He breathed deeply to marshal the courage to go downstairs and face Jack Peter. Perhaps he had gone off his head completely and had been howling from the kitchen, but when Nick arrived, the room was empty. On the table lay his latest masterpiece, another vision of penciled madness, a close-up of the wild man’s face, but the boy who drew it was missing. The entire house seemed deserted, though he knew this could not be. Perhaps Jack Peter had intuited what Nick had been up to and what he had discovered, and was in hiding.
“Jack Peter,” he said. “I know all about the drawings. I know you are here somewhere. Come out, come out wherever you are.”
Not a peep. He tried the mudroom, but it, too, was vacant. Cold air seeped through the slab floor, and Nick could see the steam from his breath when he called Jack Peter’s name again. Thoughts of escape leapt into his mind, and he considered how to flee the scene, find shelter, and wait out the storm until the Keenans returned. Hanging on the peg, his coat was damp and stiff, but below it his boots were dry. From the open door, he yelled down to Mr. Keenan’s workroom, but it was dark and quiet. He made his way into the living room.
Another log had been added to the fire, for it blazed, popping and crackling behind the hearth. The ornaments on the Christmas tree threw back the light, and the bare furniture absorbed the glow. Had he not thought to look toward the front door, Nick would have missed him. Jack Peter stood with his back to him but ramrod straight, transfixed by a face in the window. The monster was staring back at him, his hands pressed against the glass.
Unable to resist, Nick stepped forward and whispered, “Jack Peter.”
The creature’s mouth was moving and it appeared to be speaking, though no words penetrated the boundary between the outside and inside. His face was gaunt, marked with smallpox scars and wrinkles, deathly pale with deep circles under hollow eyes and teeth as brown and jagged as a broken fence. Snow covered the crown of his head and clotted in his mangled beard. Below his neck his skin was white as paper and laced with blue veins. His attention had been focused on Jack Peter, but when he saw Nick he thumped his palms onto the window and let out another doleful wail.
* * *
Their cups had been refilled and on each dessert plate sat another dainty slice of strudel. Father Bolden was busy sawing through the pastry. “So what happened next, after your son was saved from drowning?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I’m not entirely sure. Jack wasn’t the same. He became deathly afraid of going outdoors at all, just cried and screamed and threw fits anytime we tried to get him through the door, and it became nearly impossible for us to take him anywhere. The doctors attributed it to the trauma, and at first we thought he would grow out of it, but the paranoia just grew worse over time, not better. We tried everything, but he will not budge. He’s just withdrawn into the safety of the house.”
With a clatter, Miss Tiramaku dropped her cup onto the saucer. “And he won’t go out at all? So it’s just been the three of you these past few years? Must be a bit claustrophobic.”
“Well, there’s Nicholas,” she said. “Thank God for Nick.”
“I am surprised that you let them play together,” Miss Tiramaku said. “After what Nick tried to do that day.”
Holly gave her a quizzical look.
“Maybe he didn’t mean it,” Miss Tiramaku said. “But Jack told me that Nick tried to drown him that day.”
A sharp pain lanced through Holly’s forehead, followed by ticking, a sound so loud she wondered if the others could hear it, too. The room pulsed along to the beat in her mind, and everything slowed and swayed like the ship in the painting. She felt a swell of seasickness clench at her stomach.
“Don’t be absurd,” Holly said. She pressed two fingers at the center of her forehead to staunch the pain. The pounding seized her, and she raised her voice, “No, no. He wouldn’t pull him under. He wouldn’t hurt him. They’re like brothers.”
“Are you all right, my dear?” Father Bolden asked.
Holly waved him away, steadied herself, and closed her eyes.
Father Bolden interjected himself between the two women. “Perhaps you’re mistaken, Miss Tiramaku.”
“Yes,” she said. “Mistaken. I didn’t mean to upset you, Holly. Are you sure you are okay? Perhaps you would care to lie down.”
“It’s my head, can’t you hear? I’ve been having these terrible headaches lately.”
The priest rose and crossed behind her, and put his hands on the back of her chair to pull it out for her. “We’ve upset you, my dear, and perhaps you would feel better if we just stopped talking about it. We could go into my study, find you a comfy chair. Miss Tiramaku will find you an aspirin, and you can have a nice rest in the dark while you wait for your husband.”
Surrendering to the drumming in her skull, Holly allowed herself to be led into the study. The priest arranged a spot in a soft leather chair and laid a blanket across her lap. Through the leaded windows, she could see the falling snow as it lulled her. In the dark room, the priest sat in a chair across from her, the light from the hallway softening his features, and he patted her on the forearm. “How long have you been suffering these headaches?”
Behind him, the slim silhouette of Miss Tiramaku appeared in the doorway.
“Weeks now,” Holly said.
“My own dear mother suffered from migraines all of her life, and she swore she saw angels and heard all kinds of strange things.”
The shadow at the door entered the room and perched on the edge of the big black desk that dominated the space. “Is there something that’s changed lately? Some trigger where your anxieties might be heightened and causing your hallucinations?”
Holly laughed. “Everything. My son hit me. Claims there were monsters under his bed. Then the wrecked ship and the ghosts come to haunt me. My husband chasing phantoms and coming home covered in blood. Salt water on the walls. Voices in the night.”
“Too many ghost stories?” Father Bolden stole a glance at Miss Tiramaku.
“No, it’s just Jack.”
Miss Tiramaku nodded. “Jack showed me some of the pictures he’s been making.”
“Jack’s monsters? He and Nick go off on these kicks for weeks at a time. Last summer it was baseball cards, and in the fall, they spent every weekend on board games, and then as suddenly as it begins, the craze is over and they’re on to some other obsession. I never gave the little monsters a second thought.”
Father Bolden said, “Sometimes I think all children are slightly mad. They suffer, finding their way out of childhood.”
“The monsters,” Holly said. She looked out at the snow. “I wonder what’s keeping him.”
* * *
Tim was sweating in the snow. His hair had frozen into porcupine quills, and he was hot and cold at the same time. On the floor behind the front seat, he found the shovel they kept for such emergencies, and he built a ramp out of hard-packed snow to ride the back tires down, but he was frozen and tired and not sure his plan would work. The lighthouse at Mercy Point glowed soft as a candlestick, a reassurance in the gloom. Nothing came down the road the whole time. No sound at all but the susurrus of snow and his own labored breathing in the miserable wind. From far away, a sudden piercing howl frightened him. He straightened and stood, trying to find the direction and source in the landscape, but he could not determine either. The wailing came from all sides and above and within. Caught between the two poles of his journey, he could only dig more furiously and hope to be soon free.
The engine whined when he turned the key, and Tim cursed his bad luck until the ignition clicked and caught hold. He threw the Jeep into gear and launched down the makeshift ramp and back onto the slippery road, making sure not to stop but to keep moving forward slowly. Following the tree line and the shapes of other landmarks, he found his way and drove carefully to the Star of the Sea parking lot. Beneath a streetlight sat Holly’s car, a mound of snow dumped on the hood and roof, and further on, the rectory stood like a gin
gerbread house decorated for Christmas, with white frosting the roof and ledges, and cheery lights on in the downstairs windows. Gray smoke from the chimney filtered through the ribbons of snow, and he looked forward to a few moments in front of the fire and the chance to feel his toes and fingers again. As he stepped from the car, his left foot landed awkwardly in the slush, and pain shot across his lower back. The spasm seized him when he tried to move. Snow began to sift inside the Jeep and melt against the front seat and floor, for he could not shut the door, could not budge without excruciating stabbing pain. So this is what it is like to freeze to death, he thought. I will just stand here in this church parking lot and turn to snow and ice, and in the springtime, they will only have to thaw me out to bury me. The slightest tic sent fissures of pain along his spine and tightened his muscles into cords of steel. Even a grimace hurt, even a grunt, and when he tried to call for help, he found he could make no more than a choked whisper that even a dog would not be able to hear.
His name arrived on the wind. His wife had come running hurriedly from the rectory, calling for him, the snow whipping around her head and shoulders. Clenching her unbuttoned coat with one bare hand, she first reached out to shut the door of the Jeep. When Holly touched him to see what was the matter, the pressure buckled his knees.
“What’s wrong with you?” she shouted over the wind. “What took you so long?”
“Threw my back out,” he said, wrenching out each word. “Long story. No message from Jip. Got stuck on the road. Now I can’t move.”
“Jesus,” she said. “We’ve got to get you inside.”
The old priest, dressed more sensibly in a long duster and a hat and gloves, reached them, and Miss Tiramaku was two steps behind.
“What are we going to do?” Holly yelled at them. “His back has locked up.”
“Can you try to take a step?” Father Bolden asked.
“No,” Tim said with tears in his eyes.
Miss Tiramaku removed her gloves and then took Tim’s hand in hers and bared it. “Relax, this won’t hurt.” Feeling for a pressure point, she located a spot along his wrist and then firmly pressed her thumb in the web of skin and muscle between his index finger and thumb. She held on to him until he began to feel some ease.
“I think I can move,” he said. “What are you doing?”
“Tricks up my sleeve,” she said.
“I could walk, if someone would hold on to me.”
“Take my arm,” said the priest, and they all shuffled together through the snow and made their way inside the rectory. While the back pain had subsided to a tolerable degree, he now felt the effects of the cold and the damp, and the others bustled around, finding a heating pad for him to lean against, a cup of hot tea, a warm blanket, and fresh woolen socks for his red feet. The pampering superseded the interrogation, but after he settled in a comfortable chair and had shaken off the chill, he faced the board of inquiry. They surrounded him and fired away, asking for details of his journey, what time he had left and how long it had taken, were the roads passable still. Satisfied with his answers, they all relaxed until the one remaining question popped into Holly’s mind.
“But what have you done with the boys?”
v.
The thing beat against the glass, desperate to get inside. Drawn to the creature, Jack Peter stepped forward, and Nick had to catch him by the shoulder to restrain his impulse. Like a caged animal, the white man watched with rapt attention, studying the boys’ every movement, and as they started to back away, he bared his teeth in an expression of rage.
Nick pulled hard and spun his friend around. “No, we have to get out of here, understand? You can’t let it in.” Jack Peter’s eyes were dull and vacant. Grabbing him by the hand, Nick dragged him into the kitchen. The monster slid its fingers from the windowpanes and then vanished.
“What is that thing?”
Unresponsive, Jack Peter was already lost in the wilderness of his imagination, staring over Nick’s shoulder toward the mudroom. Refusing to let go, Nick forced him to the telephone hanging on the wall. “We have to call. Get the police. Find someone to help.”
The outside door to the mudroom broke under the weight of a shoulder, the wood splintering with a loud crack, and the body stumbled through the opening. Tossing aside the coats and boots and skis and empty crates, it made its way toward the kitchen, as Nick hurried to throw the bolt to the inner door before it arrived. Looking for escape and a safe haven, he crossed to the door to the workroom stairs and flicked on the overhead light. There were a dozen nooks and crannies in which to hide, though he did not know how long they could hold out there. Leaving Jack Peter behind, he took the first few steps down the wooden staircase to investigate.
Something scurried below. Nick could sense the movement before he could see it. The floor was covered with them. Those same phantom babies from the other night, mewling and fussing as the sudden light disturbed their shadowy hiding places. Nick screamed and then held his breath, terrified but unable to look away. They swarmed like insects on the floor, tottered on the workbench, sidled by the table saw. Under the glare of the artificial light, they were more defined than they had been on that horrible night when they climbed the walls. Babies with odd bodies, exaggerated eyes misshapen as fried eggs, sketched-in noses, and mouths wide and red as gilled fishes. They were not babies at all but the embodiment of the fevers hatched in the mind of their creator. Drawing made flesh and bone, distortions of reality. Some had jagged marks along their bodies or across their heads, scars that looked taped together. Little demons, fat and squalid and raw. They moved as if lost and blind, hissing like cockroaches, until two and then three took notice of him on the stairs and began to race toward him with unnatural speed. As if waking from a dream, he switched off the light and retreated, banging the door behind him and pushing in the flimsy lock. They cried as though wounded by his disappearance.
The kitchen was empty. Jack Peter was not where he had left him, nowhere to be seen. The inner door from the mudroom was ajar. Cold air slithered in and wet prints of large bare feet dirtied the floor, trailing off to the stairway to the upper level. The smell of fish hung in the air, a pungent odor on the edge of rotten. Making himself small, Nick crouched beneath the table and wrapped his arms around his knees to stop himself from shaking. The table leg vibrated against his body, and he tried to hold his breath and be completely silent, but he could not stop his nervous panting. He could not decide whether to risk running to the phone or to hunt for Jack Peter. Each passing moment heightened his fear. Do something, anything. Willing the Keenans to burst through the open door, he listened but heard no passing car on the road, no turn of the key. The fire crackled in the next room, the fridge hummed mechanically, and the wind whistled through the ruined doorway. Nothing else moved. The creatures in the workroom must be napping in the darkness, and elsewhere in the house not a sound came from Jack Peter or the white man. That silence disturbed every hope for peace, and for the first time, Nick wondered if the monster had stolen the boy and run away and left him all alone in the house.
A half-remembered tune filled his thoughts, providing a balm against the terror. His mother used to sing to him when he was much younger, hovering above him as she gave him a bath. “‘Yellow bird, up high in banana tree.’” Her voice was high and pretty, and in the quiet, he could hear it again, the rising and falling melody. He wished his mother were there to save him. “‘Yellow bird, you sit all alone like me.’” But she was not there, and her absence intensified his dread. No one but himself to count on.
One of Jack Peter’s drawings had fallen to the floor and lay near him under the kitchen table. He scurried sideways and grabbed it, turning the sheet over to reveal the picture. Like a skeletal tree, the white man towered over the two boys, reaching out to them with his branchy arms, and crouching at its feet, the boys were cowering and shielding their faces. He hated Jack Peter and his drawings. Hated all monsters. He tore the paper in two in a swift and mercile
ss execution, separating the creature’s head from its body.
From upstairs came an unholy scream, an anguished animal groan that he knew at once came from the monster and not the boy. The drawing, he thought to himself, it’s Jack Peter’s drawing that has made the monster. He crawled out from beneath the table and found other drawings strewn across the surface. Sifting through the pages till he found another picture of the white man, he quickly ripped the paper from top to bottom. The monster cried out again in pain and anger. He gathered all the sheets together and tried to tear through the stack, but it was too thick. Dividing it in half, he tugged and sheared one set after the other. Below him the babies bawled in chorus, and the upstairs hallway resounded with a high and bitter howling. A door flew open and small feet raced across the ceiling, and in moments, Jack Peter came charging down the stairs, his face red and tearstained. Nick was never happier to see him in his life.
“Where were you?”
“Hid,” he said. “Under the bed there were no monsters. When he couldn’t find me, he hollered and left to get you.”
“Never mind.” He held up the torn pages. “It’s the pictures. We have to get rid of them.”
“No.” He was trembling. “Not my drawings.”
Like some wild thing, Nick pounced on him, taking his shirt in the talons of his hands. “Listen to me. Do you want the monster to kill us? I found what you hid upstairs. Are there more? Where are the rest of the pictures?”
“Everywhere,” Jack Peter said.
The news destroyed him. There were the drawings in the bedrooms upstairs, now lying upon the beds and strewn across the floor, and who knew where the others might be hiding or how many Jack Peter had stashed in secret places. No way to find them all with the creature in pursuit. Above them, the thing clomped from room to room, searching.
The Boy Who Drew Monsters Page 25