Nightblood

by T. Chris Martindale

  He buttoned his jacket up around his neck and kept walking.

  Tommy and Doug seemed caught up in their own worlds. Tommy was talking incessantly about a big-titted checkout girl at the IGA who’d had an eye on him earlier, while Doug matched him word for word with talk of carbs and headers and how it wouldn’t be long before his Ramblin’ Rambler was “street lethal.” Neither one of them seemed to notice the silence. But Larry did. There was not a cricket chirping anywhere. Not a frog, not a buzzing insect. Nothing. It’s just too late in the year, he tried to rationalize, too cold already for insects and reptiles. But he’d heard such sounds just hours before, when they dropped the Millers at the Danner gate.

  “Hey, you guys? Maybe I really should wait at the car. My stomach . . .”

  They both stopped and looked back at him. In the limited light Larry couldn’t tell whether Tommy was smiling or sneering. Tommy reached into his jacket, pulled out his mask, and slipped it over his head. It was a rubber face of Tor Johnson, the star of vintage grade-B horror movies; squat, bald as a bullfrog, the mouth agape, and the eyes rolled back as in his most memorable film roles. There, in the middle of a country road, at night, the dead actor’s blank countenance with a Daiwa cap perched atop it was curiously more unsettling than any of the other ghoulish masks from Tommy’s box. “Too late to back out, Larry,” Tommy said in a muffled voice. “We’re all in this.”

  “Oh, let him go,” Doug shrugged. “He just—” Tommy cut him off with the wave of an arm.

  “Don’t screw with my fifty bucks, Larry,” Tor Johnson said. “Now, c’mon.” He started back up the road, still wearing his mask. Doug followed obediently, and then Larry. This time there was no small talk of tits and hot rods. Tommy dictated silence, and the others obliged. Larry’s queasy feeling remained. This is just a joke. We’re just playing a joke. That’s all.

  “Lighten up, Tommy,” Doug was saying up ahead. “This is getting to be a drag. If you’re gonna start acting like a shithead, I’m outta here.”

  “You forget,” the one in the mask pointed out, “I’m driving.” He motioned them off to the right. “Here’s where we go over.” When the moon next peeked out of hiding, they saw glimpses of brick through the underbrush.

  Using the Red Chopper, Tommy cleared some of the weeds and tanglevine away from the wall, being careful to leave enough to aid in climbing. The wall itself was nearly eight feet tall. They would need all the handholds they could get.

  “Dougie, you’re first,” Tommy decided.

  “Why me?”

  “Because I said so.” Tommy puffed out his chest and threatened with the ax. Whether he meant it or not was hard to tell with Tor Johnson covering his face. “Just climb the wall and tell us what you can see. Now, is that so hard? Or are you the chickenshit Larry said you were ’while ago?”

  Doug stood and glared at him, and Larry would’ve sworn he was going to punch Tommy, who was smaller. He’d seen him do it to other guys and for a lot less—unlike Larry, Doug Baugh wasn’t one to bluster and stomp and cuss when he got pissed. He just hit someone. And he had that same look on his face right now. Go ahead, Larry silently urged, knock him on his ass so we can get out of here. But in time Doug just grinned and lit another cigarette and, once it was pasted to his bottom lip, started clambering up the wall. “Damn stickers,” was all he grunted before swinging over the top and vanishing to the other side.

  “What do you see, Doug?” Larry called. “Doug?”

  There was silence. No insects. No frogs. No Doug.

  “Something’s wrong,” Larry fretted. “I knew this idea sucked. . . .”

  “Quit screwing around, Baugh,” Tommy snapped, lighting up a cigarette that protruded through Tor’s grimacing lips. Smoke came out the open rubber nostrils. “Baugh?” He motioned to Larry. “Go see what’s keeping him, Fatso.”

  “You gonna give me a boost? Bend over so I can step on your—”

  “Oh, fuck it,” fumed Tommy, flipping away his smoke and handing the ax to Larry. “You want something done, goddamn it . . .” He tested the vines with a boot and started up, struggling as much as climbing, the mask doing more to hinder him than anything, and even catching on the stickers near the top. “Baugh,” he panted through rubber, “if you’re jackin’ with me, your ass is grass.”

  He cleared the top of the wall and had to readjust his eyeholes to see. Only then did his gaze fall on the ghost pale, glowing face, floating there in the air not a few inches from his own, eyes wide and fangs gnashing. Tommy sucked air so hard the mask collapsed inward and his efforts to backpedal sent him tumbling back to the ground. Larry, having seen Tommy’s terrified reaction, was already in motion, ass to the wall and nose toward the road.

  The apparition sat down on top of the wall, gagging with laughter, the tears washing the glow-in-the-dark paint from his face. Doug spat the plastic fangs into his hand and gloated, “Who’s the chickenshit, Tommy?” He bugged his eyes and trembled in imitation, then laughed all the harder. “Man, you better check your shorts.”

  Larry was coming back from the road, saying “Baugh, you sonuvabitch, that wasn’t funny,” when Tommy grabbed Doug’s foot and yanked him off the wall. Doug dropped clumsily to the ground and was just as quickly hauled up by the lapels and slammed back into the brick. Tommy Whitten, the smallest, thinnest of the three, held him at bay and Doug made no move to retaliate.

  He couldn’t. Not with a gun barrel stuck in his eye.

  “Jesus, Tommy!” Larry gasped, stepping forward and then retreating just as quickly, unsure of what to do. “He didn’t mean it, man. Let him go.”

  “Hey, Tommy,” Doug was trying to smile, “hey, what’s the gun for, you know? I mean, shit, it was just a joke. Just a joke, goddamn it! C’mon, man, put the gun down. We’re supposed to be friends.” The paint was coming off in streams as sweat beaded on his forehead and lip at the sight of the small but threatening revolver bore. “Calm down, dude. I take it back, okay? Okay?”

  Tor Johnson stared at him blankly, unspeaking, and Larry began to wonder if Tommy Whitten was still in there. Finally Tommy lifted the mask. He was smiling. “Had you going, didn’t I?” He lowered the short-barreled gun and stuck it back into his jacket pocket.

  “That wasn’t real, was it?”

  “The gun?” Tommy shrugged. “Sure.”

  Doug wiped his brow, staining his coatsleeve in the process, and quickly lit a cigarette with shaking hands. “What the hell did you bring it for?”

  The grin came back to his face, just before he lowered his mask again. “What else? Snakes.” The other two traded worried glances. “Don’t worry, you guys. We’re gonna have fun. C’mon, over the wall. You two first.”

  “Why us first?”

  Tommy sighed with exasperation. His hand slipped back into his pocket. “Are we gonna go through that again?”

  Doug bent and gave Larry a foothold, then, straining, boosted him to the top of the wall. He followed next. Tor was not far behind them. He dropped into the pitch blackness on the other side a few feet from them.

  “I don’t like this,” Larry muttered.

  The woods were dense and shadowy. What few shafts of moonlight sifted through the canopy overhead served only to backlight the swirling fog that lapped at the tree trunks like milky water. Tommy fished a small disposable flashlight from his jacket pocket but the diminutive beam was impotent in these surroundings.

  “Nobody chickens out,” he told them. Standing apart from them, he was little more than a vague shadow with a bulbous head and a hand in his pocket. “Nobody.”

  “Tommy?” Doug half-whispered. “What if the Millers don’t scare, not even with this stuff? What then?”

  “Yeah,” Larry said softly. “What then?”

  “Then . . . we think of something else.” He chuckled. “Know what I mean? I think the house is in this direction.” He started off int
o the fog.

  Doug leaned over to Larry. “I always knew he was an asshole,” he whispered, “but I didn’t know he was nuts. Let’s—”

  “Why whisper?” Tommy asked, suddenly right beside them. “We’re not anywhere near the house yet. There’s no one out here to hear you. Right?” He held out an arm to show the way. The two grudgingly started in that direction, walking deeper into the primal wood.

  And as they walked, the darkness waited for them and listened with its one good ear.

  To the north of Isherwood the main road skirted the base of a hill before it left the town altogether, and it was on that bend that a second, less-traveled lane branched away from it. The sign identified it as Moffit Trail, and it climbed that gentle bosom of earth in a long, languid spiral. A taxi, one of Isherwood’s three, turned onto that side road in the wee hours of the morning and followed the gradual incline. Its potential destinations were limited; there were few houses on the hill, and most of them less than halfway up. But it passed them by. It drove almost to the crest, where an old two-story boardinghouse stood, and that was where it eased onto the shoulder and parked near the mailbox, right near the walkway and the gate in the fence. And it waited there with the motor running.

  George Bailey sat in the back of the taxi and made no move to get out. He was peering out the window, watching the house, the surrounding grounds. “Damn,” he sighed, squinting. His eyes weren’t what they used to be. And that security lamp on the telephone pole at the side of the road wasn’t much help either. It lit the open front yard just fine, and the fence too and the rock gardens beyond it and most of the walk. But not the porch. The old elm tree up close to the house cast the last few feet of the walkway in midnight shade, and the wall of shrubs beyond completed the effect: he could not even see the front door from the road. Too dark, he thought. Too many shadows.

  He checked his watch. Two-thirty. Almost four hours till dawn.

  “You need some help getting out, Pops?” asked the gum-popping cabbie, who was at least sixty years Bailey’s junior. The old man was short with him.

  “No, sonny. I think I can make it.”

  “Okay, okay. Just thought I’d ask.”

  He looked out the window again. Too many shadows . . .

  “Look . . . the meter’s still running, you know. . . .”

  Disgusted, Bailey dug a coin purse from his pocket and threw a few crumpled bills in the front seat. “There’s your money, you little shit. Now go on, get out of here.” He pushed the door open quickly, before he could think about it, and with the help of his cane climbed out.

  Immediately, the chill touched him—was it that cold a few minutes ago?—and the night became personal again. The dark was that much closer. He could feel its presence, its palpability. The distance to the front door had doubled. He swallowed hard, forcing down a lump that was half fear and half pride, and leaned back into the taxi. His tone was less gruff now. “Um . . . could you do me a small favor? Would you wait here until I get to the doorway? I’ve always been a bit . . . afraid of the dark.”

  “The dark? You’ve got that light right out there.”

  “Please. Here—there’s an extra dollar in it for you.”

  The driver’s face went slack. “A dollar? A whole dollar, just for me?” Then he saw the pitiful look in the old man’s eyes. “No, you keep your money, Pops. I’ll stick around.”

  Bailey nodded a curt thank you, then straightened with the help of his cane and closed the car door. He walked stiffly to the fence gate and reached over to unlatch it, easing it open carefully lest it creak. No creaking. He couldn’t have taken that. He stepped through and eased it shut with the same care. He was still in the pale wash of the security light. But the shadows waited just ahead. Straighten up, you old fool, he cursed himself. You’ve lasted this long. Don’t go to pieces just because of the dark.

  He started up the walk. His cane pecked a solitary cadence.

  He had stayed with people as long as he could. He knew his fellow housemates would be in bed early—they invariably were—and the idea of whiling away the night in his room with only his imagination for company was unacceptable. So as soon as he’d gotten home that night he’d cleaned up and went right back out, ending up at the diner for the last few hours. He seldom went there and could barely identify anyone present, but at least they were there. That was important. He felt safer with people.

  But now the diner was closed.

  A branch swayed overhead. He heard it just as he stepped under the tree. He put a hand over his heart to keep it from bursting from his chest. It subsided only after the squirrel chittered down at him, apologizing for the disturbance. Calm down, old man, he thought. Slow and steady. But not too slow.

  He made it to the steps and felt for them in the gloom with his cane before daring them with his fragile weight. Creak. He flinched but kept going, wringing equal racket from each step until he was at the top. He groped in his pocket and found his keys and had them ready when he stepped up onto the porch. He could make out the shape of the door now.

  Made it. You’ve made it.

  The cab driver barely tapped his horn, and Bailey jumped as if shot. The keys slipped from his hand and clattered to the planks underfoot. He looked back to see the driver wave and pull back onto the road. Leaving him alone. No . . . I dropped the keys, don’t . . . But the words wouldn’t come. He stood there silent and shivering, watching the taillights shrink down the hill and disappear. The night quickly settled around him.

  Find the keys. Find the keys!

  He bent to the porch despite the groan in his lower back and swept long, thin hands across the wood, hissing when they found splinters and peeling paint but not stopping, knowing better than to stop. It was too quiet; the silence was total and awesome and surrounding him and waiting, just waiting to be shattered by a—there, the keys! He scooped them up but couldn’t see them, felt blindly along their profiles and damned his fingers for their numbness. The round one, the round head, that one! Now, get it in the door . . . His hands were shaking violently now as he grabbed for the knob and stabbed at the keyhole three times before it sank home and turned and the lock clicked. The old man shouldered the door open, lurched inside, and immediately slammed it behind him, locking and bolting and security-chaining it in a few frantic moves. Then he slumped against the door for support and waited for his breath to catch up. And he listened.

  Nothing. He sighed. There’s nothing out there. It was all your imagination.

  Wasn’t it?

  Leaning heavily on his cane, he moved away from the front door and crossed the entry hall as quickly as he could manage. He was almost to the staircase when he noticed the bar of light beneath the parlor doors to his left. He hadn’t seen the light from outside—the drapes must have been drawn. Who would be up at this time of night?

  He slid open the double doors to find the television playing and three of his fellow boarders cast in its flickering glow. “Uncle Jim” Taggart’s wheelchair was parked at one end of the couch, his head thrown back and his pinched, half-moon face flexed from the efforts of snoring. At the other end sat Hubert Ranall, the only black roomie in the house and one of the few in all of Isherwood. He was the youngest of the residents, a mere baby at seventy-eight, and age had yet to shrink his solid frame. A big, amiable bear of a man with a fringe of frosted hair and a neon smile, he was scribbling away in his notebook as usual, adding yet another chapter to the memoirs of a decorated veteran in the Pacific.

  Ida Fleming was there as well, wrapped in her shroudlike housecoat and hairnet, sunk deep into her recliner near the TV. The diminutive woman, with her granny glasses and basset-hound jowls, did not look well; her heart condition had worsened over the past few years, leaving her wilted and fragile. Still, come hell or high water, she made it to the television every day. For while Hubert had his Good-War memories to fill the hours of the day, she had her tel
evangelists, and she followed their antics with great fervor. From Falwell to Swaggart to Tilton, she watched them all with a steely resolve and her leatherette Bible spread upon her lap.

  Now, in the wee hours, she had to settle for the Reverend Zachary Farnam, one of the Lord’s gaudier prophets, complete with snow-white hair and a hackneyed Elmer Gantry delivery. She hung on every word of it and didn’t even notice Bailey’s entrance, nor did Ranall. It was shrunken old Jim Taggart who suddenly roused, his rheumy eyes clouded with senility. “Gaw-dammit,” he grumbled in his heavy Hoosier drawl. “Ah told y’uns to play outside now. Dinner won’t be ready fer a while yet.”

  “Look again, Uncle Jim,” Hubert said. “It’s just George.” He looked Bailey up and down. “Well, lookee here. You shaved your beard off. All dressed up too . . . you got a little chippy in town?”

  “Never you mind,” Bailey said in his normal gruff tone. “Is that all you people have to do, stay up late so you can razz me?”

  “Hardly. We just can’t seem to sleep’s all.” He glanced at Uncle Jim, whose head had already rolled back. He started to snore again. “Well, me and Ida, at least. So, did you have a nice night?”

  Bailey shrugged, lowered himself into a swivel chair. He was frowning; small talk never came easy for him. Rather than try, he found himself staring blankly at the television set. Hubert finally shrugged as he always did and returned to his writing.

  Mrs. Fleming perked imperceptively and eased forward in her seat. Hubert noticed it, and even Bailey paid a bit closer attention to the program, though they already knew from her response that Reverend Farnam had “commenced to healin’.”

  “The Lord is working through me now, praise Jezuuz,” said the minister as he squeezed his eyes shut, deep in prayer. His hand moved up to clutch at his breast and, unconsciously, Ida did the same. “There’s a pain . . . right here. That heart . . . that poor heart’s done worked itself unto death, hasn’t it? But there’s a spark there, yes, a spark and you know what? I can feel it growing. God’s fanning that spark, fanning it into a flame. Give that heart unto him and it will be reworked, don’t you see?” He smiled, sighed. “That’s it. That pressure, it’s easing, isn’t it? And that pain? It’s gone too. Hallelujah—you’ve got you a new heart, that’s what you’ve got. Praise God for that, friends. C’mon, praise him now. Say it with me. Thank you Jezuuz . . .”