by Rob Horner
She turned to me, took my other hand with her left. Those dark eyes stared into mine. "I never heard them argue until the day when we knew..." She blinked as tears formed at the corners of her eyes and took a deep breath. "...until we knew nothing else could be done for him and it was time to stop fighting."
I tried to reach up, to brush away her tears, but she held my hands firmly.
"That fight broke her heart, Johnny. He died a month later and it took Mom almost three years to forgive herself for having that argument with him, for coming to him with new treatment ideas, begging him to try another round of chemo. It took her that long to forgive herself because she realized that she spent the last month afraid. She was afraid of being left alone, mad at him for her fear, for giving up. She couldn't let go of how she didn't spend that time just being with him."
I nodded slowly. I understood, but in a different way. I'd never gotten the chance to say good-bye. We'd had our whole futures ahead of us, then I was alone, like God flipped a light switch, plunging me into darkness without a word of warning.
"Even when we tried to, you know, and it didn't work, I wasn't worried, not like this."
I tried to shush her, to just hold her, but she refused to let my hands go. She didn't want comfort yet.
"I wasn't worried because we had time. We were still friends, and I knew that. I could always go to bed and tell myself that if I needed to, I could drive to Virginia Beach and just see you the next day. And that made it okay, it made it so I could sleep at night."
I wasn't sure what she was trying to say, but it was important to her, so I stayed silent.
"I told myself that every night. I wrote in my diary that it didn't even really matter to me if you...found someone...if I wasn't your first, because you could still be mine.
"It wasn't until that...that thing came out of the guy that I realized just how much you mean to me. I remembered what my Mom went through. I promised myself that I would never be like her, too scared to be there, and sorry because I wasn't."
Now she pulled, and as our bodies pressed together, she released my hands. Her right hand settled on my lower back, while her left rose to the back of my neck, a gentle pressure pulling me toward her, bowing my head just enough, so when she looked up, our lips met.
This wasn't the playful, teasing kiss she’d attacked me with that morning. This was sweeter, more meaningful, flavored with the salt of her tears. A kiss of sadness-resolved and regret-released. I thought she was finished with what she needed to say, but she pulled back just enough to form another set of words, so close that my lips moved with hers and so soft that only my heart could hear them.
"I love you, Johnny. I always have."
And before I could respond, before I even fully registered her words, the crushing pressure returned, the hand pulling on my neck, keeping our mouths together. I was acutely aware of the feel of her breasts pressed against me, but my hands were safely behind her back, holding onto her as tightly as she onto me. The tears were still there, still flowing, only now it was impossible to tell if they were hers or mine.
Chapter 23
Never trust the Palooka
A whole morning spent worrying. Then one idle comment led to an address book, which led to five or six phone calls until a Mrs. Abernathy confided that, although she hadn't gone to the Bridge party, she knew who was hosting it. Worried that our delay would turn out to be costly--no one answered at the Ford residence--we hurried to change clothes, get ready, and get out the door.
I could complain about the time lost that morning, but it wouldn't be honest. Just as when she hugged me yesterday, something was different, and yet, everything felt right. I felt right. Like, sun shining, birds singing, planets aligning kind of right. All my awkwardness, the shyness that was more a definition of me than a mere personality quirk, it felt...lifted. I don't know if this makes any sense, but I felt more confident in my confidence.
Now we were in Tanya's car, a 1989 Pontiac Grand Am, heading to the home of the widow Willow Ford, a woman about the same age as Mrs. Fields. Though her loss was more recent, her husband had also succumbed to cancer. Listening to Tanya's description, it was no surprise the two older women were friends.
From Mercury Boulevard to Aberdeen Road, Tanya barely kept the car at the speed limit. "She's never this late coming back," she said.
Her anxiety was contagious. I couldn't come up with any logical scenario in which the demons could be involved, but that didn't change my fears. Some part of me just knew.
There were no coincidences.
From Aberdeen, Tanya made a right onto Joynes Road, then another onto Mary Peake Boulevard. If I thought my neighborhood was upscale and Tanya's was wealthy, this area oozed rich like too much cream stuffed into an eclair. Every house was set back from the road, manicured lawns rising to meet them like the pristine fields surrounding a picturesque castle, looking down on the cars passing below, lords and masters of their own little piece of Virginia. Near the roads were those cute little wooden cross fences, not meant to keep anything out or in, just there to say See how pretty we are? Look, not a weed or an overgrown blade of grass anywhere.
Even before the final turn into Lena Circle, it was obvious we were in the right place. The second house on the right, a three-story affair in clapboard white with honest-to-god shutters outside each window and a widow's walk along the right side of the third floor, had cars parked along the entire length of its hundred-foot driveway. The cars weren't overly ostentatious, not for the environment. There weren't any Rolls Royce’s or anything, just your typical collection of Mercedes Benz and BMW luxury sedans. You know, what all the well-to-do modern women drove. Mrs. Fields' Pontiac, though stylish and gleaming, seemed out of place parked amid the burgundy, black, and chrome.
The driveway wasn't quite wide enough for two cars to pass abreast, so Tanya had to ease her two-year old Pontiac up the long driveway, half on and half off the concrete. "Do me a favor," she said, as she worked the automatic forward and back in a five-point turn, so the car was pointing back down the driveway, the rear as close to the house as she could get.
"What's that?" I asked.
"As soon as you see her, touch her. Okay? Make sure she's still...you know. And if she's not, then fix her."
As she completed her turn, I caught a glimpse of her face, saw the tears she refused to acknowledge standing in her eyes.
"I'm sure she's fine," Crystal whispered from the backseat.
"I hope so," Tanya answered.
Then we were out of the car and climbing the three brick steps to the front door.
It was quiet. That's what struck me the most. Here it was past one in the afternoon on a Wednesday, and even if every old lady in that house got rip-roaring drunk last night, they'd have to be up and moving by now. We should be able to hear them in there, chattering, laughing. Even the grumbles of a querulous drunk, hungover and sore, would have been welcome. Instead we had a gorgeous day outside, sunlit and breezy, and this ominous silence radiating out from a house full of gossipy card players who should be hungover, hungry, and heading home.
Tanya reached for the doorbell, but I placed my hand over hers, stopping the motion. She looked a question at me. "Let's just see if it's open," I said.
There was nothing so simple as a screen door, of course, not on a house like this. A thick, heavy glass outer door, frosted at the edges but see-through in a yin-yang pattern around the middle, provided a first layer of protection for the house. The door was thick enough to have its own locking mechanism, though it wasn't engaged. The door opened quietly, pneumatic door closers at top and bottom keeping the motion smooth. Crystal held the outer door as Tanya reached for the solid-core wooden door behind it.
Pressing the vintage brass thumb latch, Tanya gave the door an experimental nudge, pushing it inward. As soon as the door began moving, so were we. I felt Crystal scrabbling for my hand, which I let her take, but neither of us was fast enough to secure a hold on Tanya. That weird
light filter came down over my eyes, turning Tanya into a beacon of white, but offering nothing beyond the door of the house. Apparently, though her power could make out the auras of demons made invisible by some means, it still suffered many of the same limitations of normal sight. It couldn't penetrate walls or doors, and just wasn't as good as Superman's X-ray vision.
We cleared the door, stepping into a receiving room straight out of Good Housekeeping: no couches, just leather wingback chairs arranged in two half-circles, allowing a clear path from one end of the room to the other. The chairs were separated by matching end tables. There was a fireplace at the far end, wrought-iron tools and grates arranged picture-perfect with not a trace of ash or soot, a place where a fire was theoretically possible, but never allowed.
A hardwood staircase with tasteful carpet runners gave access up to the second floor, where a balconied hallway ran left and right, leading to bedrooms, bathrooms, and a stairway up to the third floor. The balcony overlooked the sitting room and appeared wide enough that a couch or a couple of wing chairs could be placed there without impeding movement.
It was a beautiful house and tastefully decorated, but we were on high alert. Tension tightened our muscles as though we were the proverbial cats slinking through a dog pound. It wasn't a time for appreciating the interior design of the house, other than to note that someone had made a mess in the sitting room.
There were shards of...I don't know...rock or ceramic scattered over the floor. Some of the end tables had been overturned, and the expensive leather of the chairs was ripped and gashed, long tears that ran close together and parallel. There was a smell to the air, something dank and musty, almost feral, like a pack of wild animals were the last to use the room, knocking over antiques, scratching up the furniture, maybe peeing in a couple of corners, before running back to their dens.
There was no blood, and there were no bodies. No signs of violence other than the damage to the furniture. If we weren't keyed to expect demons, weren't already looking for signs of their presence, the sight of the room might not have affected us so strongly. Well, except for the claw marks. I'm sorry, but no matter how innocent you might be, big ass claw marks are still big ass claw marks, whether from a cougar or a Krueger.
None of us ventured toward the stairs. We could see that the upstairs hall was empty. We might need to explore those rooms later if we couldn't locate Mrs. Fields down here, but it seemed more important to clear the downstairs first.
Beyond the sitting room was a formal dining room, and at least this looked normal and undisturbed. There was a massive double-leaf wooden table, surrounded by ten high-backed wooden chairs, a thick, ornate carpet on the floor, and two separate china cabinets along the walls. Nothing overturned or damaged.
Crystal finally managed to get around me, changing which hand she was holding, and grabbed Tanya, sharing her sight with the taller girl.
The kitchen came next, and while it wasn't a site of destruction, it looked like a place where a party was planned and executed. There were platters of finger foods--chips and dip, deviled eggs, those delicious cocktail weenies--some with their contents demolished, some still covered with plastic wrap, lined up on the center island like an army reserve awaiting the call to action. A host of bottles, the plastic two-liter kind and the glass forty-proof variety, stood sentry over an ice bucket and a clutch of bulbous Sherry glasses, while on the counter near the sink were two large drink shakers and a collection of condiments that, I hoped, were for making Bloody Mary’s--horseradish, Worcestershire sauce, Tabasco sauce, slices of lemon and lime, pepper and celery salt, and tomato juice. A lot of tomato juice.
From here the house split in multiple directions. To the left and right were hallways, one leading to a ground floor master bedroom with its own bath, visible through an open door, as well as a half-bath for guests, while the other led to the garage. There was also a doorway standing open at the far end of the kitchen, exposing the upper steps of a dark stairway, leading down into a basement.
The smells were worse here, a progression from the scent of a place animals had visited, to the place where they made their home. Mix in the tang of tomato juice and the tartness of horseradish, and you have a nauseating combination.
The stairs drew us, if for no other reason than because, as of yet, we'd seen no evidence of a place where a group of well-lubricated ladies might have sat to play several dozen rounds of cards. A finished basement would be just the place, though it could easily have been the man of the house's cave, or a game room for the kids. Or if the smell was any indication, the place where the owners routinely tortured and murdered random animals stolen from the local zoo.
Though a well-made and expensive house, these stairs were only a short step up in quality from any other basement stairs in any other house, the difference being the thick carpet that covered the treads. The walls appeared too close to allow us to move any way other than single file, and even in the dimness, there was a dogleg visible five or six steps down, a ninety-degree right turn that would make moving any furniture problematic. We weren't planning on moving any, but it was important to note the basement should feature at least one other way out. Taking the lead, with Crystal behind me and Tanya at the rear, we crossed into darkness, the smell of wildness growing thicker, rising around us like the reeking fumes of a swamp.
The carpet dampened our footfalls, so we proceeded in silence into silence. I'd been breathing through my mouth since entering the kitchen, anything to avoid the worst of the smell, and we carried that noise down with us, the sound of three people breathing fast, but trying to do so quietly. Though my heart was hammering in my chest, surges of adrenaline making my fingers tingle and my muscles clench, it wasn't rushing in my ears. Crystal's hand was cold and sweaty, but her grip was firm on mine.
We made the turn at the dogleg, still proceeding single file and slowly, and as the great width and breadth of the basement opened before us, easily as large as the floor plan of the house, we saw splotches of red light scattered in every direction.
Some light filtered through a curtain pulled closed over a window at the back of the basement, but it barely lightened the area around it, and didn't spread into the interior. Apparently built into the earth, there was a single door and window looking out over the side of the home near the driveway, something accessible from the outside for the purposes of moving furniture, or just to provide a way of ingress and egress other than traipsing through the house above.
With that dim illumination, we could make out the shapes of couches and chairs arranged at one end, facing a large entertainment center surrounding an equally large television, something big that probably weighed over two hundred pounds.
Closer to us and to our right was a large pool table, with even more space behind it, though nothing else was visible.
What we could see was more than enough. Scattered on the couches, the chairs, the floor, even on the pool table, were forms outlined in red. Or, in the case of the couch with its back to us, just a head in red silhouette, because Crystal's power did not let us see things blocked by solid objects. With Tanya a few steps behind me, there was no bright aura of white to obscure my vision. Crystal gasped as she came off the steps and moved beside me.
The smell had increased as we descended, though there was no immediate reason for it. I didn't remember anything similar from either the carnival trailer or any of my other interactions with the demons. It really did smell like an animal pen, with none of the sharper acridness of sulfur or brimstone, the sorts of things you might expect to be around creatures straight out of hell.
There was sound down here, as well, a hoarse, rasping kind of breathing that made me first think of myself, and breathing through my mouth too fast, or too hard. A second later and I made the connection.
They were snoring.
We were in a basement full of demons, and they were all asleep and snoring.
Tanya shook herself free of Crystal's grasp and darted away, moving qu
ickly and quietly, stepping around the pool table to examine the person asleep on the felt. Not finding her mother, she moved left, toward the grouped couches. I shook myself free of Crystal's grip but stayed near the stairs. Once Tanya moved into my line of sight, it was almost impossible to see anything but her white aura. It should have been possible to not see it, but no one other than Crystal had managed that trick.
Without the benefit of red or white markers, my eyesight was limited to what came through the curtain. Tanya eased herself around the room with the subtlety of a cat, not bumping into any furniture, not stepping on discarded drinking glasses or the outstretched ankles of sleeping demons. I didn't trust myself to be as delicate. So, I counted the seconds as they slipped by and followed her with my eyes, as she checked first one couch, then the other, finally stopping in the middle of the floor to examine the two people stretched out there.
There was a cough, like a sudden barking catch in one of the demon's snores, and we froze. The other snores paused for a beat as well. In the dimness, Tanya's arm waved frantically; she'd found her mom. After a second that felt like a minute, the snoring resumed, and I stepped forward, my attention torn between the way in front of me and the carpet beneath me. My feet didn't so much rise off the floor as they slid along it, and I found myself unconsciously timing each pace to the sound of an indrawn breath, to better mask my movements.
There is a problem with this whole situation, which some of you may be astute enough to have figured out already.
I've described the smell, like animals, and the sound of the snores, hoarse and rasping. But at no time during her search through the gathered forms did Tanya give a shout of surprise or do one of those classic lean-down-and-jump-back moves because something scared or disgusted her. In other words, it smelled like a demon place, and it sounded like one, but there were no actual demon forms here, just a bunch of ladies with the things inside of them, potential without realization.