Bad Things

by Tamara Thorne

  As he drove away from the new area and back toward the house, he turned off on Cuerpo Podre and took the long, winding avenue until he arrived at the tall wrought-iron arches of Santo Verde Cemetery. He paused, then turned in, deciding to pay a visit to his parents’ graves.

  The cemetery, which occupied a series of small rolling hills, looked much as he remembered it, filled with oaks and pines and oleander hedges, very green, very peaceful. At least in the daylight hours. I’ll bet this place is infested with greenjacks at night. He smiled grimly. Since the cat’s reaction last night, he couldn’t help thinking that maybe he really was seeing something, and had decided that after he got to know Audrey better, maybe he would ask her about variations in people’s vision. Very subtly, of course.

  He pulled over and parked the car, then plodded up a steep pathway. Soon he reached the oldest section of the grounds, The Garden of Souls, a place rife with looming crosses and pensive angels. Here and there stood ornate family mausoleums dating back to the early nineteenth century. They constituted California’s version of ancient history.

  Rick wandered among the monuments, reading the names and dates, noting signs of earthquake damage, perversely wondering how far down the ground squirrels burrowed.

  Strolling down the other side of the hill, he entered The Eternal Playland, one of the children’s burial areas. Some of the graves here were new, and one even had a Lucite covering that protected a color portrait of the dead child’s smiling face. Chilled, he averted his eyes and continued quickly along the narrow path until he reached The Forest Eternal, an older area containing the Piper plots.

  Despite his other fears, Rick had always enjoyed coming here, even as a child. He’d favored it over the regular park because everyone here was . . . quiet. He smiled to himself. And though he himself had no intention of ending up here—cleansing flames and a brisk ocean breeze were his preferences—he especially liked this area because of the decidedly nonreligious monument central to the family domain. Like the angels and cherubs and obelisks elsewhere in the park, it was a marble sculpture, but this, chiseled by an Italian artist friend of Conlin’s, was a Scottish piper, complete with bagpipes and kilt. As a child, Rick came here often to sit at its feet. Sometimes he talked to it, pretending it was his ancestor Thomas. Who knew? Maybe it was. He found he’d still like to think so.

  He stood before the piper and studied the strong taciturn features shadowed under its tam. It stared back, bearing little resemblance to any of his relatives, living or dead. He stuck his hands in his pockets. “How’s it hangin’, Thomas?” Belatedly he looked around to make sure no one heard him, and was relieved to see that only the ghosts, if any were around, might have heard. Secure in his isolation, he approached his brother’s grave. “Robin Emeric Piper,” he read aloud. “Born 1965. Died 1981. Beloved nephew.”

  Aunt Jade, of course, had chosen the epitaph. “Beloved nephew” was putting things mildly.

  Looking at the grave had little effect on Rick. He didn’t miss his brother, hadn’t shed a tear when he’d died. He was numb, unfeeling, where Robin was concerned. Beneath the numbness there was something else, something he didn’t like to think about.

  Dakota’s voice intruded: Of course you hated him.

  Maybe . . . Was he really as cruel as I remember? he wondered. Certainly he liked to tease, but Rick had been so . . . so touchy. So oversensitive.

  Slowly he moved to the Celtic cross ten feet behind Robin’s marker. PIPER was chiseled into the cross arm, and at its base were the words TOGETHER IN LIFE AND IN HEAVEN. Below the cross, to either side, were two flat bronze markers, one for Franklin Richard Piper, 1940–1975, the other for Grace Dorian Piper, 1946–1975.

  As Rick knelt in the grass between the markers, hot tears sprang to his eyes. Flowers, he thought, he should have brought flowers.

  September 1, 1975

  They died during the dog days, on a night so hot and humid that the water coolers did nothing but release warm steam through the ceiling vents. They were off now, and the night was quiet except for the soft whirring of the ceiling fan.

  Since moving into Carmen’s old room in July, Ricky, no longer having to contend with his brother’s tricks, or oak limbs tapping on the window glass, slept better than he ever had before.

  But tonight sleep would not come, and unaccountably nervous, he’d gotten out of bed to check the twist-lock on the doorknob half a dozen times. Now, at five past midnight, he lay on top of the damp sheets and listened to the heavy silence, while sweat trickled off his forehead. His head felt thick with the heat, and able to stand it no longer, he rose and went to the window overlooking the backyard, his fear of the night and the greenjacks now secondary to the stifling misery of the room. Turning the latch, he pushed the window open wide.

  The cooling breeze fluttered the curtains around his face, evaporating perspiration from his forehead, from the lids of his closed eyes.

  At that moment he realized that he hadn’t heard the greenjacks calling him tonight. Even with the window open they remained silent.

  He opened his eyes and peered out, but saw only the dim yellow glow of Carmen’s porch light within the dark orchard.

  No greenjacks.

  No crickets.

  Wind ruffled through his hair like familiar fingers, and despite the heat, goose bumps prickled across his neck.

  The wind died.

  Time ended.

  Something was going to happen.

  The night waited, the wind, the boy.

  He crossed to his desk and sat in the chair. He folded his hands on the blotter. And waited.

  Somewhere, a board creaked, once, twice. It might be his brother wandering through the secret passages, spying on others while they slept. Or perhaps it was only the house settling in the heat of the night, its timbers like heavy, swollen limbs.

  He sat, listening, unmoving, staring at the Felix the Cat clock above his desk, glancing at the Batman calendar hanging beside it, considering minutes, days, and hours, thinking about how slow time passed when something was about to happen.

  At 1:15 he heard new noises downstairs, faint sounds muted by the thick walls of the house and his own closed door. He sat up straighter and listened carefully. Robin’s in the kitchen. He imagined his twin basking in the cool breath of the open refrigerator, balancing on one hand so that he could reach up and take the milk carton from the top shelf, then settling down on his legless body to take a drink, swirl it around in his mouth, and spit it back in. He would carefully close the carton and replace it before committing his other mischiefs, which might be running his tongue over the butter, or chewing small wads of raw hamburger before working the fouled pieces back into the main lump of meat.

  At 1:35 there was silence once again.

  An instant passed and it was 1:51. Ricky wondered what Robin was doing now, whether he had returned to his room or was still roaming the house . . . If Robin didn’t want you to hear him, you didn’t hear him.

  The clock over the desk said 2:15, and it was just as hot and sticky as it had been at midnight, and Ricky, still wide-awake, continued his vigil. To pass the time, he thought about his brother, and how he would be sent away to a special boarding school in a week’s time. Ricky could hardly wait, and each time Robin teased him now, he reveled in the knowledge that soon he would have far less to fear. That knowledge had carried him through the endless hot days and nights of July and August.

  Three o’clock in the morning. Even though his brother was still here, Ricky knew, he had already begun to relax, to feel safer within these walls. But not tonight. Instead, the tension, the anticipation he felt, had wound tighter and tighter, and before long, he knew he would snap.

  At 3:15 he heard something that sounded like a human whimper, followed by a thump.

  He waited, unthinking, unfeeling. Numb.

  At 3:20 the house sighed and settled as the night exhaled its first cool breeze into the room.

  Ricky remained at his desk, back st
raight, hands neatly folded, a schoolboy ready for his lessons.

  At 4:30 in the morning, the first glimmering of dawn shone in the east window next to the desk.

  And broke the spell.

  Woodenly he rose and walked slowly to the door. His stomach had tied itself in knots because it knew the waiting was over. He put his ear to the door, listened, heard nothing, then lay down on the floor and peered through the narrow space between door and carpet. The hallway was deserted.

  Standing, he unlocked the door and slowly opened it.

  The house lay still in the predawn shadows as he ventured into the hall.

  Turning the corner, he cautiously approached Robin’s room, and was relieved to see that no light shone from beneath his door. Ricky tiptoed past, then continued down the corridor until he arrived at his parents’ room.

  His brain, dazed and paralyzed by something unidentifiable for these last few hours, suddenly came to life. Why was he here? Why was he about to disturb his parents so early in the morning? He found he didn’t know, but to do so was an imperative he could not ignore.

  Raising his hand to knock on the door, he realized that Robin might also hear, so instead, he clutched the doorknob and slowly turned it. As the door swung silently inward, he heard the steady whirring of the ceiling fans within the room.

  “Mom?” he whispered. “Dad?”

  They didn’t wake up, so he stepped inside, then, still fearing that Robin would hear, closed the door behind him.

  “Mom?” he called. Then again, a little louder. “Mom?”

  In the bathroom, a faucet dripped.

  He approached the bed, his heart thundering against his rib cage. Although the windows were open and the cool northerly breeze had picked up, his parents’ bedroom, hot and close, was foul with a heavy, hot smell that made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle up.

  He stepped closer to the bed, thinking that it was strange that Mom and Dad were under their quilt on such a hot night. Shrugging to himself—grown-ups did all sorts of weird things he didn’t understand—he reached out and tapped the quilt, about where his mother’s shoulder should be.

  She didn’t wake up.

  “Mom?” he asked, poking at the quilt a little harder.

  The material felt funny, sticky-damp. “Mom!” He practically yelled it, fear curling through his bowels.

  “Dad!” Leaning across her, he shook his father. “Dad!”

  Suddenly he lost his tiptoed balance and fell on them, landing facedown, mouth open, on the quilt. Abruptly he became aware that the sticky dampness was everywhere, and as he breathed in its rusty metal smell, he realized it was in his mouth and he recognized the flavor of blood from a hundred cuts he’d licked, from a bloody nose last year, from . . .

  “Dad! Mom!” Falling backward, he screamed their names. “Wake up!” he cried as he backed toward the wall. He gulped for air. “Please wake up!” Frantically he felt for the light switch, smearing his hands over the wall. “Wake up,” he pleaded once more as his hand hit the switch.

  Light bloomed overhead.

  For a moment he couldn’t comprehend what he was seeing. The white homemade quilt with its blue and green wedding ring patterns had turned red. His mother’s eyes were open, her mouth, too, and briefly he thought she was about to speak to him. Then he realized that her head was tilted back at an unnatural angle.

  He moaned. Her head was almost off her body, there was red meat in her neck, and white bones, gleaming. Beside her, his father . . . His father was the same. Ears ringing, Ricky sank to the floor, blackness invading his vision.

  Ricky’s stomach moved, roiling, and as he vomited, he saw their blood all over his clothes, his hands, and knew he had their blood in his mouth. He vomited again.

  He tried to stand up, couldn’t. Have to get out of here! Have to! Now! Grabbing the doorknob, he pulled himself up, refusing to look at the bed, refusing to think. As he tried to open the door with his slippery, sticky fingers, he heard himself crying but thought it was someone else. Finally he got the door open and slammed his body out into the hall.

  “Ricky!” Robin was watching him from the threshold of his room. “Hi, icky Ricky! Wanna play?”

  Ricky stared at him without comprehension.

  Robin grinned.

  I’m gonna getcha, icky Ricky, I’m gonna getcha good!

  Ricky ran, racing down the stairs, tripping and rolling down the last ten, not even aware that he’d broken his arm as he regained his feet, only aware that Robin might be following him as he started running for the kitchen.

  The glass in the back door was shattered, the screen torn, and the door stood wide open. As he raced into the backyard, into the orchard, he heard Robin call his name, heard his hand-slaps, but he kept running, running, running, until he reached Carmen’s doorstep.

  As he pounded on the door, he glanced back. No one was there.

  Between the grave markers, Rick Piper wept silently. He wept for himself and for his parents.

  He wept for what might have been.

  The days after the murder had been a blur. He spent the first two in the hospital, and there had been so many questions, so many policemen, so many nightmares. Eventually the police announced that the house had been broken into, nothing stolen, except for a stainless filleting knife from the kitchen that never reappeared. It was presumed to be the murder weapon. Though a few suspects were questioned, no arrests were ever made.

  And Robin didn’t go away after all.

  That was a long time ago. Wiping his eyes, he stood and brushed grass from his pants. A very long time. He moved away, only to stop once more at Robin’s grave. “You couldn’t get me, so you killed them instead, didn’t you?” He kicked a small stone, and it hit Robin’s marker with a thunk. “I hated you. I still hate you.”

  Admitting it made him feel better. The only thing he still couldn’t reconcile was the childish notion that his brother had exchanged bodies with a greenjack, when logic dictated that the handicapped boy had gone mad.

  He stared at the grave and tried to understand his brother. It must have been hard to be handicapped, he told himself. It must have been awful to look at me every day and wonder why you were the one without legs. No wonder you hated me.

  And no wonder I hated you. “You told me I was crazy,” he whispered bitterly. “You told me they were going to send me away. You threatened me and called me names. You told me you were going to kill me. And you tried. Goddamn you, you tried.” Unthinking, he kicked the headstone. It hurt like hell and increased his fury. “Goddamn you, you even said it was my fault they died! Fuck you!” He raised his voice, not caring if anyone heard. “Fuck you! Fuck you!”

  The tears came back, hot and furious, tears of anger and hate and frustration. He dropped to the ground, exorcising twenty-six years of anger and hurt.

  Finally the tears dried, and then, guiltily, he realized why he had never declared his hate and anger toward Robin before. He saved my life that Halloween night when we were seven. He let Big Jack take him instead of me.

  “Oh, God,” he moaned, falling to his knees, knowing he himself was mad. “Oh, God.”

  Finally, slowly, he regained control of himself. Can’t think about this. Rising, he knew he still couldn’t handle the memories, the confusion that went with them. He washed his face at a water fountain and went back to the old Garden of Souls section to lose himself in other people’s history.

  27

  July 18

  “This house is riddled with secret passages,” Rick told Audrey as they sat at the kitchen table after their date Friday night. “The blueprints disappeared way before my time, so I don’t even know how many tunnels there are.” He sipped his coffee. “This morning we had that installed—” he pointed at the new dishwasher “—and the workmen broke into a passage we didn’t even know existed.”

  “Really? In the kitchen?” Audrey said over her coffee cup. “Maybe your great-grandfather liked to sneak midnight snacks without his w
ife catching him.”

  Eat it up! Robin whispers, shoving raw hamburger down his throat. Eat it up!

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Rick. Are you all right?”

  “Fine.” He didn’t think the raw-meat story would be appropriate. “My brother traveled the tunnels all the time,” he added lamely.

  “You didn’t?”

  “No. I’ve been in them, but not willingly. When I was very young, my grandfather took me through a few of the main ones, which was okay, but later, Robin knew how to force me to go with him.”

  “Most little boys would love secret tunnels in the walls.” She paused, studying him. “I take it your brother made that miserable, too?”

  “Yes, that and the fact that I was ridiculously afraid of the dark.” He set his cup down. “I still don’t like it. Grandpa Piper’s stories about the greenjacks had more effect on me than they should have.”

  “Greenjacks,” she repeated. “You mentioned them before. What are they, anyway?”

  Over fresh cups of coffee, he told her Grandfather’s stories, surprised and rather pleased to find he still knew them word for word. “Pretty silly stuff to be afraid of, huh?”

  “No, it’s not silly at all. Fairy tales are the worst! I was scared silly by Hansel and Gretel.” She pushed red hair away from her face and lowered her voice conspiratorially. “When I was about five, my favorite uncle, Craig, told me the story. I was okay at first, just really impressed, you know? But then, every time he’d come over, he’d say, ‘Let’s see if your fingernails are clean.’

  “The first time, I didn’t know what was going on. I held out my hands, and he examined my fingers very closely, very seriously. Uncle Craig was a big, tall man with lots of black hair, one long eyebrow, and a very deep voice, so when he looked at me from underneath his brow and intoned, ‘Well, those nails are pretty dirty. I guess we won’t have you for dinner . . . this week!’ I was sure he meant it.” She looked at Rick. “So can you guess what I did after that?”