Yeah. Jimmy was a little more than 7 years older than me. Mom and Dad had only planned on one kid because of all the problems mom had had giving birth to Jimmy. But, she told me when I was maybe 5—and Jim had gotten real angry when she said it—that I had been an accident.
I suppose mom was always a bit nuts. Jimmy’s death made it all even worse.
After several checkmates, while mom set up a game of monopoly, I went in the kitchen to thaw some cat food from the freezer. While the seconds ticked away on the microwave, the wind gibbered. I heard the tinkling of icicles and an odd shimmering noise that I wasn’t familiar with, almost like a shriek but higher in tone. It gave me that sickening fluttery feeling in my guts. I don’t think mom heard it, but the cats did. Dusty emitted a low growl and ran for the basement stairs. Mom’s grow-room was down there for her award-winning Begonias. Mom also grew pot to help her nerves—especially after Jimmy died, but she was actually more enthusiastic about those damned Begonias. The room was kept at a constant, nearly tropical temperature, and the cats loved it, especially when it was so damned cold outside. I left Dusty’s bowl at the top of the stairs. She’d come get it when she was hungry enough.
I desperately wanted to peek out the back door as I heard another of those high-pitched screams. The shimmering shriek weirdly enough reminded me of the supposed call of a Sasquatch. Imagine someone putting a loon, a balloon with the air being let out, and a laughing hyena into a zip-lock bag to macerate for an hour. The result would be that sound. Mom came in to get a new cup and saw me with my hand on the doorknob.
“Jason, are you kidding me? Get away from there and remember what happened last time.” She grabbed me around the shoulders, wheeling me around to face her. Her eyes were watering and her lip quivered.
“I just wanted to see if it was as bad as it sounds. With everything closed up, how do we know there’s not just a few inches out there? It’s probably sounding worse—”
“Bring this inside,” she handed me the ornate St. Germaine bottle and her empty cup. “I’ll bring in some noshes and we’ll start our next game. I’m going to try your dad.”
She was ignoring me again. My mother usually did that when she a) couldn’t handle what was in front of her or b) couldn’t focus enough to actually pay attention to what I was saying. My mom wasn’t a person for complexities. When I was 12 and told her that I had considered becoming a priest—but in the order of the Golden Dawn because I had read a comic book about Aleister Crowley and thought the Order was damned cool—my mother got that deflated, dead sound to her voice, and started telling me about some recipe she saw on Food TV.
“Can I put on the news?” I asked.
“Maybe later, after I talk to your father,” she said, her face deeply lined. “I’ve got some of that spinach and artichoke dip that I told you I saw made. It looked so simple and I know you like spinach, so let me get some chips and stuff to go with and I’ll be out in a bit. Why don’t you just set up one of the boards?”
I wasn’t a fan of the news. I never liked putting on the television with mom around—unless I was watching something specific. The drone of newscasters was a sure-fire way to set off one of mom’s “The World is Going to End in a Socialist Reign of Terror” speeches. I had snuck a few moments of the Weather Channel earlier in the day when I knew mom was downstairs with the Begonias, but without Dad home—and without Jim around any more—I pretty much steered clear of the television when I was with mom alone. It wasn’t worth the hassle, and as far as I knew it, I was the only 14-year-old who wasn’t addicted to television.
The very fact that she said we could watch it later told me fuck the spinach dip, she was going to visit the grow room for something else green, peep in on the begonias, and try to ring my dad’s cell again.
Sitting in the living room, trying to figure out which game I wanted to play, I listened. By sound alone it was bad outside.
About 15 minutes after the cloud of green emanated up from the small ventilation grate in the floor behind the couch, mom began screeching. Running down the basement stairs, I found her huddled at the base of the steps, her left hand clenched white-knuckled, her head cradled down into her right elbow. The telephone and ashtray were in a tumbled mess at her feet, seeds, ash, and several AA batteries strewn about her.
“Mom? The spinach dip’s done.” I crept up to her as I would a cornered cat. She shrieked and chittered. I made eye contact as soon as she raised her head. I came forward enough to touch her but didn’t yet, and, as Dr. Jacobson told me, I was sure to give her the slow, careful blink. As I waited for her to return the blink, I rambled a bit about the dip and the baguette lying on the counter that was waiting to be sliced. She sat up, shaking out her arms, she stretched. In a feline movement, she blinked long and slow.
“The phone’s out. No call. Can’t reach dad.” She stood up in a fluid movement, stepping over the scattered seeds, ash, and batteries, starting up the stairs. “Come help me with the bread.”
“Let me get these before the cats get ‘em.” I said, scooping up her seeds. I noticed her left hand was still clenched. “Mom, what’ve you got there?” I shook out my own hand and she looked down.
“Oh, funny. That hurts.” She opened her hand to reveal a crushed roach, the clip burned into her palm. I held out the ashtray to her and she dropped the mangled marijuana into it before going upstairs. Grabbing a small dust-bin and broom, I swept the seeds into a small pill bottle I was saving her discarded seeds in. I kept it tucked in a small cubby over the lintel. When I had a fair number of seeds, during the spring and summer, I walked around the wilder-lands of Staten Island and sowed pot. In the fields, glens, meadows, old parking lots, and even in our neighbor Mrs. Molinari’s backyard, I tossed handfuls of marijuana seeds. Mom had been smoking for years, even before Jimmy—and he was the first one to get the idea after we had learned about Johnny Appleseed in school. He wanted to be known as Jimmy Potseed.
Dip, bread, games—the hours went by quicker than I had realized. But, the winds were decidedly getting worse.
It was a little before 9 and the house shuddered. I was in a serious spot—trying to figure out if I had enough cash to purchase Mount Doom—when the lights flickered.
Mom stood up, knocking the board and pieces everywhere. Gandalf landed in what was left of the spinach and artichoke dip. The One Ring flipped through the air and hit Dusty square in the back of her little, grey head, as she sat up, human-like, in the recliner.
There was no time to retrieve the wayward game pieces. The lights went out and mom screamed. I fumbled for the matches and lit the candles we had sprinkled around the room. Mom rocked herself backwards and forwards on her feet and swung her arms. She looked like she was warming up for the November marathon.
CRACK. WHUMP. CREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK.
It was followed by a huge thump of what sounded like a tree limb hitting the house and one of those high-pitched, loon-balloon-hyena shrieks.
Mom’s rocking turned into definite jogging. She reminded me of Joan of Arc doing calisthenics in Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure.
“Get your Go Bag. To your room!” she cried. It was like a bad cartoon.
CREEEEEEEEEEEEEEUMP. THUMP. CRACKLE.
“Room! Bag! Now!”
I grabbed Dusty as mom snatched up a candle behind me. I scrambled up the stairs, figuring Patty would be okay in that closet or in the grow-room or wherever she had gotten herself to.
The house shuddered around us again. I heard creaking from beneath the stairs. It was like an earthquake.
“Room! Bag! Now!” Mom rallied again, but she hadn’t moved and was standing in the hallway. She picked up an ornate blue flowerpot decked out with moons, stars, and raised spirals from off the hall table. It housed a most beloved bunch of Begonias. Crushing it to her chest, she hugged it harder than I ever remember her hugging me since Jimmy.
CREEEEEEEEEUMP. THUMP.
A heavy loud thud sounded overhead. I was rooted to the spot just
outside my bedroom door, mesmerized. I felt a cold creep inside my stomach. Dusty growled and spit at me, clawing my arm to escape, but I held onto her.
“Room! Bag! Now!” Mom’s mantra faded. Was she going in the basement? I scurried into my room, slamming the door, tossing the cat onto the bottom, superfluous bunk as I dove inside the blankets wishing I hadn’t decided I was too old for those make shift blanket forts I used to build with Jimmy.
The shudders outside were followed by more of those shrieks.
Calls. Like the Ringwraiths—only bigger, deeper. Ringwraiths meet Frost Giants. I hunkered down, waiting for mom to come upstairs.
She never did.
I never did see my mother again. Had I known the last image I was going to have of her was her hugging that fucking begonia, I wouldn’t have listened to her. I wouldn’t have run up to my room like a scared baby. I would have done something. Something more. Something different.
But then, through the reinforced steel of the shutters, despite the fact that most of the simple storm sounds had been kept out, there were pained whisperings. Mom?
I realized—mom had the candle. It was darker than dark in that room when I peered around the covers.
The whispering became deeper. Dad?
It took on a lighter, breathier tone. I couldn’t make out the words. Then some of the syllables sounded like actual words—but almost in a language I couldn’t understand.
Then I heard it. Jimmy’s lisp. He never was good at saying Rs. They always came out rubbery and his Ss sounded like strangled snakes. But, I heard him speaking to something. His incomprehensible sounds were answered by one of those high-pitched loon-balloon-hyena shrieks.
The shriek shaped itself from a void, empty sound into a single word: “Jason.”
It called my name three times and I felt the bedsheets around me puddle into a hot, wet mess. My hands clenched the blankets and the cat yowled a quick mangled cry which was cut off abruptly. I heard a soft shuffle. Tap. Scratch.
The shutters clanged. I heard a bolt being drawn back.
To say my heart was racing and pounding and galloping in my chest would be a clichéd misunderstanding. I felt a deep pain every time I breathed and I was convinced I was having, at 14 years of age, a heart attack. The dark room became darker. My face quivered and I don’t remember anything for a while. Maybe it was a stroke.
When I came to a while later, the smell of urine was accompanied by the squelchy smell of ripe shit. I felt like that scene in Trainspotting that everyone fast-forwards through. Ok—so my taste in movies goes beyond Justin-fucking-Bieber. Thank Christ.
CREEEEEEEEEEEEUMP. THUMP. TAP RAT TAP TAT TAP RAP TAP.
The roof shook. There weren’t any more whispers. I poked my head out from the blankets.
Light slipped into the room from a very small space between the shutters and the windowsill. I didn’t hear any wind. It had to be daytime.
I tried jumping out of bed like a kid on Christmas morning, but instead of unwrapping presents, I’d be unfastening shutters in my anticipation of seeing the neighborhood boys and girls making snow angels, building snowmen, and having snowball fights.
But, my right side wouldn’t move. My hand was curled into a tight ball. It took a decade for me to pull myself into a sitting position. I began rocking and tried hurling myself over the edge of the bed a few times. My right foot kept getting caught in the railing. I would have been relieved if it had been painfully caught—but it was completely dead, like a lump of ice.
Finally, on the sixth try, I tumbled over the edge, landed partially on a pile of blankets, dirty clothes, and a tangle of extra pillows. My head splintered on the edge of the bed frame. I felt a warm cascade down the left side of my neck. Who knew if it was cascading down my right side. I reached around and felt a stickiness. The light wasn’t strong enough to see coloration, but my left hand came away darker. I felt woozy. Blood, piss, shit—what’s next? Snow?
At least that would wash away some of the stink. I had the sudden urge to go home. Then I realized I was home.
If my throat was capable of swallowing properly I probably would have vomited.
I managed, carefully, methodically, ploddingly, to drag myself over to the windows. I lugged myself up onto the formless sofa-like chair that was supposed to be a replica of a large sushi hand-roll, but looked like a pink amoeba with black lining—mom had gotten it from some blow-out, super-saver catalogue of Chinese knock-off imports. And, after what had to be about 75 years, I manipulated my body enough to open one side of the closest set of shutters.
For some reason the bolts had already been opened.
I flung the one shutter open with such force it clanged against the wall and I fell out of the sushi chair.
I was met with the blinding brilliance of a warm mid-morning sun. After being in such darkness, my eyes cried and stung, the tears choking me for a few moments. Coughing was difficult.
The room wasn’t in complete sunlight, however. There was something partly obscuring the sky above. At first I thought it was my ruined right eye. Not only was my right side useless deadweight, but my right eye was totally unfocused. I guess it was blinded for real and true—except I saw blurs of color instead of dark.
Flopping my head up from where I lay on the floor I could see what was blocking the sky. It was an icy white lip of frozen snow hanging over the gutter by about 3 feet. It extended beyond either end of my view from inside the window. As my eyes began to focus the source of the tapping began to reveal itself. My sight traced from the frozen lip to find several long thick needle like icicles protruding along the length. They were less like needles upon further examination and looked more and more like great swords—or teeth, or fangs. Each of the long ones were separated by several shorter dagger like icicles of various lengths. They were angled right at my window, mere inches from where my face had been while I clambered to open the shutter a few moments earlier.
Snow Fangs?
Upon that thought the frozen lip hanging over the roof gutters began to quiver and shake, and the sliding, shifting, tapping shudders began again just behind me, beyond the edges of my room. The frozen lip and fangs began to peel away with a metal squeal away from the gutter and my window in unison with the thump and slide along the roof. The roof over me shook with an incredible CREEEEEEEEEEEEUMP.
My window shattered inward around me. Even my dead right hand began to shake.
The frozen lip had extended much more past the gutter and I noted how the frozen swords were slowly extending longer than they had been. The fangs became an evil set of vampire teeth complete with a singular red droplet that began to course down the length of one. It had an eerie grace rolling down the clear body of the razor sharp icicle fang, or whatever it was.
I pulled myself up onto the window ledge and slammed the shutter back again. I don’t know if it was adrenaline or what, but my right side began to come to life a bit and I had more important things than bits of broken glass scattered about. My aunt Jean had had a weird stroke like that two years ago. It was a stroke but she recovered. The doctor’s called it something that looked, on paper, like the name of a girl in school I had a massive hard-on for, Mia. Aunt Jean was able to walk again, but she wasn’t able to play guitar or knit her famous dick-warmers any more.
I couldn’t stand up, but I was able to crawl across the floor, away from those outlandish, malevolent icicles.
I dragged myself to the stairs and scooted down on my ass like I did when I was 3. Not having a diaper as shock-absorber certainly sucked, but I got to the bottom and saw at the other end of the hall where the living room was supposed to be, the ceiling had caved in and I could not see the adjoining kitchen. The ceiling and walls that remained intact had a glistening, saliva appearance to them and everything had the odor of rotting lumber, sewage, meat, polished over by a certain rotten egg stink. I didn’t smell any better.
I tried to call out to Mom but the stroke or whatever had seized up my vocal cords. I s
lithered into the hall closet. There was a confusion of old coats, scarves, and fleece jackets at the bottom. I crept into them and found, much to my delight my Go Bag. It wasn’t in my room to begin with. Mom had stashed it in the closet. It was a large, black duffel with everything from emergency money, to first aid, to meal-replacement bars that tasted like cardboard assholes. Mom had even thrown half a case of canned pasta, two can openers, several packets of saltines gleaned from some diner soup specials, and some canned fish into it. The whole damned bag probably weighed more than I did. I wouldn’t be Going anywhere with that hunkering thing anyway. It was resting on three cases of Poland Springs and a box of Pepsi. Good thing my mom sometimes confused the hall closet with the pantry. I even found two smashed bags of Doritos, two packs of toilet paper, a wad of old plastic shopping bags, and a really, really old bag of doggie snausage biscuit things that mom had gotten when Aunt Mary stayed with us for a week and a half last summer with her bull dog John-Boy. I found an old t-shirt on the floor under the hanging coats and pulled it as tightly as I could around my head to staunch any residual bleeding. I yanked down off their hangers a couple of soft down coats and Dad’s grey Swiss Army coat, made a crude nest, and hunkered down, not really knowing what else to do.
My right side got better, but was still not one-hundred-percent. I wish Dad had finished that panic room mom wanted him to build below the basement. He was supposed to do it last summer, before Aunt Mary’s visit, but that was another of mom’s pipe dreams. I was able to ‘live’ there in that closet, but at least the panic room would’ve had a thick layer of concrete and steel between me and the outside world. And, there would have been cable.
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