by Ray Garton
– he reached his destination. The right front tire of his car bumped over the curb and stopped on a strip of grass that ran along the sidewalk. He turned off the ignition, got out and staggered across the lawn in front of a small modest house. There were no lights on inside or out.
Robby fell heavily against the wall beside the door and pressed a thumb to the doorbell. He pressed it again and again, knocked several times, then pressed down on the button so the bell rang over and over.
"Yes!" a voice called inside. "Coming! I'm coming!"
Footsteps thumped over the wood floor inside.
The porch light came on. Locks clicked and the door opened.
Robby pushed himself away from the wall and swayed before the open door.
"Robby? Robby Pritchard?"
"Pastor… Quiller… man… "
Robby fell into the pastor's arms and lost consciousness.
Chapter 17
A Domestic Squabble
Moments after a senseless and infuriating dream about Karen, George awoke clenching his teeth in anger as hot knives twisted in his eye sockets, and in his mind he heard himself scream, Awww, hell, I might as well just break her fucking neck and get it over with before she wakes up!
He sat up, blinked his sticky eyes, and tried to massage the throbbing from his temples, thinking, My God, what's wrong with me, what am I thinking, what's happening to me?
Then: A dream…just a dream…
Pain rippled through his stiff body as he tried to pull himself from his stubbornly oppressive sleep. He was cold, chilled to the bone, and he realized, finally, that he was on the floor beside the bed.
Slowly, he rose and sat on the edge of the bed, still feeling irritated, close to anger. Looking across the room, he muttered, "What… in… the hell," when he saw that the window was gone. Not broken… gone.
George groaned and scrubbed his face, searching for some memory that would explain the gaping hole in his bedroom wall, but could remember nothing. Except… Lorelle… soft flesh and graceful shoulders… taut back muscles moving urgently… rhythmically… sighs and moans and then -
– George's hands jerked away from his face and he gasped at the memory.
An explosion of movement, something black shooting up toward him through two bloodless slits that had split open in Lorelle's back like misplaced vaginas and then -
– nothing. Not even dreams.
He walked naked to the torn-out window, puzzled by the absence of broken glass on the floor until he saw the window scattered in pieces on the grass outside.
It had been broken out, not in.
"Excuse me, sir," a sharply-dressed blonde woman called out, hurrying across the lawn from the sidewalk. She held a microphone attached to a cord that disappeared into the bulky black leather bag at her side. "Could I ask you a few questions?"
There were others behind her, another woman and three men, as well as two cameramen. They jogged across the lawn, microphones clutched, rattling cameras perched on their shoulders.
George stepped back, overwhelmed by a rush of paranoia that rivaled the worst of his pot-smoking days.
The questions came all at once:
"Do you know Ronald Prosky?"
"What happened to your window, Mr. Pritchard?"
"Can you explain the symbol on your front door?"
"Is there any truth to the rumors that Dylan Garry killed his parents in a satanic ritual?"
Prosky? Symbol? Satanic ritual? What were they talking about? George felt dizzy, disoriented, as if he'd awakened in the wrong house – the wrong life.
"Mr. Pritchard?" the blonde woman called. "Sir? Would you care to comment on any connection there might be between -"
"Please," George said hoarsely, moving toward the hole in the wall, "please, I answered questions yesterday. I'd rather not -"
"Do you know if your son had any interest in Satanism, Mr. Pritchard?"
A bubble of anger began to grow in George's stomach and he clenched his fists at his sides.
"Does your son listen to heavy metal? Ozzy Osbourne or Metal -"
"Is there any connection between the disappearance of Ronald Prosky and -"
"Is the symbol on your front door a Satanic -"
"Were you shocked to hear of the murder of -"
"Get off my lawn," George said, just loud enough to rise above their voices.
The blond woman stepped forward. "Mr. Pritchard, if you could just -"
"Get off my fucking lawn, lady," he shouted as he went to the large hole that had replaced his bedroom window. His knuckles turned white as he clutched its splintered edge, leaned out and, through clenched teeth, shouted even louder, "Get off my fucking lawn, do you understand? All of you! Get off my lawn!"
Their rapid-fire questions came to a staggering halt and they stared at him, mouths open, caught in mid-sentence.
The inside of George's skull felt… red. A bright, flaming red. He spotted others – two men, one wearing a suit and holding a microphone and the other with a television camera – scrambling out of a van with KCPM-24 painted on the side and he roared at them, "All of you! Stay away from my fucking house!"
The two men stopped, then backed away.
George wanted to slam the window shut and the fact that he couldn't made him even angrier. Instead, he turned and stalked across the bedroom for his robe but stopped, glanced down and found his penis jutting rigidly before him. He reached down to touch it and stopped when he saw the splinters of wood protruding from his palms and fingers, their tips embedded just beneath his skin.
Reporters, for God's sake, he thought, staring at his hands as he gritted his teeth together. I wake up and my fucking window's gone – just gone – and then I've gotta deal with reporters closing in like fucking scavengers and I get two handfuls of splinters and I'm sick on top of that, probably the damned flu everybody else in the house has given me, and she's sound asleep! Like a fucking baby! George stared at his wife, her head buried in her pillow, then looked at his hands again.
He bit his lip and fought back the urge to close his fist and drive the splinters in deep, just to feel the pain and have something real to scream about, because a scream was rolling inside him – a bright flaming red scream – building up, pressing at his throat from below, and he was opening his mouth to let it out when -
– Karen sat up in bed and croaked, "Whahappened? What's… why's it so cold in… the window… Monroe… did Monroe get out?"
"I hope so," he growled in a voice like two wet rocks being rubbed together hard. "And I hope his fur's lining somebody's fucking tires." He stormed out of the room, not bothering to don his robe. His erection was still pounding uncomfortably, almost painfully. In the bathroom, George found the tweezers and began to pick the splinters out one at a time, holding his hand close to his face, cursing and wincing with each biting tug, then tossing them into the toilet.
And his penis remained rock-hard.
He finished his left hand and started on the right, fingers trembling, lips moving rapidly and quietly as he breathed obscenities -
"… fucking splinters… like picking hairs from a goddamned caterpillar… shit-eating reporters with their fucking vans and fucking microphones… goddamned window, what the fuck happened to the goddamned window… "
– and grew steadily angrier, moving faster, as if he were pressed for time. He was, in a way; George knew that if he did not finish the tedious plucking soon, he was going to put his hand through the medicine cabinet mirror, just slam his fist through the glass, that ought to take care of the fucking splinters, that ought to cut the little fuckers out, by god, then he wouldn't have to -
"Want me to do that for you?"
The voice was so soft, it almost failed to penetrate George's intense concentration, and it was only when he realized he was no longer alone in the room that he knew he'd actually heard it, but he still wasn't sure what the voice had said, so he looked up, frowning.
Jen stood in the doorway smirking
, wearing a tight blue crop-top and panties, her eyes half-closed, blonde hair a medusa-like tangle around her face.
"What?" George barked. "Oh, uh, yeah, I've just, um… got some… splinters, is all."
"Want me to do that for you?" she said again. She wasn't staring at his hand.
Suddenly, George became aware of his nakedness again, crushingly aware of it, and he dropped the tweezers into the sink to reach for a towel, but Jen stepped in front of him and took his hand.
"I promise I won't hurt you." Her eyes darted between his face and his cock, lingering below his waist a bit longer each time.
George said, "Just go on, okay? I'll do it, just go -"
She reached out casually and wrapped her fingers around his erection, "It's a lot bigger and harder than Robby's."
George blanched and slapped her hand away, stepped back abruptly and blurted, "Robby's? You've – you mean you've – Robby's been – what have you -" His fingers curled into hooks and his jaw worked, clacking this teeth together, "Oh, yeah," he hissed, thinking, There's a sickness in this house all right, but it ain't the fuckin' fluuu! "Get out!" he roared. "Go on, get out, I'll deal with you later. And Robby, too. Where's Robby? Where the hell is Robby?"
She stumbled backward, her eyes opening to their full size and a little beyond. "He's… in his ruh-room."
"Well you tell him to stay there because I'm gonna be coming for him in just a few minutes, you understand? Now get your ass out of here!"
Jen backed out of the bathroom and pulled the door closed.
“Son of a bitch!" George rasped, pacing the bathroom. "I've got a seventeen-year-old son who's – my god, what's happening? What the fuck is -"
He stopped. Stood in front of the mirror, his chest heaving. Stared at himself for a moment.
He was pale, thinner than usual, and the creases in his forehead seemed to be deeper than ever before.
And his cock was pounding…
… tingling…
… echoing the touch of Jen's cool hand…
"Sshhhit," he groaned, sitting on the toilet, his right hand stinging.
The tingling. It wouldn't go away.
He touched his cock, rubbed it as if he could wipe the feeling away, but he only leaned his head back, closed his eyes and sighed, rubbing it again. And again. And again, squeezing out its thick fluid and slicking it over the shaft as he thought about Jen’s hand… her smooth, cool hand…
"God," he whispered, and it sounded a little like a sob, a dry, sickened, miserable sob. "My… god."
When he came, George moaned behind closed lips and collapsed against the side of the sink, pressing his cheek to the cold surface of the counter and drawing long, deep breaths.
* * * *
Robby sat on his bed in his robe, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees, hands clenched together. The local news station, KQMS, was playing on the radio and Robby rocked back and forth, tapping a knuckle to his pursed lips as he waited anxiously for the story. He'd heard a teaser earlier, but nothing more.
It would come soon enough, he was sure.
Pastor Quillerman had told him to leave Prosky's car parked at the curb outside -"It won't be the first abandoned car on this street," he'd said – then he'd driven Robby home and told him to get some sleep. But that had been impossible, so he'd just gone to bed and stared at the ceiling until dawn. He had not even wanted to come home.
"You should be there, Robby," the pastor had said. "You should all be together now, you need one another."
Robby had been surprised by Pastor Quillerman's reaction to his story, by his immediate acceptance of it as truth.
After collapsing in Quillerman's doorway, Robby awoke several minutes later on the sofa with Quillerman kneeling beside him, waiting with a cup of hot tea and an encouraging smile.
"I think you're going to be okay, Robby," the pastor said. "But you look like you've been through one very unpleasant experience. Want to talk about it?"
Robby sat bolt upright, swung his legs off the side of the sofa and leaned toward Quillerman.
"Pastor, you've gotta help me, you've gotta help my family, all of them, my whole neighborhood, th-they're… something's wrong with them."
Quillerman frowned, handed Robby a tea and sat on the sofa beside him. "Exactly what is wrong with them?"
Robby didn't know how to tell him. "I don't know, they're all so… angry. Everyone is fighting or yelling all the time or not talking at all and… and… " Robby closed his eyes a moment, embarrassed. "There's a lot of, um, sex going on in my neighborhood these days."
"Do you know what's causing all this?"
Robby nodded. "The new neighbor."
Quillerman released a long, heavy sigh as he looked down at his maimed hand. "Tell me, Robby. Everything."
So Robby had done exactly that, although he choked on the word "succubus," certain the pastor would think he was on drugs. But Quillerman nodded slowly and listened. When Robby was finished, Quillerman was silent for a long time. Then he looked Robby in the eye and said, "You were right to come to me. You should have come sooner. You're sure your friend is dead?"
Robby nodded.
"Pity. Sounds like he's been on quite a crusade."
"You mean… well, you… you believe me?"
He stared at Robby thoughtfully a while, then held up his injured hand and said, "This -" and pointed to his glass eye, " – this -" and to the scar on his forehead, " – and this -" to his leg, " – and this… I got them all when I was just a little boy. I was… running from my parents, both of whom wanted to kill me." His voice trembled when he said it. Robby had never heard that voice falter before. "We had a new neighbor then, too, Robby. Right next door. So, yes. I believe you. I know exactly what you're talking about, I assure you. And I think I know what to do about it."
He'd listened to a brief outline of Quillerman's plan, then had followed the pastor's instructions to go home.
"In the morning, talk to them," Pastor Quillerman had said. “Tell them everything, whether they believe you or not. If you have to, tell them again and again. They may call you crazy, but deep inside, they'll know you're right. I'll get over there as soon as I possibly can.”
Robby heard the Cuisinart whir to life in the kitchen.
On the radio, a local chiropractor was listing the many benefits of making an appointment with him today.
The bedroom door burst open suddenly and Robby nearly fell off the bed as his dad rushed in and slammed the door behind him.
"What've you been doing with your sister, Robby?" he asked with quiet menace.
"What?"
"Your sister!" George moved in on him quickly and Robby flinched. "What've you been doing with her? Making out with her? Fucking her, maybe? Couldn't you go out and find yourself a real girlfriend?"
Robby stood and backed away from his dad, his face sagging with fear.
"Dad, you don't – I haven't – let me explain what's -"
"You'd fucking well better explain!" George shouted, rushing toward him until their noses were almost touching.
The doorbell rang.
"Well? I'm waiting, Robby. I'm serious, boy, I want to know what's -"
It rang again.
The Cuisinart did not stop.
"Son of a bitch," George hissed. He spun around, opened the door and leaned into the hall. "Karen! Get that!"
No response.
The doorbell rang again.
He murmured, "Me. Everything falls on me around here.” He turned to Robby and aimed a rigid forefinger at him. "I'll be right back. We are not dropping this." He pulled the door closed hard as he left.
Robby could hear him stomping down the hall. He waited a few moments, then quietly followed. He peered cautiously around the corner at the end of the hall and watched his dad go to the door.
George opened the front door to find the mail carrier smiling at him. He was a short, bearded man with thick glasses and a toothpick dangling from his lips. Behind him stood the re
porters and cameramen he'd seen outside his bedroom. They rushed in as if attacking, stabbing their microphones toward George and vomiting questions all at once.
"I told you people to stay away from my house!" George barked, waving his arms toward the street. "Now get the hell out of here! I answered enough questions yesterday and I don't -"
The blonde woman stepped forward and asked quickly, "Could you explain the writing on your front door, Mr. Pritchard?"
"What writing on my -" He stopped and stared at the black circle with three odd names written inside. "I don't know what -"
"Did you know Ronald Prosky?" another reporter asked.
“Who?”
Robby's breath caught at the mention of the name.
As if on cue, the other reporters moved forward.
"Is it a religious symbol, Mr. Pritchard?"
"What happened to your window, Mr. Pritchard?"
"Do you think the murders were cult related?"
The mail carrier said, "Um, Mr. Prosky? You haven't been getting your mail for a few days. It's gotten pretty wet."
George stared at the stack of soggy mail in the man's hand while the reporters kept asking questions. He raised his arms and shouted, "Hold it, okay? Just hold it a second and let me get my mail."
The reporters were quiet, but did not move.
George frowned at the soaked mail as he took it. "Why'd you keep delivering our mail if it was getting wet?" he snapped.
The carrier shrugged and spread his arms. "Hey, if you're gonna be gone, or something, it's your responsibility to put a hold on it. Otherwise, you gotta walk to the box and get it, okay?"
George pointed to the circle on the door and asked, "Did you do this?"
'"Course not, jeez. Look, I gotta go." Annoyed, he turned and headed for his red, white and blue Jeep idling at the curb.
A moment after he left, the reporters began firing questions again. George interrupted them with a shout.
"Okay! Look, I don't know what this thing is -" He stabbed a thumb over his shoulder at the door. " – and I don't know who put it there, probably some neighbor kid, okay? I don't know who Ronald Whoever is, never heard of him, and I don't want to answer any more questions. I'm sure there are other people in the neighborhood who knew the Garrys a lot better than we did, so why don't you go bother them!"