The Wash

by Cary Christopher

  Still, that did little to comfort him. The truth was that beyond the coyote and the spiders, Wendell’s mind kept going back to the night he’d walked Cindy home. Right before the coyote chased him, he’d caught a glimpse of something in the pond. He didn’t quite remember what it was. Maybe it was a hallucination, a mixture of a night of drinking and lack of sleep. He saw it’s shadowy shape every time he closed his eyes. The body was fuzzy, but the dead black eyes looking at him unblinking. Those were clear as day.

  That’s why sleeping at Steve and Sara’s had been such a good idea. In his head, he figured there was strength in numbers. Whatever it was that was trying to get him wouldn’t dare do it with so many people around. He didn’t have to worry about coyotes and spiders. He didn’t have to worry about shadowy pond monsters. He just relaxed and had a good time, which meant he’d fallen asleep right after eating.

  He glanced at the clock above the T.V. It was five a.m. No one would be up for a while. Then, the paranoia hit again.

  ‘Is everyone safe?’

  He crept around the house and peeked in all the rooms. He found Steve and Sara sleeping peacefully. He went to the window, looked out and saw nothing but the first gray light of morning creeping over the trees and a light dusting of snow.

  He pulled on his jacket, left a short note of thanks for Steve and Sara and let himself out. The air was brisk, clean and clear and the walk home felt good.

  “What have I been thinking?” he asked himself.

  Snow was coming in the next few weeks. The mountains would be white and inviting. His truck was in good condition. His snowboards were ready to go and his favorite time of year was at hand. Life was good!

  He allowed himself to smile for the first time in what seemed like a week. Things were looking up. Coyotes, spiders, whatever… they couldn’t hurt him. What was he thinking?

  He was only about 40 yards from his driveway when he noticed the front door was ajar. He stopped at the edge of the yard.

  ‘Did I close it?’ he thought.

  He must have. He never left his house without closing and locking his door. Others in The Wash made fun of him because he locked everything out of habit. Growing up in Arizona, he’d had his apartment broken into more than once.

  ‘I could have forgotten, though,’ he thought.

  After all, he hadn’t been in a good state of mind when he’d left. Anything was possible. He cut across the yard and made his way up the two steps to the door. He pushed it open and flipped the entryway light on. There was nothing unusual. There were no footprints or tracks on the floor. Nothing had been bumped or moved as far as he could tell. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. Pulling off his jacket, he hung it on a hook by the door and picked up an umbrella, brandishing it like a club. Steadily, he moved into the hallway, the carpet muffling the sound of his boots as he made his way past the kitchen and toward his bedroom. At the bathroom entrance he paused, flicked the switch and poked his head inside. There was nothing out of place. He left the light on and kept moving down the hallway. As he came up on the entrance to his bedroom, he paused again and listened. He heard nothing. Renewing his grip on the umbrella, he stepped into the room and flipped the light switch.

  Again, there was nothing. The bed was made, as he’d left it. There were clothes scattered on the floor and CDs shuffled across the table near his portable radio.

  He walked across the bedroom to the door of his bathroom. When he flipped the light on, he noticed the tile floor was wet. In fact, it had soaked into the edge of the carpet. His eyes followed the water to the tub. It was full to the top. Carefully, he walked over and peered down into the water. At first he saw nothing. Then, the water seemed to coalesce and darken. The bottom of the tub disappeared and beneath the surface he could see rocks, lake grass, small minnows moving back and forth. The sides of the tub faded as well and gradually, he was standing on a rocky outcropping. Behind him the bathroom remained intact but in front of him was water, a few boulders and early morning mist.

  Suddenly, the black eyed, frog-faced thing was staring up at him. It lay by the rocks, its needle mouth neither smiling nor grimacing. It just registered his presence and then sprang up and at him. Wendell leapt back, his feet slipping out from under him as he came crashing down hard on his butt. He frantically kicked his way back across the floor as the illusion of the rock faded. He was in his bathroom and the tub was in front of him, but now, a clawed hand was gripping the side. The needle mouthed thing was pulling itself over the edge. He had time to register its webbed toes flex as its hind legs slid over, then his brain finally snapped his body to attention.

  Wendell flipped over, found his feet and bolted for the door of his bedroom. He made it into the hallway and was headed back to the living room when a familiar canine shape stepped out of the shadows and parked itself in front of the door. Brandishing the umbrella like a machete, Wendell walked forward swinging it back and forth.

  “I’d have to be pretty stupid to be scared of an umbrella,” said the coyote.

  Wendell screamed like a little girl. He pushed his way into the guest bathroom off the hall and locked the door behind him. He scanned around him for anything to fight back with.

  Nothing. The closest thing to a weapon was a toilet brush and plunger.

  He opened the cabinet under the sink. Again nothing. Just towels and soap.

  “You are very, very odd,” said the coyote from the other side of the door. “You can see the Ixtlatl,” it continued. “What else can you see?”

  Wendell didn’t answer. He was scanning again. The towel rack. Maybe if he pulled the dowel out of the holders, he could use it as a better weapon than the umbrella.

  “It’s too bad really,” the coyote continued. “If you hadn’t seen it, I could leave you alone.”

  “I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT AN ICKS-A-TEL IS!” Wendell cried out as he continued working the dowel from the rack.

  “Maybe not,” said the coyote, “but you can hear me. Unfortunately, that’s not a good thing either.”

  Wendell gave up on the dowel. Above the tub was a small window. He stood up, put one foot in the tub and the other on the edge and began pushing on the window. The frame bowed slightly but didn’t give.

  He heard a soft scratching at the door, then a whump as something hit it hard.

  “LEAVE ME ALONE!” Wendell called out.

  “That’s not really an option at this point,” said the coyote. “I could lie to you and get you to come out but honestly, this will be quicker.”

  Wendell put both hands on the frame and pushed again as hard as he could. Nothing gave. He looked down into the tub as something began to drool from the faucet. It was the consistency of maple syrup, only clear. He jumped off the tub and watched as the syrup began to change. It formed fingers and the fingers grew claws.

  “Let me guess,” said the coyote from the other side of the door. “Since you’ve stopped banging on stuff, I can only assume the Ixtlatl is making a dramatic entrance. Why don’t we just cut to the chase? You can see him. You can hear me. Perhaps it’s best if you saw things in their natural state.”

  Wendell stared as the wall beyond the tub faded. Everything around him was shimmering. The faucet was now protruding from the side of a large willow which grew next to a lake. The blob was drooling out of the end of it, taking the shape of an arm, shoulder and a liquidly black eye. He backed up until he felt the bathroom door behind him.

  Whump!

  Something hit the door again and this time, it knocked Wendell forward onto his knees and splintered the wood around the door jamb. He got back to his feet and then the floor was gone. Dark cool water soaked his jeans through at the thighs. His brain was racing, trying to make sense of what was happening. The faucet in the willow was now just a low branch. A soft, silken layer of mist hung over the water and a canopy of large cypress blocked out most of the light from the early morning sun. The musty decaying smell of peat filtered up to his nose and he could feel his
feet sinking into thick silt.

  “HELP ME!” he screamed as he struggled to pull himself out of the mire and get back to the bank. “SOMEBODY HELP…”

  His words turned into a scream.

  Needle teeth sank into his inner thigh and he felt the rip of both flesh and fabric giving way. Arms came up on either side of his torso and embraced him, claws digging into the muscle under his shoulder blades. Wendell felt the sting of hundreds of tiny barbs biting into his flesh. He screamed again but this time his head was under water. The only sounds were bubbles breaking the surface and a violent swirl. His eyes searched desperately for some way out but instead they saw the frog thing, its mouth opened impossibly wide. There was a snap and he felt needle teeth sink into his throat and cheek. The jaws locked down and the head jerked. With a rip and a pop, his jaw came out of its socket. Wendell’s body squirmed in the Ixtlatl’s embrace as the water around him bloomed in crimson flourishes. If anyone had seen him, they would know that in Wendell’s mind, he was still screaming as loudly as he could but there was no sound. The Ixtlatl held him like a lover, turned gracefully and kicked toward the deeper parts of the lake.

  X

  It was unusually bright with hardly a cloud in the sky as Steve backed his truck out of the driveway. With Sara still in bed nursing a hangover, he figured he’d go by Wendell’s and then to the shop. Without a doubt, when Wendell was troubled and there was no snow on the ground, he was either at home or with his head beneath the hood of a car.

  Steve made the turn and immediately saw Wendell’s truck sitting in the driveway. He pulled in behind it, the engine idling while he decided what to do. The shades were all pulled, but it was late for Wendell to still be in bed. He pulled out his phone and dialed Wendell’s number. As he sat in the cab, listening to it ring, he watched the house. There didn’t seem to be any movement. Finally it went to voicemail and he hung up. He killed the engine and that’s when the silence hit him. There were no birds singing, no wind in the trees. It was unnerving. He looked around and saw the hefty form of J.B. jogging down the road.

  “Beautiful morning, huh?” J.B. waved.

  “Yep,” Steve closed the truck door behind him and looked from J.B. back to the house. The big man pulled up to a stop.

  “Everything okay?”

  Even in the cool air, J.B.’s thick sweatshirt stuck to him and dark patches appeared randomly around it.

  “Wendell stayed at my house last night but left before we woke up. I was just coming by to see how he was doing. Truck’s in the driveway, but he’s not answering his phone.”

  “Maybe he’s asleep.”

  “Could be,” Steve said and walked up the front steps. J.B. watched him ring the doorbell. When there was no answer, Steve knocked hard and waited again.

  “Wendell!”

  He reached down and tried the knob. It turned easily.

  He looked back at J.B. who was coming up the steps behind him.

  “Wendell wouldn’t leave the door unlocked.”

  “Yo, Wendell! Are you home?” J.B. yelled as he reached past Steve and pushed the door open. Wendell’s coat was hanging on a hook in the entryway.

  The two men walked to the hallway and each called again but there was no answer.

  “What’s in there?” J.B. pointed to the room at the end of the hall. The light was on and the door was wide open.

  “That’s his bedroom.”

  The hairs on Steve’s arms began to rise. This was totally unlike Wendell. He definitely wouldn’t have gone anywhere without his jacket and he wouldn’t have left the house unlocked. He had to be here.

  Steve walked down the hall and peered into the bedroom. The door to the bathroom was open and the light was on. He walked to it and saw puddled water on the floor. The bathtub had overflowed. He approached it slowly, half expecting to see his friend’s body at the bottom but it was empty. He turned back to see J.B. in the door and shook his head.

  “Some flooding from the bathtub but he’s not in there.”

  J.B. walked back down the hallway. The door to the guest bathroom was closed. He turned the door knob and felt the lock catch. The jamb was cracked and stressed.

  “Wendell! You in there, man?”

  Again, there was no answer. J.B. stepped back and kicked at the door hard. There was a cracking noise but it held. He did it again, this time throwing all his weight behind it and feeling a satisfying pop as the bolt gave.

  Inside, there was nothing out of the ordinary except for an umbrella lying on the floor. The window above the bathtub was open.

  “Could he have climbed through that?” asked J.B. as Steve pushed past him into the room.

  “I don’t think he’d fit,” said Steve. “Besides, why would he?”

  J.B. turned back and walked through the rest of the house. There was nothing out of the ordinary and no trace of Wendell. He shrugged as he rejoined Steve in the entryway.

  “Looks like he ran off.”

  “Maybe so, but why leave his truck and his jacket?” Steve asked as he pulled out his cell phone.

  “Who you calling?”

  “Panguitch police. He’s a missing person now, right?”

  “Yeah but he could be anywhere. He could have just wandered down to the garage.”

  Steve paused.

  “Okay, I’ll check there first but if he’s not there I’m calling the cops.”

  “I think that’s probably a good idea.”

  J.B. pushed past Steve, back out into the sunlight and as his eyes adjusted he caught movement behind Wendell’s truck. A lone coyote locked eyes with him. It held his gaze for a moment then turned and trotted around the other side of the house. He immediately bolted after it but lost it. He knelt down to look for tracks but there was nothing.

  “You find something?” Steve called from the front steps.

  “Did you see that coyote?”

  “What coyote?”

  “Behind Wendell’s truck. It ran to the back yard.”

  J.B. walked toward the truck looking at the ground.

  “You sure you saw it?” Steve asked.

  “It looked right at me.”

  “Well, it’s gone now. I’m going to the garage. I’ll call you if I find him.”

  “It looked right at me,” J.B. repeated under his breath as Steve climbed into the truck and drove away.

  XI

  At 3:30, Cindy had just turned the closed sign to say “open” and walked back toward the kitchen when she heard the bells on the handle jingle. She turned back in time to see Robert come through the door, a book in one hand and the other pulling a small backpack off.

  “Just sit anywhere?” he asked.

  “You’re the first customer. The place is yours,” she replied with a sweep of her arm. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Coffee would be great. Are there any specials?”

  Cindy looked over at the blank chalkboard, “Let me go check. Dora must have forgotten to write them down.”

  Robert sat down and and in a few moments she returned with his coffee.

  “The special tonight is country-fried steak,” she said, placing the cup in front of him. “It comes with mashed potatoes and gravy. I recommend the brown gravy. You’ll get white on the steak.”

  “A gravy selection. I like it,” Robert smiled. “I’ll take that.”

  She looked back toward the kitchen and saw Dora peeking out. She waved to Robert, “What’s he having?”

  “One special, with mashed potatoes and brown gravy please,” Cindy called back to her.

  “Coming up,” said Dora and she disappeared again.

  Cindy sat down across from him.

  “So you headed to work?” she asked, a devilish smile on her lips.

  Robert grinned back slyly, “Of course not, Cindy. You know I’m not allowed to sell alcohol in the state of Utah on a Sunday.”

  She rolled her eyes, “So I should come by after I get off and see who’s there?”

  Ro
bert just smiled. She looked down at the well-worn book he had with him.

  “What are you reading?”

  “Kafka On The Shore.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  Robert turned the book in his hands, “It’s one of my favorites. The author is Haruki Murakami. He’s amazing. His stories read like dreams.”

  “So you’ve read it before?” she asked.

  “Two or three times.”

  “See, I can’t do that. Once I read a book I really don’t have any desire to go back and read it again.”

  Robert pursed his lips and nodded, “I figure most people are probably that way, but there are certain books that demand you read them more than once.”

  “Really?” asked Cindy, skeptically. “Name some.”

  “Well, obviously this one. Murakami’s Hard Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World is another. It’s about a man living in two worlds at the same time and every time I read it I get something else out of it. Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer is brilliant. I’ve read that a few times.”

  “See, I totally disagree,” Cindy interrupted.

  Robert’s eyes went wide, “You’ve read Tropic of Cancer?”

  “Yes, I have and honestly, I don’t get why it’s such a big deal.”

  “It’s that it’s so raw. It’s just a fantastic illustration of the writer’s life in Paris. It’s gritty but there’s a beauty in that.”

  “It’s written by a guy who’s in love with his own writing. Miller is overrated.”

  “Overrated?” He let his jaw drop in mock horror. “I never knew you were a reader.”

  “You never asked,” she turned the book over and scanned the back. “J.B. used to tell me you read more than he does. He said that’s all you ever wanted to do was read all day.”

  Robert gave a tiny smile, “That’s probably a lie. He reads just as much as I do but our tastes are completely different. I like mostly fiction these days. He likes nonfiction.”