by Chris Raven
My mother has prepared a couple of sandwiches and a pack of biscuits. I put it all in my backpack, along with a bottle of water. Before I leave, I stay in the kitchen for a few seconds. From the living room, across the hall, I hear the murmur of a TV contest and the voices of my mother, Lissie and Brad. I think maybe I should say goodbye, but I’d rather not. I have already said goodbye to my mother in my room and I have no desire to meet the scolding looks of my sister and her son.
I leave the house, I open the garage door and wear the helmet and reflective vest. Then I fit the backpack straps and I climb on my bike. I think it’s for the best. With this bike, I traveled the streets of Swanton again and again. It’s fair that it would be it the one to get me back there.
I get out from the garage, no looking back, I take the road and I get away from home, following the twilight reddish lights.
II
It’s past midnight when I finally get to Swanton. It took me a lot longer than I thought. I think I was too optimistic about my physical abilities. It is not the same to ride the bike to work than to travel almost forty miles in a path full of slopes and without the proper equipment. My ass hurts so much that I think I will not be able to sit in a couple of days.
Despite all this, I stop at First Street and I stand with one leg on each side of the bike and my hands still clinging to the handlebar, contemplating the village asleep in the moonlight with a spellbound smile on the face. I’m here again and everything looks the same. For a moment I almost feel that I am again that twelve-year-old boy whom nothing wrong had happened yet and who thought that the monsters existed only in the tales. For a few seconds, I almost think I can go find Jake and Dave to go all together to Jim’s treehouse. For an instant, I almost think I can go with Anne to steal chocolate from her father’s warehouse.
The noise of an engine and the brightness of blue lights take me out of my reverie. A police car is approaching me by First Street. I continue standing on the verge of the road, waiting for it to go past me to return to enjoy the town in solitude, but the car stops at my side and the driver’s window descends.
“Are you lost, son? You need something?”
I’d recognize that huge walrus mustache anywhere. I can’t believe Inspector Dunning is still active. He was old when I was a kid.
“Inspector Dunning?” I ask him to make sure.
The man shuts down the engine, opens the door and gets out of the car with effort. If in my memory he was a huge man, in reality, that adjective is very short. The belly has grown at a constant rate in the last fifteen years, to the point that it is difficult to manage. Rather than getting out of the car, it will unfold to become a mole of more than three hundred pounds of weight. The simple act of going out alters his breathing, which is heard fast and forceful in the silence of the night. He remains still for a few seconds, recovering the breath, while he looks at me with his suspicious little eyes of a badger.
“Sheriff Dunning.” He corrects me. “Do we know each other?”
“Yes, I am Eric Armstrong.” I extend my hand, but he makes no gesture to answer my greeting. “My family and I lived in Swanton until the year 2001. You were questioning me...”
“Yes, because of the disappearance of the Austen girl. I remember. You were also one of the kids who found the bodies of Robert Miller and David Carter.”
I’m surprised that he remembers the names of all the victims so clearly. It has been more than fifteen years since then and, although those crimes may have been the most important case of the whole career of Dunning, I wonder if the fact of remembering the details can mean that for him that unsolved crime is a thorn in his side, an obsession... And I wonder if somehow that obsession could help me.
“You didn’t come back here for that, did you?”
“No, No... I came on vacation, to spend a few days in my childhood village.”
“At midnight and on a bicycle?” He frowns, and his little eyes become so small that I fear they will disappear.
“Well, from Burlington it isn’t that hard. I had planned to arrive long before, but I got distracted on the way.”
“I hope it’s true and you don’t give me any trouble, boy,” he says in his best hard-cop voice. “I don’t want to see you poking your nose into things you don’t care about.”
“Well, the case is not closed, right? The murderer was never found.”
“The case is not closed to the police, but it is to you. Forget all that and enjoy your vacation. The dead are dead.”
I nod, obedient, I get on my bike and I follow my way down First Street. I turn my head a few seconds later and I see him, still next to his car, with his arms folded before his huge chest, watching. I would like to say that he is not right, that the dead are not always dead and that some of them continue to prowl and demand justice. I don’t tell him because I know it would be of no use. If I told what happened to me, I’d just get them to think I’m going crazy, like I did when I was a kid. I’m alone in this.
After passing next to the library, I turn South on Grand Avenue and I ride until I reach the yellow sign next to the road that announces the Swanton motel. At the entrance of the parking lot, there is a little green house with a grey gabled roof. Through its windows, the light is filtered, and the main door is open. I leave the bike at the entrance and I pass to the reception. A woman with gray hair raises her look of the magazine that she is reading behind the counter, she takes off her glasses and greets me with a smile:
“Welcome to the Swanton Motel. What can I do for you?”
“I need a single room. How much does each night cost?”
“The cheapest is sixty-two dollars. How many nights do you intend to stay?”
I kept looking at her for a few seconds as if she had spoken to me in another language. Sixty-two dollars a night in a town like Swanton? Everyone must have lost their marbles while I was gone, and they think this is Vegas. I can’t find any other explanation. That price is way beyond my means. I’m going to have to buy a tent and sleep hidden in the woods.
She smiles at me, nervous, waiting for an answer. It’s too late to look for another option and I’m devastated, so I take my credit card out of from my pocket and handle it to her.
“Just one night, thank you.”
The woman passes me a book to write my personal information while charging me. Then she extends to me a key tied to a piece of white wood in which the number 104 is written.
“Have a good night. Don’t forget that you have to leave the room free before noon or you will be charged another day.”
I nod and leave the reception, convinced that I will be leaving the room long before. I only have about six hundred dollars between what my mother gave me and an advance I asked to Mr. Rutherford. If I don’t find anything cheaper, I’ll have to leave in less than a week. I don’t know what I’m going to do, but I’ll worry about it in the morning. Now, I just want to take a shower and sleep eight or ten hours.
The motel is the typical single-storey building with an outer porch. I go around the parking lot with the bike grabbed by the handlebar until I see the door of room 104. I tie the bike to a column, I walk into my room and I turn on the light. I can’t believe they had ribbed me off like that for this. The room is clean and tidy, but it is small and only contains one bed with a horrible flowery quilt, a dresser with a mirror and a small restroom with a shower. I shrug my shoulders while I think I don’t need anything else. I throw my backpack on the bed, I take out some clean underwear and I go to the restroom, praying that there are towels because I forgot to carry some in the luggage.
After more than ten minutes under the warm water, I notice the pain of my muscles fading away. I feel even more sleepy than before having a shower and, for a moment, I’m afraid I won’t be able to go to bed without falling asleep on the way. I go out of the restroom, I throw myself on the bed and I fall asleep instantly.
I don’t know how long it’s been when I wake up again. At first, I’m very disoriented. I do
n’t even know where I am or why I’m not in my bed. Little by little, memories open up in my mind. I’m in Swanton, in a motel room that has cost me an arm and a leg. The bed is comfy enough, and the air conditioner makes the atmosphere pleasant despite the muggy weather of this August night. Then, why did I wake up?
I sit up in the bed and rub my eyes, trying to wake up. Suddenly, I notice. There’s a little noise, a faint but repetitive sound. Ploc, Ploc, Ploc... I must have left some tap open in the restroom. I lie down, trying to ignore it and I go back to sleep, but now that I’ve become aware of it, it seems to me that it sounds even louder. I’m not going to be able to sleep again with that constant sound. I wake up reluctantly and I enter the bathroom. The noise comes from the sink. Every second more or less a thick drop is formed on the edge of the tap faucet. I squeeze the tap water faucet handles with all my strength and make sure they are closed properly before returning to bed.
I lie down again ready to go back to sleep. There’s still no light coming in from the outside, so I must have long hours of sleep. I smiled at the prospect of resting still, I hug the pillow and close my eyes.
Ploc, Ploc, Ploc... The sound is there again. It even seems to fall faster than before. I cover my head with my pillow, trying to ignore it and sleep again, but it’s impossible. The sound accelerates and gets stronger. Ploc, Ploc, Ploc, Ploc, Ploc... I throw an oath, I get out of bed and I go back into the bathroom. The drip is incessant, and the shower faucet has decided to join the toilet to set up a party. I close all the handles so strongly that I hurt my hands and I check that no water comes out before leaving.
As soon as I close, I hear it again. The sound has changed, and it is no longer a drip. I open the bathroom door and contemplate the scene, hallucinating. The two faucets are fully opened, spouting water. If this situation keeps happening, it is possible that the room ends up flooding and that they try to charge me more for the damage. I put on some jeans and a T-shirt and, without even wearing any shoes, I leave the room running.
The woman at the front desk continues behind the counter as if time hadn’t passed by for her. She’s only changed her magazine for a novel on whose cover depicts the naked torso of a man dressed only in a Scottish skirt. She closes the novel and hides it under the counter. I notice she’s blushing. I think of telling her not to worry, that I work in a bookstore and I am not scare of people’s reading preferences, but I am not in the mood to show empathy.
“Something is going on in my bathroom,” I say, without even saying hello. “The faucets get opened continuously.”
“It can’t be. We just replaced the 104 faucets.”
“Tell that to the plumber. Right now, the water is coming out from the sink and the shower.”
The woman no longer argues and comes after me heading to my room. As soon as I open the door, I notice something has changed. The place is quiet. There’s no trace of the sound of water spurting. You don’t even hear the faint dripping that the show started with. She goes to the bathroom, opens the door and looks inside. After a couple of seconds, she turns to me and denies with her head.
“The faucets are closed.”
“I don’t know what could have happened. I swear that they have opened several times and that last time I thought it was going to flood everything.”
“Have you not dreamt it?”
I feel like yelling at her that I’m sure I haven’t dreamt it. Who’s going to be crazy enough to dream of something as dumb as faucets that open up? However, I let it go. I know it would be of no use to protest. I deny with my head and shrug.
“I don’t understand. I may have dreamt it, I don’t know... I hope you’ll excuse me.”
She nods and leaves the room without telling me another word. As soon as I close the door, I hear it again. Ploc, Ploc, Ploc...”
For a few seconds, I doubt if I run out to warn the receptionist again, but I decide not to. I know she’s not going to hear it, the taps will stop as soon as I cross the door. That sound wants to tell me something and that message, whatever it is, is just for me.
I open the bathroom door again. I come in, eyes on the floor tiles. I have fear of looking in the mirror and find someone other than myself. I breath several times, trying to feel strong again and, little by little, I raise my head and look in the mirror. There’s nothing. Just my reflection, the image of a pale, trembling guy with the pupils so big as if he had smoked an entire marijuana plantation.
The taps have been revived again and a lot of streams have been thrown. I’m trying to convince myself that all this means nothing, that I’m getting carried away by hysteria. It’s just water, some kind of unfortunate installation breakdown. How am I to face my past if a few simple, harmless streams of water frighten me to this point? I just have to think coldly, calm down and get to stop this so I can go back to bed and rest. Tomorrow I’ll see everything differently.
I’m looking for the stopcock and I find it in a corner near the roof. Fortunately, I can access them by putting me on tiptoe, so I close them and check that the water stops flowing. That’s it. Now I can go to sleep and forget all this.
I go back to bed with all senses alert. A part of my mind is still not calm and suggests (screaming) that I get out of Swanton and go back to my house, that forget everything that happened and continue with my life, which, as Sheriff Dunning had said, the dead, dead are.
Despite the heat, I cover myself completely with the blanket and bury my head under the pillow. If whatever that is trying to scare me wants to keep playing with the water, let it do it, but I don’t want to find out. I just want to calm down and sleep.
A new sound arrives from the bathroom, something like the roar of the guts of a huge beast. I sit on the bed, with my heart pounding in my chest. I know I should go and look, but I’m not able to move. The only thing I can do is to struggle to bring air to my lungs through a throat that has become tiny.
I recognize the sound. It is the noise that water makes when advancing through pipes that have been unused for too long. What does that mean? Why does it sound like a torrent approaching through the hollow pipes? Then I hear the noise of the water hitting the sink and against the shower floor and I get the ridiculous thought that the water is furious and comes to hurt me.
I feel like running away, but I can’t do it. I’ve left it all behind to find out what happened, to bring peace to my soul and the spirits of Dave, Bobby and Anne. I can’t give up on the first difficulty.
I get out of bed, I disconnect the bedside lamp, and with it at the ready, like an improvised defense weapon, I open the bathroom door with such a strong blow, that it is crushed against the wall and comes back to me. I halt it with my hand and stay on the threshold, staring at the surreal picture that develops in front of me. The water gushes out of the two faucets, but it is no longer clear and transparent. It is dark and murky and is full of dry leaves and bits of twigs. It’s lake water.
I don’t know who’s causing all this and what he or she wants to say. Are the ghosts of my friends asking for help? Or is it the spirit that appeared in the story trying to scare me into leaving? If it’s it, it’s very close to getting its goal. However, I decide to bet on the other option.
“Anne? Dave? Bobby? Is that you? I’ve come to help you. You don’t need to do all this.”
The water is losing strength. It stops hitting the porcelain and continues to weaken gradually until it ceases completely. The water that had been stagnant in the sink and on the shower’s floor is seeping through the drain to disappear. The last thing that can be heard, as soon as the water leaks through the pipes, is a nasty sucking sound as if a huge monster was sipping soup. Then there’s only silence. If the shower tray and the sink were not still covered with leaves and twigs, I might think I’ve dreamt it all.
I close the bathroom door and go back to bed to sit down. My heart is going a thousand an hour, I am out of breath and my eyes are cloudy. I’m going to fall fainted if I don’t sit down and get calm. This is going muc
h worse than I imagined. I’ve only been in town for a few hours and I feel like a tightrope walker trying to dance on the abyss of madness during a gale. There’s nothing that can calm me down. Either spirits are playing with me or I’m having hallucinations. I don’t know which of the two options frightens me the most. The only thing I know for sure is that I’m not the right person to do this.
When I notice my breathing is starting to go back to normal and my shaking has stopped, I get out of bed, I dress and pick up my things at full speed. I don’t want to stay in this room any longer. I take a look at my watch. I’ve only been asleep for three hours. I think it’s the sixty worst-invested bucks in my life.
I leave the room without knowing where to go, or what I will do the next day. I don’t know who I can ask or what. I think I’m not ready for this, but I know it doesn’t matter. There’s no one else. Fifteen years have passed by and no one knows what happened, no one has found the culprit. Anne, Bobby and Dave just got me. It’ll have to be enough.
III
When I’m going to deliver the key to the reception, the woman is gone. Instead, there is a boy with curly hair and sleeping face, who just takes the key and greet me with a nod, without saying a word. I leave the motel with the backpack on the shoulder and the feeling of being lost and alone in the world. I have no idea what I’m going to do today, what I’ll eat or where I’ll sleep, but I’m determined not to get carried away by discouragement. I have to see this as an adventure and go solve every problem as it arises. I would love to smile and tell myself the pretty phrase “God will provide.” Too bad I’m agnostic and I have no idea whether He will provide or not.