He spent the afternoon in his room, playing quietly with his Erector set while the terror seeped out of him little by little. A child a few years older or younger might not have recovered as quickly (or even at all), but Bobby was at that special age where his resilience was at its strongest and his natural abilities worked a kind of healing magic within him. By dinnertime he was nearly back to normal—albeit very tired—the memories of what happened already receding from the forefront of his thoughts. Not forgotten, by any means, and definitely still terrifying, but not quite so... imminent. Norman was miles and miles away, and even if he was a bad guy, he couldn’t really track Bobby down. Things like that only happened in books and movies, anyway, and even then only to grownups. Over meatloaf and mashed potatoes, he found himself stifling yawns.
Later, he got between his parents on the couch in the den—Dana was on the floor so close to the television their mother told her she was going to go blind—to watch Hee Haw (Bobby didn’t care so much for the music, but the corny jokes made him laugh and the country girls were pretty enough to give Jayna the Wonder Twin a run for her money and had the added advantage of being real), and then CHiPS. Ponch and John might not have been detectives like Starsky and Hutch, but they were pretty cool on their motorcycles, tooling up and down the California highways and saving the day every week. Twice during The Love Boat he nodded off, but that show was boring anyway so he didn’t think he missed anything. He got up to brush his teeth before Tattoo announced the arrival of de plane on Fantasy Island, a full half-hour before his designated bedtime.
In his bedroom, he turned off the light and darkness swallowed him. In an instant he was back in the crawlspace with the rough hands tugging at his underwear, the slick wet tongue tasting his cheek. He flipped the wall switch up and blessed light flooded the room. His heart thumped like a bass drum behind his ribs. Even though the house was warm, he felt cold. You’re being silly. Maybe. But wasn’t he allowed, if only for a day?
Bobby stood with his hand on the switch, trying to decide what to do. Sleep with the door open. If he did that, light from the rest of the house would keep the room from being dark... but it was something he didn’t normally do. He remembered the way his mother had been looking at him across the chipped formica table at Penn’s. Leaving the door open would get her curiosity up and the questions would start. He didn’t want to lie to her, and he didn’t want to get his cousin in trouble. What I need is a night light. Wouldn’t that be a hoot, if everyone found out that he was using something even Dana no longer needed because he was scared of the dark? Baby Frank would only be the beginning of the taunts.
But now that he thought about it, the night already had a light, didn’t it? Most of the time, anyway. Bobby crossed the room to the window and pulled the shade back to peer out. The back yard was bathed in a silver-white light that turned everything a shade of blue or black, bright enough that his old—now Dana’s—swingset cast a shadow on the grass. He scanned the clear night sky and saw the moon riding high in a sea of stars, not full but close to it. God’s night light.
Satisfied, he raised the shade and flipped the switch again, tensing against the encroaching darkness. A pale rectangle of moonlight on the beige carpet lit the room with soft effulgence and kept the worries at bay this time. Not as bright as he might have chosen, but beggars (gimme a dollar, kid) didn’t have that option if they wanted to keep their parents in the dark. Bobby grinned at his joke—one corny enough to be on Hee Haw, for sure—and climbed into bed. Sleep came easy, and his dreams were of Amy Carmichael and her shimmering blonde hair.
He woke some time later on his side, swimming up to consciousness as though from the bottom of a deep lake. Silence reigned throughout the house, except for the faint hiss of the central heat. The soothing sound reminded him of a far distant ocean whispering against a sandy beach. The comforter was pulled up to his chin and the bed blissfully warm, and in the verdant fields of his mind Amy Carmichael beckoned for him to return to her. He needed to pee, but not too bad yet. Enough that he could sleep a little longer before it became urgent.
Bobby opened his eyes to check the time on the bedside clock—sometimes when he woke in the middle of the night he discovered it was still technically early, like midnight, with hours and hours of sleep left before it was time to get up, and this always made him happy, like he was winning some small victory against the world—and his eyes fell on the silver-white rectangle of light, now halfway up the wall. The shadow of a person filled it, someone with their hands up to either side of their face as if they had it pressed against the glass with their hands cupped around their eyes to block the glare. But it couldn’t be just someone, now, could it? He knew exactly who it was.
I’ll be coming for you, Bobby.
The remaining vestiges of sleep fled in tatters, and Bobby gripped the edge of the blanket so hard his fists hurt. Something in his guts clenched, making him feel like he suddenly needed to fart, only he suspected it wouldn’t be a fart at all if he let it out. The shadow on the wall moved, the hands shifting position a little like the hobo was trying to get a better view. Better to see you with, my pretty. He wanted to pull the bedclothes over his head, to pretend they would protect him from monsters the way they used to when he was little and got scared in the middle of the night. But that old trick had lost its magic with the passage of time, hadn’t it? If he ducked under the covers now, he would only let Norman know he was awake.
He thought about screaming for his parents, just opening his mouth and letting loose with a yell that would make Tarzan proud. What good would it do, though? Norman would surely hear it and run away, and his parents would believe he’d had a bad dream. He could practically imagine the look they’d share, and the way his mother would tell his father I knew there was something wrong with him earlier today when they were back in their bed. Dana would be terrified. Besides, part of him thought screaming was exactly what the hobo wanted him to do. Scream for help, he’d told Bobby. It just makes it better. Made what better? For the first time since he left the crawlspace, Bobby wondered if what Norman had done to him—and the thing he’d almost done to him—was about sex at all. The lunatic would like knowing he was scared enough to call for his parents, maybe even more than he liked the thought of doing bad things to little boys. The shadow moved again, searching, and because there was nothing else he could do, Bobby swallowed his terror and rolled over to face the window. It was the last thing Norman would expect.
There was nothing there.
He scooted across the bed and slipped out, then crept over to the window. Carefully, he peered out into the yard, prepared for Norman’s head to pop up from beneath the sill like the bleached corpse in that underwater boat scene in Jaws, which he’d seen on HBO at a friend’s house the previous summer because his parents would never let him watch something so violent. The yard looked the same as it had earlier, only now the shadow from the old swing set stretched toward the house because the fat moon had sunk and hung just above the roof of the house behind theirs, partially obscured by the trees. He pressed his face against the glass and looked straight down, not convinced the hobo was gone. Nothing.
So why did he feel like he was being watched?
There was no way Norman could have gotten out of the yard so quickly. He must be hiding somewhere, waiting for Bobby to relax again. To chill out and let his defenses down. There were still plenty of shadows out there large enough to hold a man. Unless he was really a ghost. That was silly thinking, of course, because you couldn’t feel a ghost (kissing) touching (licking) you, could you? Norman was as real as Bobby himself, just a lot crazier. Maybe the creepy old house had done it to him, the way it supposedly had Jeremiah Barlowe.
Or maybe you don’t see him out there because he’s already inside the house.
An image rose in his head: Norman right behind him, reaching for him with those rough hands. The tiny hairs on the back of Bobby’s neck rose, and gooseflesh sprang up on his arms. He’s not back the
re. Nevertheless, he couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched, despite knowing deep down that it was impossible for the hobo to be back there. Even if he could somehow get into the house, there was no way for him to get all the way to Bobby’s room so quickly. Or so quietly.
Unless the shadow was from something already inside the room.
Certain that Norman was already reaching for him, Bobby spun, sucking his breath in a harsh gasp and raising his hands to defend himself. There was no one behind him... but in the rectangle of light on the wall, the silhouette of a person filled the space, and as he watched, the hands moved a little. He snapped a look over his shoulder at the window. Nothing but the moon shining through the trees in the back yard, their few remaining leaves gently swinging in the breeze, and he realized what he’d been seeing on the wall all along: the shadow of a tree trunk and a couple of branches, the rustling leaves to either side of the trunk making the hand-part of the shadow move. His mind had taken care of the rest, filling in the blanks with his own fears.
Now that he knew what it was, it was almost funny that he’d mistaken something so obvious for a person. It didn’t really look human at all. Bobby shook his head and padded down the hall to the bathroom on legs that felt wobbly, nearly giddy with relief. Thank goodness he hadn’t screamed or run for his parents. Dad would have given him the same look his mom had, but then he’d have wanted to talk about it. That’s what hippie-dippies did. They talked about it. And his dad was good at it, too. It wouldn’t take him long to get to the truth—another hippie-dippy trait, perhaps—and that was the last thing Bobby wanted.
When he got back to his bedroom he went to the window and looked out one last time. The moon had dropped even lower and now appeared to loll on the roof of the house behind theirs. No hobos anywhere in sight, crazy or otherwise. Because he’s not really coming. He pulled the shade down and climbed back into bed. Moments later, Bobby rejoined Amy Carmichael in the field where she waited.
6
“Get a move on, kiddo,” Dad said from the bedroom doorway. “We’re leaving for church in fifteen minutes. I left your money for the offering on the counter.”
Bobby sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “I’m moving.”
Ten minutes later he was in the kitchen, standing over the sink while he spooned Cheerios into his mouth as fast as he could without slopping milk down the front of his dress shirt. They weren’t as good as Lucky Charms would have been, but his parents didn’t like him to eat too much of the pre-sweetened cereal. Besides, he’d snuck an extra bowl yesterday. Dana sat at the table in the breakfast nook, nibbling at a Pop-tart while she explained to a Darth Vader doll it was his turn to come to church because he needed it more than anyone else.
“Oh, Bobby,” his mother said from the doorway behind him, sighing. “Did you even look at the comb this morning?”
“Sure I did. It looked the same as it always does.” He grinned at her and had to raise a quick hand to catch the milk that drooled from the corner of his mouth when he did.
She clucked and crossed the room, licking two of her fingers to smooth down the cowlick that had defied both comb and water when Bobby tried to tame it. Holding his chin in her hand, she ran the fingers over the crown of his head, examined her handiwork with a slight frown, and licked the fingers to try a second time.
Bobby waited patiently. This was a routine, part of Mom being Mom.
“Did you sleep on your head?” she asked, pressing her palm down onto the unruly clump of hair in a vain attempt to force it flat.
“No ma’am.”
“Hold still.” The grip on his chin tightened and his mother leaned forward, twisting her hand to turn his head, then ran her wet tongue sensuously over the cowlick and into his ear. Probing him. Tasting him.
Bobby jerked back, disgusted, but the edge of the counter caught his back and kept him from going anywhere. Milk sloshed out of the bowl and onto his shirt, dribbling to the floor in a soft patter. Her grip grew tighter still, almost painful now. She gave him another delicate lick, this time along the ridge of his cheek.
“Whatsamatter, kid?” she whispered, her voice hoarse. Thick. Warm breath tickled his moist ear, and he smelled the sickly overripe odor of corruption. “Old Norman scare you?”
“Stop it!” Bobby yelped, shoving her away with his free hand. More milk splattered on the floor. Bright bolts of red and white lightning streaked his vision, pulsing with his heartbeat.
“Don’t talk to your mother like that,” his father said. He stood in front of the oven, using the glass of the door as a mirror to straighten his tie.
“If you’d comb your hair properly, I wouldn’t have to fix it.” His mother’s gaze dropped to the stain down the front of his shirt and droplets of milk on the linoleum. “Oh, for goodness sake, Bobby. Look what you’ve done. Go put on a clean one.”
Bobby stared at her, mouth agape. She plucked the dishcloth off the edge of the sink and stooped to wipe the mess off the floor. Why was she acting like nothing had happened? And how could she know about the hobo under the house, and the exact thing he’d said?
“Bobby’s in trouble, Darth,” Dana told her doll. “He’s been a bad boy.”
“Knock it off, Dana,” Dad said. “Get changed, son. We’re going to be late.”
Bobby slunk from the kitchen, giving his mother a wide berth. She ignored him, intent on getting up all the milk. He wasn’t sure what to say to her about what she’d done, and his father apparently hadn’t seen it. He went to his bedroom and changed into a new shirt, and by the time he returned to the kitchen everyone was already in the car. Picking up his Bible and the dollar bill his father had left for him, he went to join them.
All the way to church he watched the back of his mother’s head, wondering what was going on in there that would make her lick him that way. Would make her repeat Norman’s words. Was she even still his mother? There was no way for her to know what the hobo had said to him when they were under the house, no way to know about his existence at all. Maybe she’s possessed, just like he was.
Immediately on the tail of this thought came a second one. Maybe she’s possessed by him.
That made sense, sort of. What if Norman wasn’t actually a man at all, but one of Satan’s demons? Didn’t Brother Peavey always say the devil was trying to tempt Christians, to trick them into backsliding so he could drag them down to hell for eternal damnation? Tanner and Joey weren’t Christians, not the way they talked, but he was. That would explain why they hadn’t seemed to see Norman. Why would he even bother with them when their souls already belonged to him?
The questions whirled round and round in his head, confusing his thoughts, and he found himself wishing he had paid more attention during all the sermons he’d sat through. He would ask Brother Peavey about what had happened. A version of it, anyway. A man of God like the pastor wouldn’t want to hear the specifics of the nasty things Norman had said to him, and even if he did, Bobby didn’t dare repeat them. That would be like tempting God to strike him dead.
Sunday School passed in a blur of parables and Bible verses, none of which mattered to him right then. All he could think about was the way his mother had licked him and parroted the hobo’s words and gruff voice. Even the smile from Amy Carmichael when he walked into the classroom failed to catch his interest for more than a few seconds, despite his dreams from the night before. During the break between class and the main worship service, Bobby threaded through the milling parishioners to the lobby, where Brother Peavey stood at the door greeting members as they arrived.
The preacher had a kind word for each person, and often a hug or friendly touch. His face was open and honest, his eyes a muddy hazel reminiscent of the Tennessee River in the summer, when the water was high and swift. He kept his short black hair swept back from his high forehead, and his ruddy weathered skin told a story of time spent outside working on house repairs and lawns for the congregation’s elderly and infirm. One of God’s best—and most humble
—workers, Bobby thought. If anyone would know how to help him, the minister would. When there was a lull in the flow of people, he tapped Brother Peavey on the arm.
The pastor turned, his smile automatic and genuine, and his eyes lit up when he saw who it was. “Bobby! How’s life treating you?”
“Okay, I guess.” All of the sudden Bobby felt like he was going to cry, and he didn’t know why.
Brother Peavey laid a hand on Bobby’s shoulder, the smile pushed aside by concern. “What’s wrong?”
“Can I come to your office and talk to you after the service? About something that happened to me?” Bobby looked down at the floor, suddenly afraid that the pastor would look right into him and know the things Norman had done to him... and might believe it was Bobby’s own fault for what he had said to Joey and Tanner. Didn’t Jesus himself say that calling someone a name as innocuous as fool would put you in danger of hell? How much worse must a word like pussy be? Shame brought heat to his cheeks.
“Of course you can, son. My door is always open.”
The relief that flooded Bobby was palpable. He felt like someone—maybe even the Lord Jesus Himself—had lifted a great burden off his shoulders. The very thing they sang about almost every Sunday morning.
Brother Peavey continued, “Matter of fact, how would you like to come to the house and have lunch with Margie and me? We can sit in my study afterwards and talk about anything you want to, and we’ll have all afternoon if we need it. We’d love to have you.”
Something inside Bobby seemed to pop, like a pimple pricked with a pin. Brother Peavey would understand, and even better, he would be able to help. He probably even knew how to cast a demon out, just like Jesus. “That’d be awesome.”
Charnel House Page 24