Winter Wake

by Rick Hautala

  “Oh, is it about your electric pencil sharpener” Barry asked with a guilty grin. “Mine broke a couple of days ago, and I borrowed yours. I thought I put it back.”

  John stood a few feet away from the group, his hands clenched at his sides. He was trembling, and everyone watching him assumed he was overreacting because of his father’s death.

  ‘No ... no,” he snapped, shaking his head vigorously. “My pencil sharpener’s there. I mean … has someone who doesn’t work here — someone off the street — been up here poking around?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Barry said. He was concerned when he saw the sadness etched on John’s face. Moving closer to him, he put his hand gently on John’s shoulder and guided him over to a corner away from the group.

  “You know,” he said, “I wish you’d taken my advice and stayed home for a week or two. It takes time to get over this kind of —”

  “It isn’t that!” John said. His voice carried so loudly several people looked at them. He lowered his voice to an intense snarl. “I want to know if you’ve seen anyone in my office … someone who doesn’t belong here.”

  “No,” Barry said with a shrug. “I dunno … I mean — there’ve been clients and other people up here. Are you expecting someone or something?”

  “No, I —” John wiped his hand over his face, then fished his pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. He had to fight to control his shaking hands as he lit up, and even after the first drag, he wanted to bellow out his frustration.

  “I’m telling you, man,” Barry said, lowering his voice. “It ain’t good for you to be here. Everyone knows what you’ve been through, and —”

  “It’s not that,” John said, shaking his head. A cigarette dangled from his mouth, and thin, blue smoke curled up into his face. He hesitated for a second and then reached into his pants pocket.

  “Do you recognize this?”

  With trembling hands, he pulled out a piece of notebook paper, which had been crumpled up into a tight ball, smoothed it out, and held it up for Barry to see.

  Barry’s eyes took a moment to register the single word written in heavy pencil lines. Then he looked at John and shook his head.

  “Meet?” Barry said. “That’s it? What the hell does it mean … Meet?”

  “I thought you might know,” John said. He took a nervous puff on his cigarette and then flicked the lengthening ash into the nearby trashcan. “Someone was in my office and left this on my desk. I want to know who!”

  Frowning with confusion, Barry said, “What’s the big deal? Okay, so someone started to write you a note and didn’t finish it. So what?”

  “This isn’t the first one,” John said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve found a couple of others.” His voice had a jittery edge, and he suddenly wished he had never mentioned this to Barry or anyone.

  I WON’T FORGET WHAT YOU DID TO ME!

  “Like this?” Barry asked. “Saying ‘meet?’”

  “No,” John replied. “There were other messages. And, frankly, I don’t like the idea that just anyone can wander in off the street and get into my office. Can we lock the doors?”

  “Yeah, that’d be good for business,” Barry said.

  “Well I would think I could expect a little more privacy than that.”

  “Look, John.” Barry rested his hand on John’s shoulder again. “I haven’t seen anything unusual, all right? If someone’s coming up here and bugging you, I don’t know a thing about it. Looks to me like a piece of scrap paper someone meant to throw away.”

  John winced as he inhaled on his cigarette and thought, You don’t know the half of it!

  “You’ve been under a lot of stress lately,” Barry said kindly. “I could insist you should take my advice and go home … be with your family for a few days. We’ve got the company New Year’s Eve party coming up Friday night. Show up for that, and maybe you and your wife — who I still haven’t met, by the way other than at the funeral — can unwind a little. Until then —”

  “I’m fine?” John said, struggling to keep his anger from boiling over. For added emphasis, he sliced the air between them with a sharp chopping-motion of his hand. “I want work to do, and I’m gonna do it. I just want you to know that I don’t appreciate feeling like my office is a place where just anyone can walk in off the street.”

  “Fine,” Barry said, stepping back a pace. “Duly noted. But if you won’t take some time off like I tell you, I sure as hell don’t want you unloading your bullshit on me. Understood?” He was bristling, and he frowned as he stared at John.

  Clamping the cigarette between his teeth, John nodded and turned to go back to his office.

  I sure as hell do understand, he thought angrily.

  Barry’s reaction only strengthened his resolve to convince Julia that they had to move back to Vermont as soon as possible.

  TWENTY-ONE

  “See what he did …”

  I

  Throughout the week following Frank’s funeral, everyone in the family was tense and out of sorts as though, in order to deal with Frank’s death, they each turned inward. Julia knew from losing her parents as a child that it was better to share thoughts and feelings, but she also kept reminding herself that people have different ways of handling the harsh reality of losing a family member.

  Bri, it seemed, was bouncing back the quickest … maybe simply because of her youth, which couldn’t dwell too long or too morbidly on death … maybe for other reasons. But whatever her reasons, she spent a large part of the week at Kristin’s. Suspecting she did it partly to be out of the house where her grandfather had died, Julia didn’t mind even though it left her alone for most of the day. In her mind, the important thing was that Bri didn’t dwell on negative things. And more and more, whenever she mentioned Frank, it was within the context of how much fun they had had together, not how much she missed him.

  John began leaving for work early and coming home later than usual. And in the evening, he seemed increasingly tense. He’d lose his patience over the simplest thing and end up yelling at both of them. His outbursts were out of line, Julia thought, but at least so far —

  Thank God

  ! — he hadn’t gotten violent. There were no repetitions of the lasagna-throwing incident. As each day passed, Julia became increasingly sure that she was pregnant. She was aware of subtle changes in her body as hormones kicked in to support the new life she was bearing. The early morning sickness had decreased, thankfully.

  It wounded her deeply that she couldn’t tell John that — like it or not — he was going to be a father — a real father — for the first time. When she was honest with herself, she dreaded how he would react. It might be what finally set him off. Just as time would gradually dull the pain and regret he was feeling following his father’s death —

  Must be feeling because he certainly isn’t talking to me about it

  — there would be time later to let him know what had happened on Christmas Eve … time for him to get used to the idea that they were having a baby.

  Alone in the house most of every day, Julia had plenty of time to think, and not just about Frank’s death, but about the other tragedies she had suffered in her life as well.

  There were memories, sad reflections ... her parents’ deaths, her divorce from Sam Mullen, Bri’s real father, the pain and misery Sam had put her through before finally admitting that, for the past three years, he had been having an affair with a girl half his age. And there was the time when Bri, only nine years old, had been hit by a car and — thank God again! — received no more than a broken wrist. The weeks and months of having a cast had been a strain that had affected Julia more than she admitted. There were other painful memories, but none of them touched her as deeply as the rift now widening between her and John.

  Yes … She had to admit it … They were drifting apart …

  She was aware that, like Ellie had done with Randy back i
n high school, she might have used getting pregnant as a last, desperate means of hanging on to him. As much as she wanted to deny it, she saw that, ever since they moved back to Glooscap, John had been acting more and more … foreign to her. Even before his father died — hell … on the day they moved to Maine, he had seemed darker, more withdrawn … as though he was hiding something from her, and his secret was eating him up on the inside.

  These and other thoughts haunted her during the day and kept her awake long into the night, hours after John had sunk into sleep. She would lie in bed, hands clasped behind her head, and stare up at the dark ceiling for so long that, at times, she couldn’t be sure if her eyes were opened or closed. She would blink and not have the slightest physical sensation that she had done anything. The dense darkness of the room … of the insides of her eyelids … stayed unvaryingly the same. There was no sleep, and certainly no rest in darkness like that.

  On Thursday evening, well after dark, John arrived home from work wound tight as usual. After supper and long, drawn-out stretches of awkward silence as they sat in the living room with the TV blaring away, they went to bed, but — as usual — sleep didn’t come to Julia. She lay in bed, feeling the heavy warmth of her husband beside her and started thinking how nice it would be —

  The way things used to be

  — if she could nudge him, and he would roll over and wind an arm around her and pull her close. And then —

  As they used to

  — she would respond, making low throaty sounds, and he would come awake until, after some foreplay, they would make soft, slow love in the darkness.

  But not tonight …

  Julia shivered as streams of tears ran down both sides of her face.

  Not tonight … and maybe not ever again.

  The thought cut her like a dull knife.

  Heaving a sigh, she swung her legs out from under the covers and sat up on the edge of the bed. The bedsprings creaked beneath her weight. Through the window, she caught a glimpse of the dusky black night sky sprinkled with stars. The light hurt her eyes with its brightness as she stood up and walked over to the bedroom door.

  If I’m not going to sleep, I might as well go downstairs and do something to make myself tired.

  Maybe a cup of warm milk would soothe her nerves, she thought as she glided silently down the stairs and turned toward the kitchen.

  But at the foot of the stairs, she paused — frozen in mid-step.

  Her eyes widened as she turned and looked down the length of the hallway leading to Frank’s bedroom. As dark as the house was, she could barely make out the darker rectangle where the shattered remains of the bedroom door had been removed. The blackness in the doorway was so intense Julia had the impression it was flickering with barely perceptible flashes of dull blue light.

  She stood motionless, her hand resting on the railing as a thin ripple of chills slithered up her back, across her shoulders, and down her arms.

  Why does the stair railing feel so cold? she wondered as her teeth chattered.

  Looking at her hand, it appeared to be vaguely translucent … pearly white in the diffused light of the night.

  Her breath came in short, painful gulps as she strained to see if that really was a figure standing in the doorway.

  It’s only the moonlight, she thought, but a quick glance behind her at the living room picture window showed that the night was thick and dark. There were no moon-cast shadows in the front yard.

  When she looked at Frank’s opened door again, she saw — undeniably — something ... a dim light filtering into the hallway. It pulsated in time with her throbbing heartbeat.

  “Julia …”

  Her name came to her from the darkness, a fleeting ripple … a whooshing in her ears that could have been — had to be — blood, racing through her head. The coldness on the back of her neck spread out, sliding down her back and like a dash of cool water. The knot in her stomach tightened as she placed one foot in front of the other and started, ever so slowly, walking down the hallway.

  Don’t go down there! … You don’t want to go down there! … You don’t want to see what’s in there!

  But the pale blue light was there … and now the rectangle of Frank’s open door was a solid blue gel of shifting light …

  As she took one … two … three steps closer, the light got steadily brighter. And when she had taken another few steps, the voice —

  Christ! No! … That’s not Frank’s voice …

  — whispered her name again the way he used to pronounce it … as though it had two syllables instead of three.

  “Jule-yah …”

  Every muscle, every nerve in her body vibrated with the sound as though a low electric current was tingling up from the floor through her feet. As she neared the door, the corner of her mind kept whispering, Don’t go in there! … You don’t want to go in there! … You don’t want to see what’s in there!

  But then another thought intruded, and Julia was convinced Frank was still alive. He was lying in bed, and he needed help.

  “Jule-yah ...”

  The voice was louder, more commanding, and Julia knew no matter how impossible this was, no matter how much she knew Frank couldn’t be there ... that she shouldn’t enter the bedroom, her feet kept shuffling forward as though someone else was directing them.

  At the open doorway, she reached out and touched the splintered door frame. She knew why the door was broken and gone.

  John smashed it with an ax, a quiet corner of her mind whispered. He broke it down on Christmas Eve … when his father was …

  “No,” she whispered, surprising herself by the nearness of her own voice.

  Frank’s not dead! … He’s in there! … And he needs help!

  The whooshing sound in her ears became a loud roar as she stared at the glowing blue light streaming through the bedroom doorway, lighting a kiltered rectangle of the floor and opposite wall. When she got to the door, Julia turned the corner and, looking into Frank’s room, gasped with shock.

  He was there!

  He was lying in his bed.

  The covers were pulled up to his chin, and he was turned away so she couldn’t see his face, but she knew it was Frank.

  “Jule-yah!”

  The voice came from the bed.

  Against her will, Julia moved closer, her hands out in front of her while all around, the bedroom glowed with eerie, iridescent blue light that cast no shadow.

  All she could think was, It’s Frank! … He needs help!

  When she was beside the bed, she reached out, preparing to roll Frank over and ask what he needed. In the instant before her hands touched the figure that she noticed something … odd.

  Frank was wearing a thick sweater. It looked gray in the strange light … a bulky-knit gray sweater.

  Where have I seen this before?

  The instant before she touched the figure, it rolled over under the bed covers.

  In a flash of horror, Julia saw that it wasn’t Frank.

  A skeleton face looked up at her with black, eyeless sockets that, deep within, radiated cold, red light. Loose strands of long, dark hair hung in clumps down to its shoulders and spread across the pillow. Flaps of decaying gray skin were peeling away, exposing the white skull beneath. Tiny worms — maggots — were seething in the rotting flesh. When the figure sat up in the bed, the motion sent them raining onto the sheets and pillow like hard, dry rice.

  Julia was so frightened she couldn’t grab enough breath to scream. She felt herself falling backwards … as though someone were yanking her roughly by the collar from behind. The blue light in the room stung her eyes as she watched the figure slowly heave itself into a sitting position on the bed. Thick, dark clots that must be dirt or lumps of decayed flesh dribbled onto the sheets. The bedsprings creaked beneath its shifting weight, but below that was another sound … a harsh, grating sound. It took Julia a moment to recognize it — dry bones rubbing against each other!

  “Jul
e-yah ...” the figure said, its lipless mouth moving mechanically up and down as those empty eye sockets glared at her, spinning pools of blackness that even the ghostly blue light couldn’t reach.

  “He did this to me, Jule-yah … “ the skeleton mouth whispered, its voice dry and muffled as though the tongue had swollen and now blocked its throat.

  “See what he did to me? ...”

  “No …” Julia said, her voice only a hint of sound.

  She still felt like she was tumbling backwards in a slow, spiraling spin.

  “See what he did to me, Jule-yah? ...”

  The thing on the bed reached for her. Thin, bony fingers with long, cracked fingernails clicked like insect shells as they clenched and unclenched. The bulky sweater was thick with mold and coming apart at the shoulders. Julia’s nostrils filled with the damp, earthy smell of the grave.

  Then, in an instant of pain that flashed red across her vision, Julia backed into the bedroom wall hard enough to hurt and bring her to her senses. Frank’s bedroom — and the thing sitting up in his bed — kiltered sickeningly to one side, and Julia’s lungs finally took in enough air so she could let out a single piercing wail.

  The scream cut off abruptly when she dropped to the floor, and she had no idea how much later it was that she woke up to find John gently slapping her face and whispering to her.

  As consciousness returned, she found herself lying on the couch with both John and Bri leaning over her, their faces twisted with concern. The back of her head was tender, and when she tried to move, her shoulders and neck burned with pain.

  “What the hell?”

  John’s face was lit by the single light he had switched on. She could read concern in his eyes, and she was filled with love for him —

  Like I used to feel …

  — as she shifted forward and wrapped her arms — damn the pain! — around him. Heart-wrenching sobs were building up inside her, but she clamped her jaw tightly, not letting them out. When she closed her eyes, blinking back the tears, she saw in her mind the horror that had been lying on Frank’s bed. The need to cry and scream threatened to overwhelm her.