by Ike Hamill
“Yeah, no problem,” Bob said. “I should get back. I’ve got to finish some rework.”
“When does the inspector come back?”
“He said Friday or Monday.”
“That’s convenient,” Alan said.
“Yeah, isn’t it? I think they’re used to dealing with shut-ins. They expect that they can roll in any time and you’ll be there,” Bob said.
“I’ll swing by tomorrow,” Alan said. “I want to see how it’s coming.”
Bob nodded. He gave a wave as he headed out.
Alan dabbed at the carpet with some fresh paper towels and then backed away to inspect his work. The carpet was still wet. It was an old carpet anyway, and the sun only hit it at certain times of day. Chances were, nobody would notice a slight stain. He put away the cleaning supplies and then climbed back to the attic.
The room felt crisp and clean. The breeze still swept through the space from the gaping hole where the window used to be, and it brought the dry October air. Alan and Liz had lived in Virginia for long enough that Alan had forgotten that air could feel like this. Northern Virginia was a swamp, and it was always sticky with heavy air. Up here, you could take a deep breath and fill your lungs with cool luxury. Alan walked to the open hole and looked down at the driveway. There was still a matted spot on the lawn where the panels had been stacked. At least he was done with the ladder—he could put that away.
Alan turned and regarded his project.
He had a pile of strapping to install—those boards would give him a nailing substrate perfectly aligned with the panels. The panels were standing on edge, leaning against the rafters. Bob had sighted the undersides of the rafters and declared that no shimming would be required, which would save a lot of time.
“Okay,” Alan said. “I guess everything’s ready.”
He was excited to finish this step. Once he was done with the panels, he would start working on his photographs. No more procrastination. A fresh gust came through the window. Alan turned.
I suppose I really should button up this window again. There’s no sense in letting in birds or bats or whatever. Should I toss that chair down on the lawn before reinstall the window? No—I’ll want some place to sit while I deliberate over photos.
Alan glanced back at the chair. It was uncomfortable, but you didn’t want a comfy place to sit while you deliberated.
Comfort makes the mind wander, he thought. I guess I have to unscrew the chair from the floor eventually.
Alan smiled. He picked up the upper sash and fed the ropes over the pulleys. He tapped in a nail inside the sash-weight cavity. He tied the rope to the nail. Once he filled in the cavity with insulation, the window would be fixed in its position. He wanted a tight seal more than he wanted a working window—at least for the winter. Maybe next summer he would figure out a better arrangement. Alan worked quickly. He locked the sashes in place, stuffed the cavity until the wind stopped whistling through the gaps, and then began replacing the molding. He zoned out while he worked, barely noticing the wrenching sounds of screws pulling from wood. Alan reused the same nails—ancient spikes of metal with square heads. He wondered who had taken the time to make each nail by hand. When he aligned everything the way it had been, the nails drove easily into their old holes.
Each nail required only one solid hit to push it back into place.
BANG.
BANG.
Alan picked up a few of his finish nails to tighten up the boards.
BANG.
BANG.
He reassembled the window in reverse of the order in which he’d taken it apart.
BANG.
BANG.
Creak. Bump thump. Creak. Bump thump.
Alan set his hammer down. He turned away from the window slowly.
Creak. Bump thump. Creak. Bump thump.
He didn’t see anything. The chair was gone. He walked forward slowly. His head stayed pointed forward, but his eyes darted around, expecting a surprise. He still heard the noise.
Creak. Bump thump. Creak. Bump thump.
The sound was coming from the other side of the attic—the far window. Alan angled to the side to see around the standing sheets of paneling.
Creak. Bump thump. Creak. Bump thump.
The chair was back at its spot near the window. It still had Alan’s screws poking out from the bottom of the rockers. Those screws made the bumping sounds, and made the chair rock unevenly. Alan watched as it bump-thumped its way through two more full rocks. It came to a stop. He looked back at the center of the room, where the chair should be, and then down at it again. The chair remained still. In his head, the sound it made reverberated.
Alan picked up the chair by the arms and lifted it over the panels. He set it back down in the center of the attic. The screws bit into the floor. Alan lifted the chair again and slammed it down again and again until the screws aligned with the holes where it had once been fastened. One of the arms creaked as the wood accepted the abuse. Alan glared down at the window he had just reinstalled. He looked at the chair. Anger boiled up from his guts. He felt it making a fiery trail up his spine and into the back of his head. Alan made no effort to stop his rage. It filled his head with white heat.
Alan raised his foot, held it in the air for a second, and then thundered it down on the front edge of the seat. The old wood cracked. Alan repeated with another blow. This one broke the front of the seat in half and the arms of the chair were pulled inward, like the chair was trying to protect its vitals. Alan lifted the chair by its arms and slammed it down on its side. He kicked and beat at the wood, smashing the chair into pieces held together by the old caning of the back.
The window overlooking the dooryard wouldn’t open anymore—Alan had sealed it. He carried the remnants of the chair to the front window, opened the sash, and then threw the sticks to the front yard below. He slammed the window shut.
Rock now—I dare you, he thought.
Alan’s extension cord coming up from the bedroom had two things plugged in—a compressor for the nail gun, and a radio. He turned them both on. He got to work.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Bob's
OCTOBER 23
BOB’S HOUSE looked neat and tidy. The front yard was still mostly dirt, but all the leaves had been raked. Bob had trimmed the scraggly bushes to look symmetrical. A new front porch constructed with untreated two-by-sixes had a sturdy railing attached. These cosmetic changes were not permanent fixes. Bob wanted to influence the inspector by making the house look cared for. So far, the approach had not worked. As Bob had told Alan, his remodeling work had been rejected in several areas.
Alan got out of the Colonel’s old green truck and walked to the front door. He tried the new steps. They were solid. They wouldn’t hold up for more than a few years before the wood started to rot. They weren’t meant to.
Alan went back down and headed for the garage entrance. He let himself in.
“Hello?” Alan called. He heard the radio coming from the basement.
“Hey,” Bob called as Alan walked down the stairs. “How’s it going?”
“Good,” Alan said. “How’s this mess?”
“I don’t know,” Bob said. “I honestly don’t know. I thought I was following the code pretty specifically the first time. The inspector seemed to have all kinds of little exceptions and rules that aren’t documented anywhere. I’m starting to regret ever calling him in.”
Alan laughed.
“Who would know, right?” Bob asked.
“When you go to sell this place, you don’t want the buyer’s inspector finding all the issues,” Alan said.
“You’re right. Anyway, I’m about halfway done with the list. This power cable has to be moved about six inches and I’m just coming to accept that there’s not enough slack. I think I’m going to have to run new cable all the way to the breaker.”
“Can’t you just splice in another section. Maybe put in another junction box?”
“I d
on’t know. I think not. He said a lot of things. I’m starting to think that this whole thing is a racket. They don’t want to promote safety, they just want to line their pockets by making everyone adhere to arcane standards that it takes years and years to learn. If you try to jump in and do it yourself, they just make up new rules.”
“If that were true, then he wouldn’t have given you a list. Come on, let’s see what’s left,” Alan said.
Bob handed him the list and Alan tried to puzzle out what was written.
“Here,” Bob said, handing Alan a pair of pliers, “you can help me pull these wire staples.”
Bob pointed up to where the wire was mounted overhead between the naked joists. The men worked in silence for a few minutes, separating as their work took them in opposite directions.
Alan broke the silence. “So you wouldn’t believe what Joe wanted to talk to me about last night.”
“Oh yeah?” Bob asked.
“He’s doing a paper for English class. It has to be a scary topic so he wanted to do it on migrators.”
“On what?”
“Migrators—you know like Buster was talking about the other day? Some of the kids at school told him that migrators are around this time of year.”
Bob stopped working on the staple he was trying to remove. He walked over to where Alan was working.
“The kids don’t have any details. They just talk about them like generic boogeymen, you know? Anyway, I guess he overheard me telling Liz about Buster’s migrators, because last night he wanted to know the whole story.”
“What did you say?” Bob asked. Alan didn’t notice that Bob was now completely still, just staring at him.
“I told him some of the Buster stuff. I left out all the gruesome details of course, but I said that some people believe migrators collect remnants of spirits from the deceased. I told him that they were invisible and moved in the wind. I made up some pretty good stuff about how migrators are really made of vapor. I think Joe’s story is going to be pretty good,” Alan said.
Alan finished wrenching out the wire staple. He had bent the wire a bit, but the insulation wasn’t damaged. All in all, he thought he’d done a decent job. He looked down and saw Bob staring at him.
“What?” Alan asked.
“You didn’t see the paper today, did you?” Bob asked.
“Who reads the paper?”
Bob ran up the stairs. He came down a second later, flipping through the pages. He folded the paper and handed it to Alan.
Alan read the headline. It said “Kingston Man Found Mutilated in Home.”
“Oh shit,” Alan said, reading down the article. “It was Clyde?”
“Yeah,” Bob said. “He’s gone. Keep reading. They don’t say specifically, but they strongly suggest that he was missing his skin.”
“What? That’s terrible.”
“Terrible and familiar. Read the story and tell me it doesn’t sound like they found him just like he found his brother Hooker. It sounds exactly the same.”
“Oh, come on,” Alan said. “That’s impossible.”
“You only get the luxury of denial for so long, Alan.”
“What are you saying?” Alan asked.
“Buster told us about the migrators and he ended up dead, just like his brother. Now you’ve discussed migrators with your wife and son? I think maybe you should think about how you’re going to spend the next eight days.”
“You can’t be serious,” Alan said. “You’re an intelligent, rational person, Bob. You can’t seriously think that I should pack up my family and move out until the beginning of November just because of some crazy story that a local nut-job told us over noon whiskey.”
“Not just a story,” Bob said. “You and I saw the damn things. We saw the migrators and then we watched the deputy and game wardens cover up the whole thing. Now Buster is dead in the same way that he described. This is a little more than coincidence, and I think it’s better to be safe than sorry.”
“We don’t even know how Buster died,” Alan said. “It gives the reporter’s email here. We should email her and find out what she knows about the death. Or we could call the police and ask them.”
“I’m sure they won’t release those details.”
“Well we can just ask them to confirm whether or not his skin and muscle were removed.”
“Yup, and we’ll be in custody before the end of the day. You don’t want to be the one guy who knows exactly what killed a guy, especially when they’ve kept those details out of the paper,” Bob said.
“That’s true,” Alan said.
“Look, just take an impromptu vacation. Maybe go visit Virginia for a week. Can’t you do that?”
“I could,” Alan said. “But Liz would never leave her work. I’m sure Joe has a million assignments and tests and things. I couldn’t even suggest something like that to Liz.”
“Maybe you don’t have to go that far,” Bob said. “All the deaths happen along the path of these migrators, right? Buster’s house, the place they grew up, and your house are all pretty close to each other. Maybe you can just go stay down in Augusta for a week. You can drive Joe to school for a few days, right?”
“I don’t know,” Alan said. “Money’s pretty tight. What would I say to her? It’s just going to sound ridiculous.”
“Don’t mention anything paranormal then,” Bob said. “Just tell your wife that there’s a crazy person loose in the area. Or maybe a rabid animal. She’s going to hear about this story, right? And the cops don’t have any idea what happened. You just play it as the neighborhood isn’t safe right now. Then, on November first, you declare that the neighborhood is safe again.”
“I’m not sure. I’m terrible at lying to Liz.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Crisis
ALAN WAITED IN A long line of cars in front of the school. As he was finishing his late lunch, he’d received a mechanical-voiced phone call from the school’s notification system—after school activities were cancelled. He wondered how the mill-working parents were dealing with the change. Some kids were walking away from the school with backpacks slung over their shoulders, but it looked like the majority were standing on the concrete walk in front of the school.
Alan rolled up—he was next in line.
Come on, Joe. Let’s go. Christ—look at me. Six months away from the city and I can’t even wait ten minutes. I would lose my mind in bumper-to-bumper traffic now.
The school had strict rules on pickups and drop-offs. Alan respected the rules. Kids could only exit or enter a vehicle if it was pulled up next to where the curb was painted yellow. If not for the system, kids might be running all through the parking lot while parents tried to navigate around them. Alan pulled forward.
Joe appeared from the knot of kids. He ran up to the passenger’s window of the Toyota. Alan saw Pete Grasso—Joe’s friend—standing behind his son. Alan put his window down.
“Get in, Joe. You’re holding up the line,” Alan said.
“I told Pete he could come over. His mom’s at work still. Is it okay?” Joe asked.
“Does your mom know you’re coming over, Pete?” Alan asked, leaning forward to see around his son. Alan was surprised and happy. Joe had met Pete through one of Liz’s contacts—he was the nephew of a secretary at the firm. The boys had played together often during the summer, and Joe had spent the night at Pete’s house a few times, but Pete rarely came over to their house. Being trusted with Pete during this mini-crisis was like getting a wild squirrel to eat from your hand for the first time. The locals were skittish and wary of outsiders.
Pete nodded.
“Then get in,” Alan said. “Let’s go.”
The boys piled in the back seat.
“Thanks Mr. Harper,” Pete said.
“No problem, Pete,” Alan said. “Call your mom and tell her that you’re coming over to my house.”
“He already told her that he was going to probably come over,” Joe said.
>
“I know, but I want you to call her and tell her that you’re on your way. That way she’ll know for sure,” Alan said.
“Okay,” Pete said.
He listened as the boy left a message for his mom. Alan hadn’t thought of that—Pete’s mom probably wasn’t even reachable in the afternoon except when she was on break. The mill was an extraordinarily loud and busy place. Before Pete finished the message, Alan interrupted him. “Do you want to ask your mom if you can stay for dinner, Pete.”
Pete disconnected and didn’t relay the question.
“I can’t,” Pete said. “I have to go home when she gets out of work. Mom said so.”
“Okay,” Alan said. “So why was everything cancelled? Did they tell you? The phone message I got didn’t say.”
“They didn’t tell us for sure,” Joe said, “but all the kids said it was because of the killings.”
“What? What killings?” Alan asked. He took his eyes from the road—traffic leaving the school was creeping along—and looked in the mirror at his son. Joe didn’t look even slightly upset by the situation.
“They said some old guy who lived over past the dam was killed last night,” Joe said.
“Clyde Prescott,” Pete said.
Alan nodded.
“Yeah. And they found some animals killed the same way,” Joe said. “So they don’t know if its a murderer around or some wild animal.”
“They told you that? And cancelled after school activities?” Alan asked.
“Yeah, and they cancelled school tomorrow and Friday,” Joe said.
“Right,” Alan said. “Of course they did.”
Traffic slowed ahead as the car in front of them waited to make a left turn. The traffic heading towards the school made a wall of cars going the opposite direction. Unless the woman in front of them found some kind-hearted soul willing to pause, they would be waiting for a bit.
“No, seriously,” Joe said. “We have next week off, too.”
“Yeah, I know about the crazy vacation week next. I don’t understand it so close to Thanksgiving and everything, but whatever.”