The Toy Thief

by DW Gillespie

  “What’s your problem?” he would ask from time to time, whenever he caught me glowering at him.

  “Your face,” I’d reply with characteristic self-satisfaction.

  By Thursday, I gave up. I simply didn’t have much choice in the matter. My body just wouldn’t let me continue like that for another night. I resolved, even after retreating to my own bed for the first time in four nights, that my hunt was far from over. Even so, I’m not sure I’ve ever felt quite as snuggly as I did sinking into my own bed that night. I was out before the sun set all the way.

  I felt better on Friday, but by the time afternoon rolled around, bringing with it an uncontrollable series of yawns, there was no doubt left in the matter. My late-night stakeouts were over for the foreseeable future, maybe even for good. The realization brought on a wave of disappointment, even despair, as I wrestled with the idea that I might never know exactly what the thing that slunk into our house had been. If there was some higher purpose, some hidden design to stealing a girl’s toy, I would likely never know. The memory of the tape would continue to turn hazy around the edges, blurring into something so unbelievable that eventually, my weak, human mind would stop trying to reconcile it. The image would change, transforming into something easily digested and understood, and all would be right in the world once more.

  I took a long path home after the bus dropped me off, curling through the woods just outside of our neighborhood. Sometimes I would cut through the wide field at the edge of the subdivision, mainly because it was the closest route to Dee’s Food Town, a little market that Andy and I would stop at whenever we had gathered enough change to buy a Ring Pop or some candy cigarettes. I always settled on a Yoo-Hoo, and by the time we hit the curb out front, it would be gone. Inevitably, I’d end up having to squat in the shrubs lining the field to keep from pissing myself.

  The field itself wasn’t much to see. The real tourist stop for all the kids in the area was a claustrophobic tangle of woods known rather ominously as the Trails. I’ve never seen a place quite like the Trails before or since, with the low-hanging trees that snaked over each other like something out of a twisted dream. There were scratchy paths within, made originally by deer and raccoons before being filed down by hundreds of sneakered kids over the years, and the trails seemed to run right over each other, doubling back, leading into dead ends and creeks, steep drops and gullies. In other words, the place was chaos made whole, and any kids in walking distance couldn’t stay away. It was a fine place to play hide-and-seek or capture the flag, and the low, gnarled trunks almost guaranteed that grownups would stay as far away as possible.

  There was something magic about that place, about the realization that a small slice of the planet belonged to people too young to drive a car. But there was something dark there too, the promises of more complicated things that waited for all of us, the truth sneaking in. The used condoms. The syringes. The empty whiskey bottles, broken and jagged. Neighborhood kids, especially the older ones, talked about Devil worshippers holding court there at night, warning any in earshot to stay clear of that place when the sun went down. There was evidence too, proof that they weren’t just trying to strike fear into the next generation of kids who called Tristan Circle home. There was the pentagram spray-painted on the far side of the giant water tank on the hill past the woods. There was a dead possum, all but unrecognizable without its skin, that turned up in the alley behind Dee’s. And the cross, carved jagged and upside down on the back of a dead husk of a maple tree.

  Everyone knew these things, and some of us had even seen them, but that didn’t do much to kill the magic of the Trails. It might have drawn us even closer. Even so, I refused to ever set foot in that place at night. But in the hazy hours between school and nightfall, I just wandered. I was tired, more so than I could ever remember being, but more than that, I was just plain bummed. There was something fascinating and big about the intruder, a secret that was mine, a mystery waiting to be cracked. Now it was clear that I would never know anything more than I already did. After watching the tape, I had kept my own special toy – the green bear from Mom – with me at every available minute to keep it from being stolen as well. I set it outside the shower, tucking it into my loose pajama pants whenever Dad walked in with dinner. I even packed it into my book bag, deep down underneath everything else. I wanted it, needed it even, but I didn’t want a soul to know that I had it.

  At the edge of the Trails, I dug into my backpack and plucked the bear out. I don’t know that I had ever been in that particular thicket of dark roots by myself, and I wanted the bear with me, as if cotton and wool could somehow protect me from whatever horrors might lurk within. I plunged in, following the closest thing to a main path that there was. It was two feet wide, the packed dirt smooth and rolling, but knotted with knurls of roots that ran underfoot like great, thick veins. The path veered right, under a broad trunk that grew vertical to the ground, and I had to duck underneath it. The bear dangling in my hand dragged on the ground and jostled against the trail as I walked, but he never complained, and I was glad for the company.

  As I wandered, I thought about the strange thing in the house. I thought about Andy, seeming to hate me more by the day. I thought of Dad, and for some strange reason, I kept picturing the version of him from the snapshots I found, clearly drunk but absurdly happy. I wondered if that man might ever be found again, coaxed out, and resuscitated. And then, as if my past had swung a hammer straight at my head, I thought of Mom, and I was overwhelmed by the unquestionable truth at the core of my family. If I had never been born, all of them would be better off. My mother had been, from everything I could gather, the beating heart at the center of our little family, and I was the stake that was driven through the middle of it.

  By the time I made it home, I was all but spent. I curled into my bed early again after the three of us ate Chinese takeout, camped around the TV, our faces bathed in blue light and teriyaki sauce. Dad had stopped by the video store and rented a horror movie, I think it was one of the Jasons. I could never keep track of them, but he and Andy loved that kind of stuff. This was one of the few scenarios that I didn’t bitch about until I got my way. Don’t doubt for a second that if I’d tried hard enough, we would have been watching whatever I wanted, week in and week out. But there was something about those nights, the three of us, watching gruesome movies about teen campers being sliced and diced that was so…normal. It might sound stupid, especially if you lived a stable home life, but for us, it was special. This was our family dinner table, our weekend bowling trips, our overnight excursions into the mountains. It was the only time that all three of us found some sort of homogeneity, where the odd, bitter mixture of three people coalesced into something altogether different and individual. The giant, gaping hole left by my mother’s death was still there, but invisible. Unseen. Beyond our reach.

  We were whole.

  Dad would laugh whenever a particularly brutal kill happened, and more than once, I heard Andy chuckle as well, the sound still so rare as to be special. I could tell things were starting to cool off between us, so after getting up to dump my plate in the kitchen, I intentionally sat down on the couch closer than I had been before. He shifted, a bit uncomfortably, but he never made me move, and by the time the last act of the movie rolled around, I was leaning my head on his shoulder and snoring. He could have easily pushed my head off, told me to go to bed if I was so damn tired. But he didn’t.

  I finally did wake up when the movie was over. Dad was stretching and yawning loud enough to wake the dead, but Andy just sat there quietly, waiting for me to rouse myself. I’m not sure how long he would have waited, but part of me believes he just might have sat there all night.

  Chapter Five

  I think, had things gone differently for all of us, that I might have been able to make it as an actress. I never set foot onstage. Even though the idea interested me, my dislike of theater kids was far too overwhel
ming for me to take a run at it. I’m basing all this on my inherent ability to manipulate people. It happened almost daily with my dad, but then again, he was terribly easy. I was also able to do it with my teachers, friends, coworkers, whoever was around. It wasn’t because I’m some great beauty, beguiling everyone with my good looks. I look good enough, but I’ve got a strike against me. Two strikes, in fact. There go my itchy fingers again.

  It’s certainly not because I’m the nicest person in the world. I am, to be perfectly honest, the only person I know who has ever waited outside of a movie theater to threaten a group of teenagers who wouldn’t shut up during the movie. That was pretty stupid in hindsight, but the sheer sight of me, all one hundred and fifteen pounds, using language that made rowdy high school kids blush was enough to get the job done. I’ve spit on double-parked cars before keying them, and I once told a rude waiter that I hoped he got AIDS. So no, it’s not my rosy personality.

  It might sound horribly pretentious to say it, but the simple fact is that I’m smarter than pretty much everyone. Let me edit that at least a little bit. I’m not smarter than everyone. Just everyone around me. I have a feeling, had I been born in some big city or gone to a respected Ivy League school, I might be totally average, maybe slightly above. And I’ll admit, there are plenty of people who know more shit than I do. I work with a guy in his forties who watches Jeopardy every single day. He can quote Shakespeare and count pi up to, like, twenty-five digits. He’s smarter than me. But if I get behind and need some help, I can easily get him to do it. If push came to shove, I could probably collect a paycheck for six months just by using the various people I work with.

  In a way, it seems weird to say things like this about myself, but I can’t really deny it. Everyone who ever comes close to being themselves, really living in their own skins, they have the same kind of moment. It’s that single slice of time when they say, “This is who I am. I do this better than just about everybody.” It’s like Michael Jordan being humble about playing basketball. After a while, it just sounds silly.

  I mention all this to tell you about one of my best skills. From a remarkably young age, maybe even five or six, I could fake being asleep. I know, it doesn’t sound like the most impressive skill in the world, but it’s harder than it looks. You have to let go of certain parts of your body, let your muscles loosen and relax in ways that just don’t happen while you’re awake. Your mouth droops open, your eyes are slitted just a tiny bit, while your pupils aren’t focused on anything at all. The kicker though, the one that really sells it, is your breathing. Deep and guttural, with hints of a slight snore on the end of it. All of it, combined together, is just another form of control. No one seems more helpless than when they’re asleep. People drop their guard, because, as far as they know, you’re not really there. But when I’m laying back, slobbering on my chin, I’m really the one calling the shots.

  * * *

  Somehow, after the horror movie and the absolutely draining afternoon in the Trails, I had the wherewithal to hang the Polaroid from the edge of my headboard. I figured, even if the hunt was more or less over, I would want it close at hand if I heard anything scurrying about in the night. That would turn out to be a rather serendipitous move on my part.

  I slumped into the bed, wrapped up in the loose sheets once or twice, and began to drift. The room was awash in the same cold, blue glaze it always had, lit by the small freshwater aquarium on the desk in the corner. The fish were dead and gone by then, the last one having gone belly up six months or so back, but I kept it on just because I’d gotten so used to it.

  Once or twice, Memphis pawed against the bedroom door. I knew how stubborn he could be, how much he liked to curl up at my feet in the night, but I was too tired to care this time. He gave up and slunk off to some other area of the house, probably next to the water heater. The house grew still, my eyelids turned to lead, and I wandered softly into sleep.

  Hours vanished. Then there was a sudden, sharp hiss somewhere down the hall, followed by the surprisingly heavy clump of fat paws tumbling across the floor. I jolted awake, mind racing. Memphis running sprints in the dead of night was nothing new, but the hiss? That was completely out of character.

  I considered getting out of bed and just letting him in once and for all. I was still too tired to care what the silly cat was up to, but my bladder was beginning to tighten from all the 7 Up I’d downed during the movie. I didn’t necessarily need to pee yet, but I knew I would soon enough, so I just waited, trying to muster up the energy to actually stand up and go. I had nearly given up when I heard it.

  The latch on my door as it clicked open.

  Instantly, I narrowed my eyes down to slits, certain that Andy was either letting the cat in or maybe sneaking in for a more devious plan, some long-brewing revenge. Either way, I went immediately into fake sleep mode, and all the key signs were engaged at once. My breathing changed, my body went limp, and a light, subtle snore rose from my lips. The room went blurry, but I could see well enough with the aquarium light.

  I waited.

  I can’t say how long I held that position, but it felt like several minutes. There was a small slice of blackness running up the wall: the narrow crack of the barely open door and the empty, lightless hall behind. What the hell was Andy doing? Spying on me? Taping me? Some sort of sick, slow-burn vengeance that I hadn’t even considered? I couldn’t begin to guess, but the tape of the Toy Thief felt so far away that it didn’t even cross my mind for a second. That is, not until the door crept open further. That was when I saw the eyes.

  A pair of gleaming, reflective orbs hovered two feet above the carpeted floor, as shiny as shot glasses. They bobbed like glowing phantoms, turning slowly to each side, scanning the room for – what, exactly? Danger? Me? It was the measured movement of a thing that was beyond careful, beyond apprehensive, beyond patient.

  I was dreaming. I had to be. If it was Andy, he would have to be kneeling, crawling on all fours, prowling into my room like a dog. None of it made sense, and so I knew it was all just a dream. I could feel my heartbeat racing, and I wanted to stand up, to end this thing, to force my frozen limbs to move. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. So I watched.

  It leaned forward, and I saw something else glinting in the blue light – a jagged crown of metal across the forehead, a strange, decorative circle of bronze. It didn’t make sense, but dreams never do. I thought about Memphis and felt a sudden pang of fear – not for myself, but for him – and the terror ran through me like fire. As much of a pain in my ass as he could be, I loved Memphis dearly. I couldn’t imagine a cat as stubborn as him hiding in a dark corner of the house as this thing slunk past. As I stared at the creature through the slits of my eyelids, my imagination began to run wild with visions of Memphis lying in the den, skull crushed, throat sliced, maybe even skinless, his fur lying across the back of the couch like a blood-slick banana peel.

  No. Not that. Nothing like that was going to happen. Nothing like that could happen.

  Just a dream.

  It stepped into the light. It was a slow, measured step, but I knew what I would see before it appeared. A thin, black hand reached into the pool of blue-tinged light and rested there, so gentle that it didn’t make a single sound. I’d seen that hand before, and now I knew. I didn’t want to know, I begged to God not to know, but it was too late. It was the same hand that had plucked away the doll, all bones and sinew wrapped in black skin, and so I knew.

  It was no dream at all.

  The hand was followed by another, reaching forward in the shape of a man walking on all fours – not like a dog, but a spider. Now, even through my half-closed eyes, I could see it all. The eyes didn’t just look glassy, they were glass. They were glass lenses, round, perfect circles set in what could only be a ghoulish mask.

  It looked like it might have been carved out of wood. The face of the mask was flat-nosed, with a pair of nostril holes that
pointed straight at me. The overall shape was human-like, but twisted horribly, changed just enough to seem wrong. Most unsettling of all was the mouth, lips curled and pulled back like some sort of snarling animal to show the rows of narrow, yellowed teeth. They were crooked, the ends of them refusing to line up, each one askew and angular and awful. My bladder threatened to burst as I took in that horrid, dead-eyed face, and the only comfort to be found was in the realization that it wasn’t real. It was only a mask.

  Then the lips moved.

  In all the days from there to here, I still can’t even begin to guess how I held myself still in that moment. The strange, flat nose twitched, the nostrils flared as it sniffed quietly, and I saw that crude mockery of a human mouth open and close, tasting the very air.

  Real.

  That word echoed, firing from one dark corner of my brain to the next. An impossible thought, an unreal fact that was undeniable as it stood there, hunched on all fours on the floor of my bedroom, mere feet away from me.

  Real.

  I felt my eyes creaking open as my resolve threatened to shatter. I needed to see more, to know that it was real, to stand witness to something unnatural and impossible as it padded in, one step closer. I saw the whole body in that moment: long, wire-thin, clad in dark clothes that covered all except the ghastly face. The sight of it was enough to snap me back, and I focused once more on narrowing my eyes and keeping up the ruse for as long as my body would allow. It was, as near as I could tell, my only defense.