The Complete Bleaker Trilogy Box-set

by Jeremy Peterson

  I thought it was too hot for a funeral but apparently, mom was popular because the place was packed. Hell, even Cliff showed up. He was still single, and he was getting fat.

  Good.

  He said hello and we shook hands. It was all pretty awkward. The funeral was an open casket and mom looked well, all things considered.

  Brandon missed the funeral. He joined the Marines after high school, while I continued my high stakes job as a fry cook at the local bowling alley. Fresh out of boot camp, they sent him to the desert to fight the bad guys while I took care of my sick mother and whipped up patty-melts and cheeseburgers. Brandon and I wrote each other a couple times after he left, but for reasons I don’t recall, we stopped. That happens I guess.

  Mom’s life insurance money paid off the house; she made sure of that. It’s a good thing too, because I wouldn’t have done it. I’d like to take credit for that bit of fiscal foresight, but I’d be lying, and I’ve come too far to start lying now. There was about twenty-five grand left after paying off the house, and I’m sure you already know that I spent every last dime of that like the stupid kid that I was. I partied too much and made a bunch of new friends. Unfortunately, they were the type of friends who disappeared as soon as the money dried up. Oh well, good riddance.

  I bought my dream car, a slightly beat up ’71 Dodge Challenger that I eventually traded for drugs, and an old Honda motorcycle, which I totaled a year later. I tore three ligaments in my left knee in that accident and it still hurts like a bitch when the weather goes south. I made more than my share of bad decisions that year. Thank Christ, ma made me pay off the house.

  I lost my job at the bowling alley, which at the time was fine with me. I was too busy partying and spending money to worry about work. Aside from being in a constant fog from the drugs and alcohol, the worst part about that period of my life was the return of the monsters. The dreams came back, especially the one I had the day Brandon and I camped in the tree house, where the beast pulled Brandon down from our rickety old ladder before crushing his head in a patch of sumac. The demons were back, and I had no one left to lean on. I would have drunk myself to death if I hadn’t run out of money, I suppose. I thought about writing Brandon but too many years had passed, and I just didn’t know what to say. Then, unexpectedly, Brandon wrote to me. It was just a postcard from California, it read:

  Hey bud, it’s been too long. Hope you and mom are doing well. I’d love to ride out there and see you sometime soon. Maybe we could go camping like old times ;-)

  Your friend, Brandon.

  The dreams stopped after that, if not right away, then shortly after. I don’t know if the postcard had anything to do with it, but I’d like to think so.

  After I lost my job at the bowling alley, I went to work for a construction company out of Ogallala. The pay was much better, but I had to learn to save because the hours were erratic. I don’t have a passion for it like my father had, and frankly, I’m not very good at it, but it pays the bills.

  Before getting on with the story, I have to tell you about Sara Koch. She taught pre-school in Valley Creek, which is a town in the Sand Hills about thirty miles north on highway 27. We met on one of those dating sites, which is kind of embarrassing, but hell, it was 2012—digital age and whatnot. She had long brown hair that she always kept pulled back in a ponytail and her big blue eyes sat deep in her round face. She was great with the kids and they all loved her. At one point, I had loved her too, or at least I thought I had.

  That was my life—a house, a good paying job and a girlfriend. I was happy. I was happy. I was happy. Then the doorbell rang.

  2

  It was a Friday night and I was lounging on the couch, re-watching Breaking Bad on Netflix. Sara didn’t like that show, so I tried to catch an episode or two when she wasn’t around. It had been a grueling week at work, and a mere three episodes in, I fell asleep. At some point, the doorbell rang. A few seconds later, the door creaked open. A sliver of light spread across the room as the door opened wider, which didn’t make sense because the sun had set an hour ago. I opened my eyes and sat up. Only I didn’t open my eyes, because I was still sleeping; I’m sure of it. A shadow stepped into the room, breaking up the unnatural light. With it, a smell. Whiskey, rotten eggs and something far worse underneath.

  “Wake up, crybaby”.

  That voice. I know that voice … Jesus. “Cliff, what are you doing here?”

  “I’m trying to help you. That’s all I was ever trying to do.”

  “Yeah, right. You know what … just get outa here. Get the hell out.”

  “God, you are a sensitive little bitch. Just like your momma. Look where that got her.”

  “I will kill you, I swear to God.”

  And just like that, Cliff was gone. The smoky shadow was still there but different, smaller, almost gaunt, and with that disheveled greasy hair that sprouted up in directions all its own.

  “Hello, young man,” its voice little more than a gravely whisper, “remember me?”

  Yes I did. It was the man under the bridge. The man with the some monsters are real button on his rotten dinner jacket. The demon that stalked me in my dreams in that long ago summer.

  I stared at it, unable to move. Fear robbing me of even the most basic movements. This is actually him. It. Mr. Bleaker. The embodiment of my deepest, most ingrained fear.

  The thing swayed on its feet and shifted slightly out of focus, as if it were drunk … or as if I was. I’m certain that if it comes any closer to me, I’ll die. Finally, mercifully, I close my eyes. Its raspy breathing assuring me it’s still there.

  “Go away,” I said. Or at least I meant to say it. If the words actually came out of my mouth, I’m not sure.

  “I won’t go away,” it said. “I can’t and I won’t. I’m inside of you … I am you.”

  I opened my eyes and found that Mr. Bleaker had erased the distance between us. Now it hovered over me, inches from my face. I screamed. Mouth open, spit flying, tendons in my neck bulging, but no sound. My living room was eerily silent.

  Mr. Bleaker’s form wavered again, thinned, and finally became my dad. “Pete, it’s me. Please, don’t be afraid … but I need you to close your eyes.”

  “Dad, is it you? It can’t be.” I reached for him, tears streaming.

  He backed away, avoiding my touch. “You have to listen to me, Pete.”

  But I couldn’t listen to him. It was my dad. Finally, after all these years. He came home. “Daddy, where have—where did you—”

  “Shut up, Peter and listen to me. I love you, but please. You mustn’t wake up—”

  “Oh, daddy I’ve missed you.”

  “Shut up, son, we have no time. You must promise me you won’t wake up. Just close your eyes and sleep. Go on, close ‘em. Promise me. Don’t wake up … Don’t wake up … Don’t wake up …”

  3

  The doorbell rang. I rolled over on the couch and tried to ignore it. It rang again and suddenly the Netflix background-screen seemed impossibly bright. I clamped my eyes tight against the light, as a sudden, desperate need to stay asleep needled into my brain. That wasn’t going to happen. I fumbled with the remote and clicked off the TV. The doorbell rang again followed by a knocking on my door.

  “All right, I’m coming for God’s sake,” I said under my breath. The clock on the wall said 8:32 pm. Quite a nap. I pushed myself off the couch and stretched. The nightmare now just a broken memory fragment, fading fast, leaving me with only a vague, unsettling memory of my father. God, how I missed him. Thing’s would’ve been much different had he been around.

  I opened the door and smiled. My best friend, Brandon Dane Grant, wearing an old leather jacket and a pair of worn blue jeans stood on my porch. “Holy shit!” I said, but I realized as soon as I spoke that I wasn’t surprised at all. I had known it was going to be him as soon as I stood up. I don’t know how or why I knew that, but I did.

  “I’d like to tell you about our lord and savior, Jesu
s Christ,” Brandon said in his best door-to-door salesman voice. I laughed and held the door open for him. He stepped inside and gave me a hug. I hugged him back. “How you doing, bud?” he asked. “Did I wake you?”

  “Oh, yeah, a little bit. I conked out watching TV.” I waved it off, “But I’m doing pretty good, man. Just living, you know. What about you? I thought you were a Marine.”

  He ran a hand across his neatly shaved head “I’ll always be a Marine, dude. I’m just not serving anymore. I did my time and right now, I’m just living, like you said. I’ve been riding my bike around for the last few months. I went and saw my mom.”

  “Oh yeah, how’s she doing?”

  He shrugged. “She lives in an assisted living home in Colorado … Alzheimer’s.”

  That made me think of my old crazy neighbor, Mr. Stounager and I nearly smiled. “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.

  “Yeah, thanks. It’s …” He trailed off and I waited a few seconds to see if he had anything else to add. Instead, he simply looked around my living room and nodded his head. Finally, he said, “I’m real sorry I missed your mom’s funeral. She was awesome.”

  “Yeah she was, but don’t you worry about it, bud, seriously. Damn, it’s so freaking good to see you.”

  He stepped inside, and it was then I noticed the paper bag in his hand. He held it up with a smile. “You thirsty?”

  “Hell yeah,” I said, leading him into the kitchen.

  Brandon removed his jacket and draped it over the back of his chair at the kitchen table. Tattoos covered his right arm down to the wrist and I remember thinking how perfectly Brandon that was. He saw me staring and shrugged. “There’s nothing else to spend your money on overseas except beer and tattoos.”

  “They look badass,” I said.

  “Thanks, I like ‘em.”

  I grabbed some glasses from the cupboard and then opened up the fridge, “You wanna mixer with that?”

  “Naw, straight up for me.”

  I nodded and scooped up a handful of ice cubes, dropped a few in each glass and poured the whiskey. I sat down at the table across from him and slid over his drink.

  “So, whatcha been up to?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “Just work, man. I gotta a girlfriend. Her name is Sara and she’s great. Teaches school up in Creek Valley.”

  “Nice. I wanna meet her.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Ya know, I could tell you have a girlfriend.”

  “Oh yeah, how’s that?” I asked.

  He took a long pull from his drink. “You’ve got more than beer and ketchup in your fridge.”

  I laughed. “Yeah, that’s true. She has me eating fruits and vegetables.”

  “No dude, you look good. She must be good for you. I figured you woulda gotten all soft and shit.” He puffed out his cheeks in his best fat face impersonation.

  I laughed. “Thanks, man, she is. I’ve also been working construction, and that shit is hard work, but the pay ain’t bad.”

  “That’s great, man. Really great. You look happy.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I am happy. Life is good, ya know. What about you, anybody special in your life?”

  “No, I guess not,” he said, lowering his head. “We’re separated, her and my little boy. I miss him … I miss them both actually.”

  “Oh shit, sorry. That sucks,” I said.

  “Yeah it does.”

  “What’s his name, your son?”

  “William, we named him after her grandpa. He’s gonna turn twelve next month. Twelve … Jesus!”

  We sat in silence for a moment. “I’m really sorry,” I said finally.

  He shrugged and smiled sadly. “Thanks.”

  “Is it permanent, the separation?”

  He sighed. “Oh God, I’m not sure. Maybe. Probably.” The confusion and pain in his voice was impossible to miss.

  Unsure of what to say, I merely nodded.

  “She said she needed some space. So I went for a ride and here I am,” he said and smiled.

  I laughed. “Fifteen hundred miles should be plenty of space.”

  He laughed too and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

  “Seriously, man,” I said, “Are you gonna be okay? Where are you going?”

  “Naw, I’m gonna be fine. I just needed a little freedom. After all that time in the Corp and all this, I needed a little … I just needed to get away, ya know?”

  “Sure,” I said. “I get it. Sometimes we all need to get away.”

  “No doubt,” he said, “no doubt.”

  I poured each of us another drink and the small talk continued. “Hey man, you remember that night we slept in the tree house?”

  I looked up from my drink. He wore a smile on his face, but his eyes were telling a different story. I remembered that night as if it were last night. “Yeah, kinda,” I said.

  He chuckled under his breath and then looked down at his empty glass. I reached over and grabbed it, poured another round for both of us and held one of them out. He reached for it and said, “Here’s to the good old days. I’m glad they’re over but I wouldn’t trade ‘em for nothing.” We both laughed louder than was warranted.

  “Cheers,” I said and we touched glasses. The next few hours passed and we talked as if we had never been apart. Outside, the sun had set and a cool breeze blew through the window in the kitchen. We grabbed the bottle and our glasses and took them out front. The screen door slammed shut behind us and we sat in a couple of old folding chairs. It was a beautiful night.

  Brandon pointed at what was left of the woods across the street. “Holy shit, what happened to our woods?”

  “Some rich dude bought it and built this giant house in there. His name is Tanner or Taggard or something like that. He also bought the movie theatre downtown.”

  “Oh yeah, I saw that,” Brandon said. “It looks great.”

  “Yeah, they completely restored it. There was a big write-up in the paper about it. I haven’t been in yet. No good movies come out for a while, I guess.”

  “You should at least take your girl to see a chick flick or something, ya dick,” he said, punching me in the shoulder like old times. I nodded. When he was right, he was right.

  We sat in silence for a while “I can’t get over how small those woods are,” he said, shaking his head. “I remember them being so much bigger … and where the hell are all the trees?”

  “I know right? They cleaned a lot of shit out of there when he built that house. It looks weird, but I bet his house is amazing,” I said, smiling.

  Brandon sat up in his chair. “You mean you haven’t gone in there and checked it out?”

  “No, I haven’t. I’m not twelve anymore.”

  “Oh shit, man. I almost forgot about your … you know, your phobias”

  That set me off. I know it’s stupid and juvenile but it was late and we were drunk. “I’m not scared to go in there, I’ve had no reason to go in there. Like I said, I’m not twelve. I don’t go exploring other people’s property for fun anymore.”

  Brandon listened to my rant gravely, nodding his head in all the right spots. I had begun to feel bad about talking down to him, and then, as if the last minute never happened, his eyes grew wide with wonder and he asked, “Do you think the tree house is still there?”

  With that question, everything changed. My anger disappeared as soon as the words left his mouth. Suddenly, I had to know the answer. I had to see it, and not just to prove to my old friend that I wasn’t scared and not just because we were drunk, although we were, it was something much more than that. It was something neither of us at the time—or me now, after everything that has happened—could explain with words. I wish we had kept drinking. I wish with everything that I am, that we had just sat there and kept drinking, but we didn’t.

  4

  “Come on man! Let’s go find it. It’s almost two in the morning and everybody’s sleeping. There ain’t nobody gonna bust us for walking thr
ough the woods at this hour.”

  “Somebody lives in there now,” I said.

  “Yeah, but the house is up there,” he pointed to the north half of the woods where the house was constructed, “Our tree house is way over there.” He pointed to the south side, where a hundred years ago we had spent a weekend building a floor and four walls in the open palm of an oak tree. “Come on man, you know you wanna.”

  I did want to. “Alright,” I said, unable to hide the excitement in my voice.

  “Bitchin’!” he said.

  We entered the woods from the south end, right next to a newly installed stop sign. When we were kids, there weren’t even any working streetlights near the woods, now each corner of the lot had lights and street signs. The roads surrounding it were still unpaved but that will probably change soon. A couple steps in and my left foot dropped off into a hole. I fell forward onto my hands and knees and my fingers sunk deep into the dirt, which was soft from a recent rain. “Son of a bitch!” I said.

  “Oh shit, you alright?” Brandon asked. His words were barely audible through mad gales of laughter.

  “I’m fine, douchetard, but thanks for your concern,” I said, but by then, I was laughing too.

  Brandon reached down and pulled me up. I tried to stand up straight, but my head was spinning, and I noticed Brandon wasn’t doing much better. I attempted to brush at the mud on my knees but a searing pain shot up my arm and stopped me.

  “Damn dude, look at your finger,” Brandon said, but I already knew. Once, in little league, I had dislocated my little finger sliding into second base, and this was the same pain. The finger stuck out on my left hand at a 45-degree angle.

  “Shit,” I said stupidly.

  “Is it broken?”

  “No, just dislocated. I think. I’m gonna need your help … to put it back in place.”