by Dan Dillard
The Wicked
By Dan Dillard
DEDICATION:
To my youngest daughter, Schuyler, who had it rough as a baby. Call it colic, call it whatever, you have always been our busy one. Though we would love you either way, your mom and I knew you weren’t haunted.
And to Brenna, who has had it rough for the past eight years, you aren’t haunted either. We love you, too. Somehow it will work out and you’ll be all the stronger for it. Don’t give up.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:
Thank you to my wife, my father, my brother, Missy Andre, Kim Sofia, Suzanne Cappalletti, Michael Yowell, Lisa Morris and anyone else I may have forgotten who read this in its infancy. Thank you to Michaelbrent Collings for taking the time to give me some pointers.
As usual, any mistakes in the text are all my fault.
Thanks to Thomas Kovalenko for helping me sort out the cover art—and to my wife, it’s not a gremlin! Thanks as always to the ten of you that I don’t know, who still read my books.
The Wicked
Copyright © 2014 by Daniel P. Dillard
ISBN: 9781310044168
License notes:
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, , without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
THE WICKED
ONE---
Samuel Bryant parked his car in front of their sixties era house. He called it the Mike Brady house when he and Faith had first looked at it and they'd shared a chuckle at the realtor's expense. He figured the realtor laughed back when they signed the papers, but they'd grown to love it. The exterior was a faded rust color, stuck somewhere a half century ago, but the interior had been brought into the present. Faith was good at such things. At least she had been before the baby. Named for his grandfather on his mother's side, Charles Michael Bryant—Charlie-Bear—was nine months old, and neither of them could remember life before he existed.
Sam wore a suit and carried a laptop bag that doubled as his brief case. Thirty years had passed since he was nine months old. Faith was twenty eight. They’d met when he was in law school. Passing the bar was required before they got married, her rule. She had been a program analyst and government contractor, but quit when she became pregnant and never once looked back.
Sam locked the car with the fob and noticed something rubber-banded to the mailbox. Faith had always prided herself on organization. When things as simple as the mail went unchecked, it always meant her day with the baby had been trying.
“Shit,” he said.
He grabbed the object and snapped off the rubber band. It was an invitation to a neighborhood cookout. Sam folded the invite into the rest of the mail from inside the box and went in the front door.
Charlie-Bear was crying, but it was a winding-down cry, as if he was tired. Sam eased out of his shoes, laid his bag down quietly and snuck into the family room to see Faith rocking their son. Her long black hair was twisted into a messy bun, and her blue eyes looked weak. She smiled, but there was no power behind it, only surrender. He held his hands out and mouthed, “Do you want me to take him?”
She shook her head and whispered, “He’s asleep, but fighting it.”
“Has he been up the whole time?”
She nodded. “Almost napped at noon. Up since five and having a cling-to-mommy day. I haven’t been able to put his chunky butt down for four hours.”
“Is he sick?” Sam asked and sat down on the couch next to the rocker. He patted and rubbed her knee, then gently kissed the baby on the head before kissing Faith.
She twisted her mouth and raised her eyebrows. “I don’t know. He just seems agitated this week. Or maybe it's been more than a week. I’m so tired. I think he only slept for three hours last night.”
Sam looked concerned. “Getting worse,” he said. “You call the doc?”
“Yep. Colic is their magic word. That means they don't know what it is. If he runs a fever or won’t eat they want me to bring him in. Said it would pass eventually and we aren’t the first parents to have a fussy baby. I always feel like such a rookie when I call them with questions.”
“Rookie of the year,” he said.
“Sweet, but won’t get you any sex.” She looked down with an angry face.”You may never have sex again if this is the result.”
Her angry face melted at the sight of the now-sleeping child. “You’re lucky you’re so damned good looking, Charlie-Bear.”
Sam smiled at her and gave the baby’s foot a gentle squeeze. He was sleeping hard now, a nap that might last.
Sam gave her his sympathetic face. “I’ll go pick up some dinner. Chinese?”
“Sounds great.”
“Be right back,” he said.
She continued rocking the sleeping baby and watched him go.
*****
Thirty-five minutes passed and he pulled up to the house again. The scene was the same except the sun hung a bit lower in the sky, and there was a man standing in the walkway in front his house. He appeared homeless, his clothes were dirty, and he was talking to himself. Sam hurried from the car with his bag of food.
“Can I help you, sir? You lost?” he said, stopping just feet away.
The stranger turned and looked at him, and Sam noticed how the old man’s hands shook. His lips also moved, saying something Sam couldn’t make out. He might have been sixty years of age or older, or it could have been hard living. Nervously, he looked back at the house, like he couldn't not watch it.
“Can I call someone for you? Are you hurt?” Sam asked.
“I’m sure this is the place. The place. The place,” the man said. Each repetition of the words came from a mouth aimed in a different direction and in diminishing volume. His eyes never left the house.
“What?”
The stranger turned to face Sam once more and gestured with his hands as he spoke. He looked as if he was conducting an orchestra. His eyes didn’t focus on Sam, but instead bounced around him as if he was standing with a group. The bum's wispy grey hair was stained a dingy yellow with grime, and appeared as if decades of running his fingers through it had left it thin and standing out from his scalp. He was more like a cartoon character than a person.
“The place, this place is where he is. He is. He is. He is.”
His words were rhythmic, moving in time with his hands. He shifted his weight from one foot to the next. Then he clapped in the same tempo, and although the rhythm was happy and upbeat, the man’s expression was not. His eyes darted, suspicious. Occasionally, when he wasn't conducting, Sam watched his arthritic hands tremble as if from a nerve disease or maybe fear.
“He’s here, he is. He is. He is. He is.”
Sam narrowed his eyes, summing up his visitor.
Crazy old man.
“Okay, buddy. Move along.”
He looked down the street, only a few blocks away from downtown. The bums hadn’t worked their way into the neighborhood before that he'd noticed, but it was no surprise to see one. The stranger seemed harmless; nothing about him was offensive aside from his dirty appearance. Sam wasn't close enough to smell him and didn't want to be. He started inside, giving his visitor a wide berth.
“No no. Not yet, young man. You need my help.”
That irritated Sam. He stepped toward the man, trying to intimidate, but the man didn’t move. He stopped conducting and crossed his arms momentarily, as if to get control of his tick, then pointed to the house with one hand while the other was still tucked into his armpit. The rocking had stopped, but the involuntary quake was obvious in his extended finger.
“You live here?” he asked.
Sam didn’t answer his question, just glared.
“What do you want?” asked Sam.
“You need my help. My help. My help. My help.”
“No. I need you to leave.”
The bum stared at Sam for a moment, blinking and twitching before he conducted the invisible orchestra again, and shifted from foot to foot.
“My help. He's here. My help. He's here. He's here. He's here.”
“No, I assure you,” Sam interrupted. “I am just fine. Now, can you freak out on someone else’s lawn, please?”
His jig continued, but he backed away down the sidewalk, heading toward downtown. He frowned as he glanced back at Sam’s house.
“Take care,” Sam said.
He watched the man slowly dance away before turning to go inside.
Poor, crazy old man.
“It doesn’t want you. No it don’t. It don’t. It don't,” the stranger said.
Sam stopped with his hand on the doorknob and looked back at him. The old man stood motionless, arms at his sides. His face had lost its loony quality and had taken on a more menacing guise. His voice was steady, and his previously wandering eyes held Sam’s steadily.
“It wants your baby.”
The hairs on Sam's neck popped to attention as if an icy drop of water had slid down his spine. He opened the door, stepped inside and closed the door in a hurry. He peered out the sidelight and watched the man, who was twitching again, wandering down the sidewalk into the distance, jabbering as he went.
“Weird,” Sam said. “Too freaking weird.”
Faith stood at the end of the hallway with her hands resting on her hips.
“What’s too freaking weird?”
“Some old bum,” he answered.
“Here? Guess we oughta expect that. City is just a couple blocks away. God, that smells terrific. I’m famished.”
She grabbed the grease-stained paper sack from his grip and kissed him on the cheek before disappearing through the doorway at the end of the hall. He followed.
When they reached the kitchen, she already had the carton of Lo Mein noodles open and was eating with her fingers.
“I’ll just keep this. You can have the rest,” she said.
He nodded, reached in the bag for another carton, grabbed a couple forks from a drawer under the counter, and handed her one. The room filled with the scent of fried eggrolls and five-spice.
“What’d the bum say?” asked Faith.
“Huh?”
Sam stared off into space.
“The bum. You forget about him already?”
“Oh. No. He was babbling. Something about this being the place, and that I needed his help.”
“Oh. Well, do you?”
“Do I what?”
She punched him in the arm and then put a huge fork full of food in her mouth, talking through it, her other hand in front of her face as if to hide her chewing. It was a gesture, Sam noted, that all women did.
“Need his help?”
“No. Just a nutty old man. He was shaking, like… Parkinson’s or something. I feel sorry for him.”
He stepped out of the kitchen and back to the front door.
“I’d have called the cops,” she said as she followed him.
“Go ahead. He can’t be too far.”
He looked out the sidelight again. It was dusky outside and the old man was nowhere to be found.
“You’re scared,” she said. “He really got to you.”
Sam shook his head. “Just weird is all.”
She put a hand on his shoulder and kissed him on the cheek again, a greasy kiss that smelled like food.
“Thanks for getting me dinner,” she said.
He smiled, then grabbed her around the waist and kissed her back.
“Any time.”
“Ya know...Charlie-Bear is sleeping. We might be able to...”
She pulled his ear to her mouth as if she was going to whisper into it, but licked it instead. Sam hugged her tightly to him, dropping the carton of fried rice on the counter. The kiss was deep, and long overdue.
“I thought you said you didn’t want this anymore?” he said, groping and kissing her neck.
“Lo Mein holds powerful magic,” she said.
Then Charlie-Bear started crying.
TWO---
The previous night was rough for Sam and Faith, and Charlie-Bear, but eventually exhaustion won out for all three. At 5:07 am, the crying started again. Screams that sounded like the child was in pain were intermixed with the word, “Ma!”
Faith trudged into his room with the patience of a saint and scooped him up. She checked his diaper, which was wet, and quickly changed it. Then she tried to burp him as she prepped for a feeding. They sat in the white rocking chair opposite his crib. He didn’t latch on at first, grunting and complaining for a few moments, but then he settled in. His eyes closed and he dozed in between every so many squirts of milk. Faith sang quietly when she wasn’t yawning. A couple minutes later, Sam walked in.
“Uh oh, boobs out. You want coffee?” he said.
She looked down at Charlie-Bear and he looked back with bright and wide, watery eyes.
“I thought you were asleep, you little turd,” she said.
Sam peeked down at his son.
“Looks like he’s up for the morning,” he said.
She nodded.
“Coffee sounds good.”
Faith adjusted her breast in the baby’s mouth. He grunted again and grabbed at her with his tiny hands.
“You smell something weird?” Sam asked.
Faith sniffed the air and shook her head.
“Diaper pail, maybe?” she asked.
“Emptied it last night,” he said.
“Could be your breath,” she said, smirking.
“Or your sense of humor,” he replied.
Sam left and came back minutes later with two mugs of coffee, then left to perform his morning get-ready-for-work routine. As he shaved, he saw Faith in the bathroom mirror. She was quietly watching the ritual.
“Court today?” she asked as he fixed his tie.
“Nope. Boring paperwork day, couple clients.”
“Make it count,” she said.
“Get some rest,” he said.
“I’ll rest when he’s married to some other woman, then she can take care of him.”
Sam grabbed his coat and bag and aimed his feet toward the car. He stopped on the sidewalk and thought about the stranger.
It wants your baby.
“Crazy bastard,” he whispered and shook his head.
He tossed his bag in the passenger seat and glanced back at the house. Faith waved at him from the door and then closed it. He smiled as he pulled away from the curb, driving toward downtown. Sam had empathy for his wife, but he was also glad to get away from the sound of a screaming child for eight or nine hours. He noted that he owed her some free time so she could decompress. That night would be his turn with Charlie-Bear, at least for a few hours.
Four blocks away, he passed the convenience store where he often stopped for a six-pack or a pair of ice cream sandwiches to take home. From there on, the drive led deeper and deeper into the cold, angular city.
It was quiet that time of morning, the bustle of folks still an hour away and the buildings were just coming to life with the rest of the early risers. Sam fiddled with the radio, then looked up at a red light and stomped on his brake pedal.
The car cooperated, but his bag slid into the floor. Nothing spilled out, and he hoped nothing had broken.
“Damn.”
He exhaled, felt his heart pound, and checked the light again.
Still red.
Leaning as far to the right as he could, Sam felt for a handhold on the bag. When it rested safely back on the seat, he sat up and smoothed his shirt and tie back into place. The light went green, but there was a man crossing the street. A man who shook and had strings of white hair that stood out from his head.
“So this is where you live,” Sam said.
&
nbsp; His eyes followed the old man as he passed by the car. When he reached the opposite corner, the bum started his dance again, hands conducting and feet shifting. He was babbling something. Sam felt better seeing he was crazy all the time, and not just in front of the Mike Brady house. Not just when he was talking about Charlie-Bear. That was and obvious coincidence. It had to be.
“Crazy. Just as crazy as you can be,” Sam said.
*****
Sam thought about the old man several times throughout the day. In between calls and emails, interruptions from his assistant, he drifted into the daydream zone and when he came back to reality, Sam found he had scribbled on one of many yellow legal pads.
THE PLACE THE PLACE THE PLACE.
MY HELP MY HELP MY HELP.
IT WANTS YOUR BABY.
Those words chilled him again. He scratched through them with his fountain pen. Then, to get them out of his mind, he looked up the word Colic in an online dictionary.
Colic (noun.): A condition where an otherwise healthy baby cries or shows signs of distress for an extended period of time.
“That helps,” he said. “Faith was right, they don't know what it is.”
It wants your baby.
“That helps too.”
Before he knew it, it was after 4:00 pm, and he started packing his things to go home. Outside his window, the skies were growing gray and cloudy and the sharp contrast caused by bright sun was replaced with a dull haze. The wind picked up slightly, fluttering the awnings of the nearby businesses.
*****
Faith was on her belly making fart noises with her lips and giggling with her smiling prince. He hadn’t slept and neither had she. Neither had slept well in several days, but at least Charlie-Bear was happy for the moment.
She patted his hands and let him grip her fingers. He crawled around at lightning speed and pulled himself up to stand at the couch and the end tables in the living room. Then he took a step and fell on his padded rear. That time was funny. Some days it was frustrating.
“Wont’ be long, Charlie-Bear. Not long at all before Mommy’s gonna need running shoes to keep up with you.”
She tickled his round kid-belly and got another grin. Then she sniffed the air. Charlie-Bear no longer smiled. He was propped against the couch and stood perfectly still. He stared beyond Faith, watching as if something was crawling on the wall. She looked behind her, but saw nothing. When she looked back at Charlie, a small toot escaped him.
