noticing she was wearing long white gloves despite being indoors. He tried not to look at her hands; maybe she had a skin condition or something similar. “I’m Leonard Cates here to see Mr. Kinney.”
The woman removed her glasses, put aside the paperwork she’d been attending to and reached for a telephone on the corner of her desk. “One moment, please.” She relayed the information into the phone then hung up and motioned to three comfortable chairs along the side wall. “Mr. Kinney will be with you momentarily.”
“Thank you.” He removed his gloves and scarf.
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