What Do Monsters Fear

by Matt Hayward

He gave Henry a wink as he left, causing the old man to snort a laugh. See ya later, buddy, Peter thought. At least our little game will pass the time.

  Peter jogged and caught up to Fisher, his toes numb in his boots. The sound of a brush sweeping echoed from the stable behind the farmhouse.

  “Mr. Bove’s doing a fine job,” Jerry said, his breath drifting away in a mist-like pillar. “That stable’s going to be a nice place for Alisa. I’m sure she’ll be very pleased not having to share it with any horses. Walter is replacing some of the rotted boards in there, too, just like you’re doing to the barn.”

  “Oh? Walter’s out working?”

  “Yes. He’d be no good to anyone cooped up inside the house.”

  Sure, Peter thought. Best give him a hammer and let him roam free.

  “Snow looks like it might stick after all, what do you think?”

  “It might,” Jerry said. “But even if it does get heavy, we have our supplies. Andrew just arrived back from town. We’ll be okay.”

  Jerry gave a quick smile and Peter returned it, all the while thinking: But you said it wouldn’t stick . . . That’s two, Fisher.

  Peter cleared his throat. “Hey, did Andrew get Walter’s ice cream ingredients?”

  Jerry’s face twitched. They reached the farmhouse. “After you.”

  “Right.”

  Grocery bags greeted Peter as he entered the house. He sidestepped them and scanned their contents; fruit, vegetables, packets of cooked ham, frozen chicken, cheese, bottled water, dozens of eggs, and . . .

  “Hey, look, Walter’s ice cream stuff.”

  Jerry stopped as if someone had slapped his face. He spun and eyed the bags, his breath coming in tight bursts.

  Worry slithered across Peter like a cold snake. “Everything all right, Jerry?”

  “Sure, Peter. Everything is fine. Fine.”

  Jerry’s eyes stayed on the bags and Peter looked between them and him. “Jerry, it’s just some ice cream, no need to get so worked up, right? If I’m honest, Walter doesn’t seem all too well after his ordeal last night. I think he’s earned this, don’t you?”

  “Sure. Yes. He has . . . Follow me, Peter.”

  “Okay . . .”

  Peter took one last look at the bag. FOR WALTER marked the paper in black ink. A liter of milk sat inside, along with a bag of sugar, a carton of eggs, cream, a container of rock salt, and vanilla extract.

  Lip-smackin’, Peter thought. Lip-smackin’ ice cream.

  “In here. My office.”

  Jerry held the door open as Peter stepped inside. Two comfortable-looking brown leather armchairs sat facing each other in the middle of the room, taking up most the tight space. Through the single window ahead, Peter saw the barn on top of the hill as snowflakes danced past the glass. A tall lamp cast a soft glow from the corner of the room, the scent of pine pervading the air.

  “Peter, have a seat.”

  As Jerry closed the door, Peter lowered himself into one of the armchairs, the leather groaning and contouring to his body. Jerry sat in the chair opposite chair, scanning a notebook on the armrest.

  “I do apologize for Jamie’s behavior earlier. Coming off prescription medication can have a myriad of effects on the mind. He’s anxious. His emotions are running high. Is your nose all right?”

  “It’s fine, man. Not to worry.” The dull throbbing had lessened over the course of the last hour, and Peter thought it would be gone soon enough. “I understand where he’s coming from, lashing out as a young man. We’ve all been there. No hard feelings.”

  “Yes, well, I finished talking to him before I came and got you. He’s very apologetic. I made him promise that it won’t happen again.” Jerry laced his fingers together. “So, Peter, anything on your mind?”

  Peter’s mouth went dry. He hadn’t prepared for any of this. If conversation turned to Beth, or alcohol, he didn’t know how he’d respond. Goddamn, he wanted a cigarette.

  “What’s on my mind, Jerry, is Walter. The guy didn’t look too well this morning. At all. I know we’re all flushing out our systems, we’re not going to be in the best of shape, but there was something more to Walter. His eyes. His skin . . . Jesus.”

  “Walter’s a weak man. It hit him first.”

  “It?” Peter sat forward. “What hit him first?”

  “The pressure of this detox, Peter, there’s no need to be so defensive. We’re not out to get you.”

  “Who do you mean we?”

  Jerry shook his head and grinned. “Myself and doctor Dawson, of course, Peter. Relax. I’m here to help.”

  Relaxing was the last thing on Peter’s mind; his heart jackhammered his chest and his palms were sweaty. The room felt too small. “How are you going to handle Walter? Are you qualified to deal with his kind of behavior? You gave him a hammer.”

  Jerry’s smile twitched at the sides, as if he found it hard to keep in place. “We’re keeping a close eye on him to make sure he’s safe and continues to get healthy. Walter is not your concern.”

  Anger boiled inside Peter. It felt like Jerry was handling him. “I don’t know why you were so against the ice cream plan, but I think Walt’s deserved it, don’t you?”

  Jerry nodded, his smile still struggling to stay afloat.

  “I get the feeling you don’t like me very much, Fisher.”

  Jerry’s brow creased. “Now, Peter, what an awful thing to say. We’re getting off on the wrong foot here.”

  Peter leaned forward, his arms shaking with adrenaline. “You know what my grandmother says, Jerry? She says when somebody lies, they can’t look you in the eye. Anyone with even a basic interest in psychology or human nature would know that. And if you knew that, you’d have done it. Why didn’t you look me in the eye right now, Jerry?”

  Jerry shook his head with a sigh. “You’re getting hostile, Peter. I’m not your enemy. What I want to know is how you feel. You mentioned your grandmother. She’s a very nice lady. Do you want to talk about your relationship?”

  Peter’s stomach dropped. “How do you know about my grandmother?”

  “From Harris Dawson, of course. We do a background check on each of our guests so I can have a foundation for our talks. It’s part of the procedure.”

  “We’re not talking about my grandmother.”

  He saw something in Jerry’s eyes just then, something knowing. “I’m not going to force you to talk, but you have to be willing to drop your defensive attitude soon. When you do, I’ll be here to listen to you . . . Good day, Laughlin.”

  “That’s it? We’re done here?”

  “We’re done. Until you’re willing to open up, there’s nothing more I can do. Why don’t you finish your work with Mr. Randolph on the barn until dinner is ready?”

  Peter shook his head and rose from the chair. He didn’t spare another glance in Jerry Fisher’s direction as he left the room. His skin crawled as the door creaked shut and he felt Jerry’s eyes on his back. He shivered. Something’d happened in there.

  He walked quickly through the house, his boots thumping on the hardwood, and made his way to the barn. The cold air hit his too-hot skin and he realized he’d been sweating.

  Paranoia? He thought. Is that what happened? Maybe what’s wrong is the fact that once you pull the top off everything that’s bottled up—you don’t know how much shit’s going to come spewing out. And what’s worse is you don’t know if you’ll be able to control it. Henry’s the same . . . He’s just like you. You’re both afraid to bring what’s deep inside your rotting minds to the surface, because it’s been down there for a long time, festering and fermenting . . . Who knows what might happen if you open up?

  “Peter, are you all right?” Henry stood at the barn door, his face red from labor. “How did it go?”

  Peter sighed and looked about the yard. A pair of rooks took flight from a tree in the forest, disappearing into the snow. “I don’t know,” he said.

  “You don’t know how it went, or you don’t know if
you’re okay?”

  “Both.”

  Peter looked into the old man’s eyes, hating how conflicted his emotions were. “I don’t know if Jerry is doing something wrong, or if I’m just afraid to open up. Whichever it is, it doesn’t change the outcome. Either one seems sad.”

  “Sit down, take a breather. Come on.”

  Henry led him inside to the dead wood pile where another three planks had been added. Dust floated in the air.

  “We’re going to be tweaky and unsettled for a while,” Henry said. “That’s for sure. But I think Jerry’s up to something. I don’t think we should let this lie.”

  “Stop, Henry.”

  Peter clasped his neck and paced the room. He needed a cigarette, bad.

  “Go to Fisher and do your session. I gave him shit when I don’t think I should have.”

  “You think this is all legit?”

  Peter sat on the deadwood. “I think we’re frightened. And I think that’s normal. Go to your session, Henry. Open up to Fisher. I think you need to. And I think that I do, too.”

  Henry went to the barn wall without a word and began working, smacking nails into a fresh plank with a little more force than Peter thought necessary.

  “Hey, Henry, don’t be—”

  “Don’t tell me what to do or be, Peter, understand?”

  The old man’s eyes widened, his breathing heavy. After a tense moment, he went back to hammering. Peter picked up a nearby plank and went to work, too.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “It was him, I saw him!”

  Peter jolted awake at the sound of the voice. He sat upright, his heart thumping.

  Henry?

  The old man sounded drunk.

  Throwing off his sweaty blanket, Peter peered at the digital alarm clock by the bed, the light stinging his eyes. Three in the morning; he’d only been out half an hour.

  The noise of running feet came from outside the room, two sets of feet by the sounds of it, then a thump. It sounded as if Henry had fallen out of his bed.

  Peter pulled on his pajamas and took the room in two strides, his head heavy with sleep. He squinted against the light in the hallway, spotting Jerry Fisher and the caretaker, Andrew, standing in Henry’s doorway. He made his way over to them.

  “What’s going on?” He asked. “What’s happening?”

  “Go back to your room,” Jerry said. He stood in Henry’s doorway, blocking the room. “We’ll handle this. Go back to sleep.”

  Peter craned his neck to see over Fisher’s shoulder into the room. On the floor lay Henry, looking like a discarded doll.

  “Holy shit, what’s happened?”

  The old man sat pressed against the wall, his face glistening in the glow of the hall light. A trail of spit leaked from his lower lip as he mewled like an injured animal, his face scrunched in pain.

  Frustration overcame Peter. “Jerry! Let me see what’s happening, goddamn it.”

  “We don’t know what’s happening just yet, Laughlin. Go back to bed.”

  “Fuck this.”

  Peter barged into the room, elbowing Jerry aside. He heard the other guests in the hallway now, their voices full of sleep and confusion.

  Peter got to his knees and put a hand on Henry’s shoulder. “Henry? Henry? You all right? Can you speak?”

  “He was here, he was . . .” Henry’s voice came out a single slur, sounding five bottles beyond sober. “He crawled, just like he’d been learnin’ . . . All over my bed.”

  Henry’s head hit the wall with a sickening thump and Peter stood, backing away in shock. His heart smacked his ribcage.

  Jerry motioned to Andrew. “We need to get him down to the living room. Help me get him up.”

  Together, they hoisted the old man to his feet, draping his arms around their shoulders. Henry’s eyes shot open.

  “Off of me! The fuck offa me!”

  The old man wrestled himself free, his legs working against each other and sending him smacking against the wall. He righted himself and swayed. “He was here, s’all true. M’boy was here.”

  “Henry . . .” Peter stepped forward and licked at his lips. “It’s me. Peter. You feeling all right?”

  “C’mere.” Henry motioned with a wave of his hand, a sick grin sliding onto his lips. “Am I feelin’ all right? S’that what you asking, yeah?”

  “Yes.” Peter’s stomach cartwheeled, the old man’s stare burning into him. Somewhere in the room, he guessed hidden bottles lay empty. Henry looked drunk as a skunk. “Henry, I’m just trying—”

  The punch connected.

  For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, Peter’s vision exploded into bright lights. He stumbled back, hitting the wall as Jerry and Andrew struggled to restrain the old man. Henry shouted an unintelligible string of slurs, his body flailing against the two men. Then he fell silent.

  Peter opened his eyes, his hand pressed to his stinging cheek. Unlike Jamie Peters, Henry had calloused working hands, and those dry, hard knuckles had imprinted just below his right eye. A deep stinging began to inflate, the chunk of flesh throbbing as the taste of copper filled his mouth. Quite simply, it hurt like a bitch.

  “Move, move.”

  Jerry and Andrew pushed past with Henry lolling between them, his feet lax and dragging on the floor. They rushed to the staircase, taking no time to answer questions from the guests. Peter stumbled into the hallway after.

  “Hey,” Donald said, knotting the belt of his silk bathrobe. “The fuck happened in there, kid? Huh?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Down the corridor, Shelly Matthews screamed, shredding her vocal chords.

  “Jesus fuckin’ Christ!” Donald said. “The fuck is goin’ on tonight?”

  “She must have woke up from the racket,” Walter said from the other side of the hall. He looked nervous, his complexion pale. “Should someone check on her? Jerry and Andrew are downstairs, it’s gotta be one of us.”

  Fuck, Peter thought. This is just great.

  From downstairs came the sound of a door opening, followed by the two men’s footsteps. Then the door closed, leaving the house in silence. Shelly Matthews whimpered, the sound muted from her room. Peter looked to the others, and they looked to him.

  Walter, wearing a navy blue night robe, hugged himself, while Donny looked more confused than frightened, squeezing his fists together in an almost calculated fashion. Jamie Peters leaned on his doorframe, his face unreadable. Peter had the impression the three of them were waiting for him to do something.

  “Pete,” Donald said, breaking the silence. “You know, you wanna go check on her, I’d say nothin’. Sounds like she’s in bad shape down there. Walt’s right, one of us gotta do something.”

  “No, no, no.” Walter shook his head. “I changed my mind. If Jerry finds out he’ll be furious. Let’s just go back to bed.”

  “Okay then,” Donald agreed. “Walter, go back to bed. We’ll all do the same.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Bove. Goodnight, everyone.”

  Walter returned to his room, the door clicking shut behind him. The others waited a moment, Shelly Matthews’ whimpering hanging in the air. Donald’s eyes stayed locked on Peter.

  “Go on,” he said. “I know you wanna. I ain’t gonna say a word. Not one. She sounds in pain.” He nodded to Jamie, his eyebrow arched. “Kid? Gonna say a word?”

  Jamie shook his head, eyes down.

  “Good. Then get back to bed ’cause you didn’t see nothin’.”

  Jamie returned to his room, leaving the two men. Donald cocked a thumb in the direction of Shelly’s room. “Want me to hold your fuckin’ hand or somethin’? Go check on the chick.”

  Why don’t you check on her if you’re so concerned, big man? Peter thought. He knew better than to pick a fight with someone like Donald. Still, all talk . . .

  Despite his conflicting inner ramblings, Peter heard himself say, “Okay. I’ll go.” His throat had turned to sandpaper.

  He made h
is way down the hall, his heart trying to escape his chest. Donald stayed at his bedroom door, arms folded and watching like a gargoyle. Licking at his lips, Peter continued.

  He’d never dealt with a heroin addict before. What would be inside the room? The smell of shit and piss, maybe; that was high probability. Puke, too. She’d most likely be slicked with sweat, her eyes bulging from their sockets, shaking and scared senseless. But Peter worried she might need water, something, and that’s what kept his legs moving. He couldn’t leave her unattended to marinate in her own juices, he’d want somebody to do the same for him.

  Just because you pretend a problem isn’t there doesn’t mean it’s not. Another great line from Granny. One that always came back to him in times of trouble, and one that applied to the current situation. Peter reached for the door handle and took a deep breath, readying himself for the horror within. He opened the door and found—

  Nothing. An empty room.

  The fresh bed sat unoccupied, the curtains drawn. A dresser gathered dust in the corner next to a laundry shoot and a reading lamp. The place didn’t smell of shit, piss, or even vomit. In fact, the room smelt fresh, like pine air freshener. No signs of Shelly Matthews ever being in the room existed. Peter’s voice sounded as if it come from down a well to his own ears. “Donald.” He said. “Come here, please.”

  The big man approached and stood behind him in the doorway. “The fuck’s goin’ on here?” he said, his voice a whisper. “We definitely heard her, right? In this room?”

  “Right.”

  “Then what the fuck’s happening?”

  They examined the room, Peter getting to his knees and scanning beneath the bed. “I don’t know what to say, Donald . . .”

  “Donny. Ain’t nobody call me Donald ’cept for my mother. Listen, I’m tweakin’ out. I ain’t gone this long without a bump since the Daddy Bush era. So, tell me, kid, she ain’t here, but we heard her. That correct?”

  “Yeah. I heard her. Definitely.”

  “And you ain’t no junkie freak or nothin’, right? Alcoholic or somethin’?”

  “Or something. I heard her, too, don’t worry.”

  “Bed’s made, no baggage, place clean as a bell . . .”