The Nightmare Frontier

by Stephen Mark Rainey

  Though the night air was chilly, he preferred the windows open, mainly because of the cigarette smell that saturated the house. The upper floor stayed warm anyway, so the breeze that swept in felt clean and refreshing. He was just closing up his laptop when he heard a soft creak-thump from somewhere below—the closing of the outside kitchen door, it sounded like. Lynette? he wondered. He laid his computer aside, went to the window, and peered into the darkness, but with the nightstand lamp on, he could see nothing outside.

  “Lynette?” he called softly, but received no answer. He went out to the hall, to her door, and gently knocked; when she did not respond, he opened it, only to find the room pitch dark. Reaching in with one hand, he felt for the overhead light switch, found it, and flipped it up. Her bed was turned down but empty.

  Not yet alarmed but curious and concerned, he hurried down to the main floor, through the kitchen, and out the back door, onto the small terrace that faced the yard. At first, he could see nothing, but as his eyes began to adjust, he made out a pale, willowy shape moving slowly toward the distant black hump that melded subtly with the starless sky. He started after her at a clip, heedless of the obstacles that might be hiding beyond the relative safety of the yard.

  To his left, the trees that hemmed the lower slope of the ridge leaned over him as if curious about the stranger in their midst, their gnarled limbs grazing his head and shoulders, sometimes threatening his eyes. Once he passed the property line, holes, rocks, roots, and branches lurked in the knee-high grass and weeds, constantly threatening to trip him. He had no idea if Lynette regularly sleepwalked, but she was certainly risking life and limb venturing out here like this.

  When he saw that he was beginning to gain on the pale figure ahead, he called, “Lynette!”

  At first, she gave no sign of hearing him, but eventually she stopped and turned toward him; he could almost make out her features in the darkness. She was wearing only her light, silky nightgown, and she wrapped her arms around herself as if feeling the chill for the first time.

  As he strode to her side, she again turned to face the distant ridge.

  “I heard Rodney calling me,” she said softly.

  “You’ve been dreaming,” he said, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. “This is no place for you to be.”

  She didn’t look at him but continued to gaze into the distance. “No, I had to come. I heard his voice. He called me ‘Mama.’”

  “It must have seemed very real.”

  She finally turned to look at him, and the sorrow in her eyes nearly broke his heart. “I thought it was him,” she whispered. Then she turned and started walking back toward the house, her gait faltering as she tried to navigate the rough ground. He took her arm to steady her.

  A low breeze had begun to sweep across the meadow from the north; even through his clothes, the cold bit into his flesh. But he didn’t dare push her any faster on her bare feet. He would have offered to carry her but for fear of tripping and injuring the both of them.

  “Have you sleepwalked before?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Not that I know of.”

  The lights ahead shone like welcoming beacons, and when they finally reached the soft, freshly mowed grass, Lynette released an audible sigh of relief, now treading very gingerly. He led the way to the door and opened it for her, feeling a momentary twinge of sympathetic pain when he saw that her right foot left a thin smear of blood on the stone step.

  “Let me get that cleaned up for you.”

  She waved him away. “It’s nothing. I’ll take care of it upstairs. Lord, I can’t believe this. I could have been hurt a lot worse. Or you could have.”

  “You’re stressed all to pieces, my dear. I wouldn’t worry too much about this.”

  She looked him squarely in the eye. “I heard Rodney calling me so clearly. Hard to believe it was a dream. But it had to be, didn’t it?”

  He nodded.

  She sighed and glanced at her foot. “Well, I’m going to clean this and go back to bed. Do me a favor and make sure all the doors are dead-bolted, will you?”

  “You sure you don’t want me to give you a hand?”

  “I’m fine. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Goodnight, then.”

  Lynette disappeared through the door to the hall, and Copeland went to the back door to close and lock it. Before doing so, he leaned out and gazed into the darkness, listening more than looking. From the nearby ridge, the wind whispered like a low, masculine voice mouthing nonsensical words; and then some of the trees began to creak and moan weirdly—a high-pitched, dissonant accompaniment to the deeper, throaty wind-sound.

  Its plaintive voice cried, “Maaa-maaaaa...”

  If that sound had wended its way into Lynette’s subconscious, small wonder it had upset her. Even to his waking mind, the rough screeching began to take on a disturbing, all-too-human quality, and he was grateful no one was around to see him when he closed and bolted the door with more than necessary haste, then made his way upstairs to his room and forcefully closed the windows.

  Day Three

  Chapter 6

  Sheriff Mike Grayson could claim kinship with the Barrows by way of a great uncle on his mother’s side who had married Amos’s paternal aunt some eighty years back, and even though he was not a blood relative, he had generally found favor with the current Barrow clan, who took a particularly dim view of outsiders. Still, the fact that he represented the law made no more difference to them than if he were a plumber or an unemployable halfwit; in their eyes, the law existed only when it suited them.

  Grayson parked his aging but still hardy Ford Crown Vic, which packed a specially modified 4.9-liter, 244-horsepower V-8 under its hood, just behind Levi’s dent-ridden, rust-stained, 1980s vintage Chevy 4x4. He clambered out, sauntered past the three stark red-and-white, hand-painted “Keep Out” signs that welcomed one to the property, and stepped up to the sagging front porch, where he rapped solidly on the crooked, wormy door.

  When it groaned open, the stench of stale urine and mothballs wafted out, followed by a knobby, oversized head, which slowly swiveled on a stalk-like neck to reveal a pair of tiny, marble-like eyes that wallowed in deep black cavities. “Mr. Mike,” rolled a guttural voice from thick lips that didn’t quite close over a single protruding incisor. “Whatcha know?”

  “Morning, Joshua. Where’s Amos?”

  “Where he allus is.”

  The brutish-looking figure held the door open and Grayson stepped into the gloom of a dank, sparsely furnished living room, its floor covered by a rug so ancient and tattered that every step he took unraveled a few more threads. How anyone could live like this had mystified him from day one, but he knew better than to even think of exhibiting manners that the family might in any way construe as bad.

  With a hesitant clearing of his throat, he turned to face his distant cousin. “I have a question for you, Joshua, maybe two. You know that a boy got killed out this way a few days ago, right?”

  “That teacher’s lil boy, right, right. I seen him around before.”

  Grayson narrowed his eyes. “How much before?”

  “A while back, on that bicycle of his, him and them boys that ride down in the woods.”

  “Now, they’ve never given you any trouble, have they?”

  “Nah, they ain’t given us no trouble. Not after they seen me and my gun that time.”

  “Scared ’em, did you?”

  Joshua’s tiny eyes gleamed. “Mr. Mike, I just know you ain’t askin’ if we done somethin’ to ’em.”

  Grayson replied with an exaggerated shake of his head. “I just want to make sure everything’s all right up this way. You see, we don’t know what killed that young fellow, and I’d hate for you to be exposed to anything...dangerous. You know.”

  Joshua snickered grotesquely. “Nah, nah, nothing dangerous around here. If they was, you can be sure we’d know about it.”

  “You don’t mind if I say good morning t
o Amos, do you? Been a long while since I’ve seen him.”

  “Nah, nah, you go right on up. He’ll be happy you come to say hey.”

  Grayson went out to the hall and started up the creaky wooden stairs that led to the second floor, aware that Joshua’s eyes followed him as he climbed; not that he would expect any different, for Joshua always displayed curiosity—not suspicion—about him because he was a lawman. Today, though, Grayson felt a bit more on edge, perhaps because this was not a social call. Lynette Lawson’s brother—that Copeland fellow—had made some unkind and far too perceptive remarks about the goings-on in the community; as a city man, he seemed the sort who just might have the wherewithal to involve outside agencies in what ought to be Grayson’s sole jurisdiction.

  Amos Barrow would frown on such intrusions—and consequently on Grayson, for failing to nip the problem in the bud.

  At the end of the hall, only murky, dust-flecked light shone through a half-open door. Grayson approached it slowly, almost reverently, for the senior Barrow vehemently disliked surprises.

  Just before he reached the door, a slow, sonorous voice rumbled from within. “Would that be Mr. Mike I hear come to call?”

  Grayson stepped into a dim chamber with a single window, which admitted a few sickly sunbeams through grimy, translucent curtains. Strange, abstract-looking ceramic sculptures that almost resembled sea animals—with fins, stalks, scales, barbs, and other less-than-attractive attributes—rested atop almost every surface of the room. Amos had always displayed a certain crude artistic talent, often sculpting odd-looking, distorted representations of people, animals, and objects. But these particular pieces were new—and strangely repulsive, as if the mind that conceived them had become fixated on the grotesque.

  “I s’pose you’ve come to talk about that lil dead boy,” the deep voice said. “Did Joshua offer you a glass of tea?”

  “No, but that’s quite all right. And yes, that young boy is somewhat on my mind.”

  “Well, have a sit. If you’re gonna talk, talk. Don’t need to be pacing up and down.”

  Grayson nodded respectfully and settled himself in a warped wooden chair across from the family patriarch. Amos Barrow had looked old when Grayson was just a boy, and he had barely changed after all these years. His body was an immense, corpulent mass that spilled sloppily over his once-plush wing chair, but his arm muscles still rippled with quiescent power, and his legs looked strong enough to launch the enormous body from its chair with ease. A huge, football-shaped head nestled in the folds of flesh atop his broad shoulders, and the salt-and-pepper hair was close-cropped except at the forehead, where a tall, gray plume jutted almost comically upward from the skull. Milky blue eyes peered quizzically at him from behind thick, circular lenses in gold wire-rimmed frames. His billowing, dingy overalls were obviously handmade.

  “You looking a lil tired and edgy,” Amos said, ending the sentence with a deep hroom in his throat. “Guess you got a lot on your plate these days.”

  Grayson nodded solemnly, noticing that Amos’s left hand had settled protectively on a luminous, sapphire-blue stone about the size and shape of an egg, which rested on a metal stand atop the circular table next to his chair. The lighting must have shifted just then, he thought, because the gleaming surface of the object began to pulsate in curious fashion. He felt Amos’s eyes studying his, so he met the old man’s gaze and said, “Sad business that boy being killed out this way. There’s some that think it was an animal that did it, and some think it must have been a crazy man.”

  “Folks do terrible things to each other, don’t they? And it’s all the worse when it’s a young’un.”

  “There was another little fellow ended up in the hospital yesterday evening. He had an...experience...in just about the same place. Right out here on Yew Line Road.”

  “Do tell.”

  “I spoke to him and his mama this morning. He seems to not remember a thing that happened, except that he was scared out of his mind and trying to run away.”

  “Them kids ought not to go traipsing through these woods and such. Just cause there’s people living around here don’t mean there ain’t still bears and what not. You know, Levi shot him a bear not far from here just a few weeks back.”

  Grayson shook his head. “Don’t think he was running from any bear, least that’s the impression he gave me. And a couple of other folks—not kids—they saw something too, but they didn’t know what it was.”

  “How does somebody not know what they seen?”

  “Well, they claimed they never got a good look at it. But anyway, what about you and your boys? I don’t suppose y’all have seen anything that’d make you sit up and take notice?”

  The pale eyes behind the spectacles sparkled jovially. “Well, I’m not sure what you mean, Mr. Mike, but I ain’t seen a thing around here but what I’ve a perfect right to see.”

  Grayson cracked a little smile. “You’re sharp, as usual. Frankly, though, from all accounts, I think we’re looking for some kind of animal. And whatever it is, I’d consider it dangerous. I know your boys like to get out and wander on your land, and if they were to happen on something, and it took after them the way it took after these kids…well…it could be a bad situation. Now your grandsons listen to you, so I hope you’ll insist that they take extra care. Especially for Malachi’s sake.”

  “You’re kind to be thinking about us.”

  “You know I’ve always got your best interests at heart.”

  Amos’s huge head nodded slowly. His hand absently caressed the blue gem. “How is Janie?”

  “She’s all right. Had some kidney stones a while back, you know, but we think all that’s passed, if you take my meaning.”

  “Your job. Is it a heavy burden for you?”

  “My job? I been at it so long, I wouldn’t know nothing otherwise.”

  Amos’s thick lips spread in a knowing smile. “You know, Mr. Mike, there comes a time that a man has to pause and evaluate where he is, what he’s doing. I reckon someone like you, who often sees the worst in people, has to take stock right often.”

  “Well, I do the best I can. I like to think I do some good. I sleep well at night, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  “Yeah, yeah. But I s’pose when you’re upholding something you believe in, it puts a strain on you when those close to you believe something different. I’m wondering if what I’m talking about is why I’m seein’ that strain in your eyes, Mr. Mike.”

  Grayson stiffened, not certain what Amos was talking about, but leery of where he might be leading. “I don’t follow you.”

  “I’m talking about making choices, and our reasons for making the choices we do. You always done right by us because we’re kin, and you know I’ve always been right fond of you. Much as you uphold your beliefs, your law, your kinship with this family has always taken its rightful place—at the head of the table, so to speak. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  He nodded, now feeling distinctly nervous. Amos was not one to mince words, but neither was he prone to speaking openly about subjects that brought the issue of the law between them. Grayson knew well enough that the Barrows lived as they saw fit; and most often, the less he knew about their affairs the better. He could more comfortably see nothing when he did not know what to look for.

  “As I said,” Amos continued, “sometimes we have to make hard choices, and when it comes to it, we hope we make the right ones. All I’m saying, Mr. Mike, is that I want you to do the right thing when the time comes.”

  More and more bewildered, Grayson found himself shifting nervously. “Amos, I’ve always done right by you and I don’t intend to change anything now. Without you being more specific, though, I can’t rightly understand all you’re saying.”

  He desperately did not want Amos to be more specific.

  The old man’s hand again caressed the odd stone, which definitely appeared to radiate its own light. Outside, a cloud had passed over the sun, but in the deepening gloom,
the sapphire shimmering grew brighter.

  Then, to his surprise, Amos leaned close to the gemstone, one ear cocked, as if he were somehow listening, all the while studying Grayson’s face thoughtfully. At last, he settled back in his chair and closed his eyes, indicating that their meeting was over.

  “Thank you for stopping by, Mr. Mike. You’ve been good kin,” the slow, deep voice said. Then Amos was asleep, his massive chest heaving slowly, his lips slightly parted.

  Grayson could barely bring himself to rise from his chair. Amos, in his own way, had actually threatened him, he was sure of it. Jesus. Even when Grayson had confronted the family following Dottie Barrow’s death, he had never considered himself in danger. Levi and Joshua had made it clear they would “set him straight” if necessary, but at the time, his gravest peril seemed to be an exile from their confidence—an admittedly unattractive prospect. But all that had been made right, forgiven and forgotten.

  Now, though, Grayson had come to question Amos and found himself being questioned; to what end, he feared to guess. If the family was somehow involved in that boy’s death, how could he turn a blind eye?

  No. He wouldn’t. Not anymore. He was the law here, and it was time he started acting like it. Whatever his kinfolk’s plans, he could never condone killing, especially if kids were involved.

  He left Amos’s room, shuffled down the stairs, and found Joshua standing at the front door gazing at the mid-afternoon sky. He forced himself to meet Joshua’s penetrating stare with one of his own.

  “Granddaddy gone to sleep?”

  “Yeah, he’s resting. But we had a nice talk.”

  “He’s sleeping a lot these days. Reckon it comes with getting older.”

  Grayson nodded. “By the way, what’s that bluish stone he’s got up there with him? It’s unusual, ain’t it?”

  Joshua’s eyes brightened. “It is kinda special, yeah. An heirloom, you might say.”

  “Never seen it before.”

  “He’s always kept it in a safe place, least till lately. Nowadays he seems to have taken a shine to it.” He snickered at his own wit.