Strange Highways

by Dean Koontz

  in The Hills Have Eyes.

  From the open doorway, Tommy watched.

  Frank had found a fat, scented decorative candle in the kitchen pantry; now he put it inside the pumpkin. It was big enough to burn steadily for at least two days. Dreading the appearance of light in the jack-o’-lantern’s eyes, Tommy watched as Frank lit the candle and put the pumpkin’s stem-centered lid in place.

  The slitted pupils glowed-flickered-shimmered with a convincing imitation of demonic life and malevolent intellect. The serrated grin blazed bright, and the fluttering light was like a tongue ceaselessly licking the cold-rind lips. The most disgusting part of the illusion of life was the leprous pit of a nose, which appeared to fill with moist, yellowish mucus.

  “Incredible!” Frank said. “That old fart is a real genius at this stuff.”

  The scented candle emitted the fragrance of roses.

  Although he could not remember where he had read of such a thing, Tommy recalled that the sudden, unexplained scent of roses supposedly indicated the presence of spirits of the dead. Of course, the source of this odor was no mystery.

  “What the hell?” Frank said, wrinkling his nose. He lifted the lid of the jack-o’-lantern and peered inside. The inconstant orange light played across his face, queerly distorting his features. “This is supposed to be a lemon-scented candle. Not roses, not girlie crap.”

  * * *

  In the big airy kitchen, Lois and Kyle Sutzmann, Tommy’s mother and father, were standing at the table with the caterer, Mr. Howser. They were studying the menu for the flashy Halloween party that they were throwing the following night—and loudly reminding Mr. Howser that the food was to be prepared with the finest ingredients.

  Tommy circled behind them, hoping to remain invisible. He took a can of Coke from the refrigerator.

  Now his mother and father were hammering the caterer about the need for everything to be “impressive.” Hors d’oeuvres, flowers, the bar, the waiters’ uniforms, and the buffet dinner must be so elegant and exquisite and drop-dead perfect that every guest would feel himself to be in the home of true California aristocracy.

  This was not a party for kids. In fact, Tommy and Frank would be required to remain in their rooms tomorrow evening, permitted to engage only in the quietest activities: no television, no stereo, no slightest peep to draw attention to themselves.

  This party was strictly for the movers and shakers on whom Kyle Sutzmann’s political career depended. He was now a California State Senator, but in next week’s election he was running for the United States Congress. This was a thank-you party for his most generous financial backers and for the power brokers who had pulled strings to ensure his nomination the previous spring. Kids verboten.

  Tommy’s parents seemed to want him around only at major campaign rallies, media photography sessions, and for a few minutes at the start of election-night victory parties. That was okay with Tommy. He preferred to remain invisible. On those rare occasions when his folks took notice of him, they invariably disapproved of everything he said and did, every movement he made, every innocent expression that crossed his face.

  Lois said, “Mr. Howser, I hope we understand that large shrimp do not qualify as finger lobster.”

  As the nervous caterer reassured Lois of the quality of his operation, Tommy sidled silently away from the refrigerator and quietly extracted two Milanos from the cookie jar.

  “These are important people,” Kyle informed the caterer for the tenth time, “substantial and sophisticated people, and they are accustomed to the very best.”

  In school, Tommy had been taught that politics was the means by which many enlightened people chose to serve their fellow men. He knew that was baloney. His parents spent long evenings plotting his father’s political career, and Tommy never once overheard either of them talk about serving the people or improving society. Oh, sure, in public, on campaign platforms, that was what they talked about “the rights of the masses, the hungry, the homeless”—but never in private. Beyond the public eye, they endlessly discussed “forming power bases” and “crushing the opposition” and “shoving this new law down their throats.” To them and to all the people with whom they associated, politics was a way to gain respect, make some money, and—most important—acquire power.

  Tommy understood why people liked to be respected, because he received no respect at all. He could see why having a lot of money was desirable. But he did not understand this power thing. He could not figure why anyone would waste a lot of time and energy trying to acquire power over other people. What fun could be gotten from ordering people around, telling them what to do? What if you told them to do the wrong thing, and then what if, because of your orders, people were hurt or wound up broke or something worse? And how could you expect people to like you if you had power over them? After all, Frank had power over Tommy—complete power, total control—and Tommy loathed him.

  Sometimes he thought he was the only sane person in the family. At other times, he wondered if they were all sane and if he was mad. Whatever the case, crazy or sane, Tommy always felt that he did not belong in the same house with his own family.

  As he slipped stealthily out of the kitchen with his can of Coke and two Milanos wrapped in a paper napkin, his parents were querying Mr. Howser about the champagne.

  In the back hallway, Frank’s door was open, and Tommy paused for a glimpse of the pumpkin. It was still there, fire in every aperture.

  “What you got there?” Frank asked, stepping into the doorway. He grabbed Tommy by the shirt, yanked him into the room, slammed the door, and confiscated the cookies and Coke. “Thanks, snotface. I was just thinking I could use a snack.” He went to the desk and put the booty beside the glowing jack-o’-lantern.

  Taking a deep breath, steeling himself for what resistance would mean, Tommy said, “Those are mine.”

  Frank pretended shock. “Is my little brother a greedy glutton who doesn’t know how to share?”

  “Give me back my Coke and cookies.”

  Frank’s grin seemed filled with shark’s teeth. “Good heavens, dear brother, I think you need to be taught a lesson. Greedy little gluttons have to be shown the path of enlightenment.”

  Tommy would have preferred to walk away, to let Frank win, to go back to the kitchen and fetch another Coke and more cookies. But he knew that his life, already intolerable, would get far worse if he didn’t make an effort, no matter how futile, to stand up to this stranger who was supposedly his brother. Total, willing capitulation would inflame Frank and encourage him to be even more of a bully than he already was.

  “I want my cookies and my Coke,” Tommy insisted, wondering if any cookies, even Milanos, were worth dying for.

  Frank rushed him.

  They fell to the floor, pummeling each other, rolling, kicking, but producing little noise. They didn’t want to draw their folks’ attention. Tommy was reluctant to let his parents know what was happening because they would invariably blame the ruckus on him. Athletic, well-tanned Frank was their dream child, their favorite son, and he could do no wrong. Frank probably wanted to keep the battle secret because their father would put a stop to it, thereby spoiling the fun.

  Throughout the tussle, Tommy had brief glimpses of the glowing jack-o’-lantern, which gazed down on them, and he was sure that its grin grew steadily wider, wider.

  At last Tommy was driven into a corner, beaten and exhausted. Straddling him, Frank slapped him once, hard, rattling his senses, then tore at Tommy’s clothes, pulling them off.

  “No!” Tommy whispered when he realized that in addition to being beaten, he was to be humiliated. “No, no.”

  He struggled with what little strength he still possessed, but his shirt was stripped off; his jeans and underwear were yanked down. With his pants tangled around his sneakers, he was pulled to his feet and half carried across the room.

  Frank threw open the door, pitched Tommy into the hallway, and called out, “Oh, Maria! Maria, can yo
u come here a moment, please?”

  Maria was the twice-a-week maid who came in to clean and do the ironing. This was one of her days.

  “Maria!”

  Naked, terrified of being humiliated in front of the maid, Tommy scrambled to his feet, grabbed his pants, tried to run and pull up his jeans at the same time, stumbled, fell, and sprang up again.

  “Maria, can you come here, please?” Frank asked, barely able to get the words out between gales of laughter.

  Gasping, whimpering, Tommy somehow reached his room and got out of sight before Maria appeared. For a while he leaned against the closed door, holding up his jeans with both hands, shivering.

  3

  WITH THEIR PARENTS OFF AT A CAMPAIGN APPEARANCE, TOMMY AND Frank ate dinner together, after heating up a casserole that Maria had left in the refrigerator. Ordinarily, dinner with Frank was an ordeal, but this time it proved to be uneventful. As he ate, Frank was engrossed in a magazine that reported on the latest horror movies, with heavy emphasis on slice-and-dice films and with lots of color photographs of mutilated and blood-soaked bodies; he seemed oblivious of Tommy.

  Later, when Frank was in the bathroom preparing for bed, Tommy sneaked into his older brother’s room and stood at the desk, studying the jack-o’-lantern. The wicked mouth glowed. The narrow pupils were alive with fire.

  The scent of roses filled the room, but underlying that odor was another more subtle and less appealing fragrance that he could not quite identify.

  Tommy was aware of a malevolent presence—something even worse than the malevolence that he could always sense in Frank’s room. A cold current raced through his blood.

  Suddenly he was certain that the potential murderous power of the black pumpkin was enhanced by the candle within it. Somehow, the presence of light inside its shell was dangerous, a triggering factor. Tommy did not know how he knew this, but he was convinced that if he was to have the slightest chance of surviving the coming night, he must extinguish the flame.

  He grasped the gnarled stem and removed the lid from the top of the jack-o’-lantern’s skull.

  Light did not merely rise from inside the pumpkin but seemed to be flung at him, hot on his face, stinging his eyes.

  He blew out the flame.

  The jack-o’-lantern went dark.

  Immediately, Tommy felt better.

  He put the lid in place.

  As he let go of the stem, the candle refit spontaneously.

  Stunned, he jumped back.

  Light shone from the carved eyes, the nose, the mouth.

  “No,” he said softly.

  He removed the lid and blew out the candle once more.

  A moment of darkness within the pumpkin. Then, before his eyes, the flame reappeared.

  Reluctantly, issuing a thin involuntary sound of distress, Tommy reached into the jack-o’-lantern to snuff the stubborn candle with his thumb and finger. He was convinced that the pumpkin shell would suddenly snap shut around his wrist, severing his hand, leaving him with a bloody stump. Or perhaps it would hold him fast while swiftly dissolving the flesh from his fingers and then release him with an arm that terminated in a skeletal hand. Driven toward the brink of hysteria by these fears, he pinched the wick, extinguished the flame, and snatched his hand back with a sob of relief, grateful to have escaped mutilation.

  He jammed the lid in place and, hearing the toilet flush in the adjacent bath, hurried out of the room. He dared not let Frank catch him there. As he stepped into the hallway, he glanced back at the jack-o’-lantern, and, of course, it was full of candlelight again.

  He went straight to the kitchen and got a butcher’s knife, which he took back to his own room and hid beneath his pillow. He was sure that he would need it sooner or later in the dead hours before dawn.

  4

  HIS PARENTS CAME HOME SHORTLY BEFORE MIDNIGHT.

  Tommy was sitting in bed, his room illuminated only by the pale bulb of the low-wattage night-light. The butcher’s knife was at his side, under the covers, and his hand was resting on the haft.

  For twenty minutes, Tommy could hear his folks talking, running water, flushing toilets, closing doors. Their bedroom and bath were at the opposite end of the house from his and Frank’s rooms, so the noises they made were muffled but nonetheless reassuring. These were the ordinary noises of daily life, and as long as the house was filled with them, no weird lantern-eyed predator could be stalking anyone.

  Soon, however, quiet returned.

  In the postmidnight stillness, Tommy waited for the first scream.

  He was determined not to fall asleep. But he was only twelve years old, and he was exhausted after a long day and drained by the sustained terror that had gripped him ever since he had seen the mummy-faced pumpkin carver. Propped against a pile of pillows, he dozed off long before one o’clock

  -and something thumped, waking him.

  He was instantly alert. He sat straight up in bed, clutching the butcher’s knife.

  For a moment he was certain that the sound had originated within his own room. Then he heard it again, a solid thump, and he knew that it had come from Frank’s room across the hall.

  He threw aside the covers and sat on the edge of the bed, tense. Waiting. Listening.

  Once, he thought he heard Frank calling his name—“Tooommmmyy”—a desperate and frightened and barely audible cry that seemed to come from the far rim of a vast canyon. Perhaps he imagined it.

  Silence.

  His hands were slick with sweat. He put the big knife aside and blotted his palms on his pajamas.

  Silence.

  He picked up the knife again. He reached under his bed and found the flashlight that he kept there, but he did not switch it on. He eased cautiously to the door and listened for movement in the hallway beyond.

  Nothing.

  An inner voice urged him to return to bed, pull the covers over his head, and forget what he had heard. Better yet, he could crawl under the bed and hope that he would not be found. But he knew this was the voice of the wimp within, and he dared not hope for salvation in cowardice. If the black pumpkin had grown into something else, and if it was now loose in the house, it would respond to timidity with no less savage glee than Frank would have shown.

  God, he thought fervently, there’s a boy down here who believes in you, and he’d be very disappointed if you happened to be looking the other way right now when he really, really, really needs you.

  Tommy quietly turned the knob and opened the door. The hallway, illuminated only by the moonlight that streamed through the window at the end, was deserted.

  Directly across the hall, the door to Frank’s room stood open.

  Still not switching on the flashlight, desperately hoping that his presence would go undetected if he was mantled in darkness, he stepped to Frank’s doorway and listened. Frank usually snored, but no snoring could be heard tonight. If the jack-o’-lantern was in there, the candle had been extinguished at last, for no flickering paraffin light was visible.

  Tommy crossed the threshold.

  Moonlight silvered the window, and the palm-frond shadows of a wind-stirred tree danced on the glass. In the room, no object was clearly outlined. Mysterious shapes loomed in shades of dark gray and black.

  He took one step. Two. Three.

  His heart pounded so hard that it shattered his resolve to cloak himself in darkness. He snapped on the Eveready and was startled by the way the butcher’s knife in his right hand reflected the light.

  He swept the beam around the room and, to his relief, saw no crouching monstrosity. The sheets and blankets were tumbled in a pile on the mattress, and he had to take another step toward the bed before he was able to ascertain that Frank was not there.

  The severed hand was on the floor by the nightstand. Tommy saw it in the penumbra of the flashlight, and he brought the beam to bear directly on it. He stared in shock. Frank’s hand. No doubt about its identity, because Frank’s treasured silver skull-and-crossbones ring
gleamed brightly on one slug-white finger. It was curled into a tight fist.

  Perhaps powered by a postmortem nerve spasm, perhaps energized by darker forces, the fisted hand suddenly opened, fingers unfolding like the spreading petals of a flower. In the palm was a single, shiny nickel.

  Tommy stifled a wild shriek but could not repress a series of violent shudders.

  As he frantically tried to decide which escape route might be safest, he heard his mother scream from the far end of the house. Her shrill cry was abruptly cut off. Something crashed.

  Tommy turned toward the doorway of Frank’s room. He knew that he should run before it was too late, but he was as welded to this spot as he had been to that bit of dusty ground in the pumpkin lot when the carver had insisted on telling him what the jack-o’-lantern would become during the lonely hours of the night.

  He heard his father shout.

  A gunshot.

  His father screamed.

  This scream also was cut short.

  Silence again.

  Tommy tried to lift one foot, just one, just an inch off the floor, but it would not be lifted. He sensed that more than fear was holding him down, that some malevolent spell prevented him from escaping the black pumpkin.

  A door slammed at the other end of the house.

  Footsteps sounded in the hall. Heavy, scraping footsteps.

  Tears slipped out of Tommy’s eyes and down his cheeks.

  In the hall, the floorboards creaked and groaned as if under a great weight.

  Staring at the open door with no less terror than if he had been gazing into the entrance of Hell, Tommy saw flickering orange light in the corridor. The glow grew brighter as the source—no doubt a candle—drew nearer from the left, from the direction of his parents’ bedroom.

  Amorphous shadows and eerie snakes of light crawled on the hall carpet.

  The heavy footsteps slowed. Stopped.

  Judging by the light, the thing was only a foot or two from the doorway.

  Tommy swallowed hard and worked up enough spit to say, Who’s there? but was surprised to hear himself say instead, “Okay, damn you, let’s get it over with.”

  Perhaps his years in the Sutzmann house had toughened him more thoroughly and had made him more fatalistic than he had previously realized.

  The creature lurched into view, filling the doorway.

  Its head was formed by the jack-o’-lantern, which had undergone hideous mutations. That peculiar pate had retained its black and orange coloring and its gourdlike shape, narrower at the top than at the bottom, and all the tumorous nodules were as crusted and disgusting as ever. However, though it had been as large as any pumpkin that Tommy had ever seen, it was now only about the size of a basketball, shriveled. The eyes had sagged, although the slitted pupils were still narrow and mean. The nose was bubbling with some vile mucus. The immense mouth stretched from ear to ear, for it had remained large while the rest of the face had shrunk around it. In the orange light that streamed out between them, the hooked fangs appeared to have been transformed from points of pumpkin rind into hard, sharp protuberances of bone.

  The body under the head was vaguely humanoid, although it seemed to be composed of thick gnarled roots and tangled vines. The beast appeared to be immensely strong, a colossus, a fierce juggernaut if it wished to be. Even in his terror, Tommy was filled with awe. He wondered if the creature’s body had grown from the substance in its previously enormous pumpkin head and, more pointedly, from the flesh of Frank, Lois, and Kyle Sutzmann.

  Worst of all was the orange light within the skull. The candle still burned in there. Its leaping flames emphasized the impossible emptiness of the head—How could the thing move and think without a brain?—and invested a savage and demonic awareness in its eyes.

  The nightmarish vision raised one thick, twisted, powerful, vinelike arm and thrust a rootlike finger at Tommy. “You,” it said in a deep whispery voice that called to mind the sound of wet slush pouring down a drain.