by Mark Tufo
Mike figured the latter was the true reason, the debt may have been part of it, but the underlying reason was housed in the loft area. “Yeah, it’s a nice day out. I’d much rather be out here,” Mike told Patches. The only problem was now he was looking directly at the patch of trees that inexplicably liked to move. He quickly ran into the house, grabbed the crossbow, and began to assemble it.
“Wouldn’t that suck if I got mauled by something while I was trying to put this stuff together?” he asked Patches, but she was lying on the top step, fully immersed in the rays of the sun. “You look good for being years dead,” he told her. She flicked her tail in response.
Mike was three-quarters through the pot of coffee as the sun began to set over a distant mount when a chill wind coursed through him. He grabbed his now functional weapon and headed inside. “You coming in?” he asked Patches. She looked up at him and then into the house before bounding down the remainder of the steps and into the woods from where she had first emerged.
Mike thought about following her, but it was rapidly darkening and he didn’t think he’d be able to even see her or get through the brush for that matter. “I’m going to eat your food!” he yelled, hoping to entice his companion back. She didn’t listen.
Mike went in and subconsciously flipped every switch he passed that was attached to something that lit up. He refilled Patches’ already overflowing bowl and stood up. The warning on the fridge was gone, the words maybe, but not the medium in which they were written. The ketchup was smeared across the whole front of the appliance as if a petulant three year old had been let loose.
“Why?” he asked, an involuntary sob escaping his lips. He knew he was going insane and he had no family, no friends, and no Jandilyn to help him. He began to ponder if it would be possible to put a crossbow bolt through his head. “Maybe I could buy that taser and off myself in the tub—would that kill me if I dropped it in there?” He laughed at the insanity of the words, but not the message. That he took seriously as the heart attack he hoped it would incite.
Mike was crying, his head resting against the cool marble countertop when he felt something brush up against his leg. Through blurred vision he made out the form of Patches who had made her way in and was now eating. He couldn’t remember if he had left the screen door open for her to get back in or she was just Houdini. It was far removed from the strangest thing that had happened that day and he soon forgot about it.
Mike cleaned the fridge off and dug around in the freezer, grabbing something he hoped would take the edge off the gnawing in his stomach. He wished he had remembered to pick up another bottle of ketchup, it was the only thing that made the frozen meals somewhat palatable. He opened the door, the condiment was just about where he had put it the last time but, he couldn’t be completely sure. Who takes note of that kind of thing anyway?
He stopped mid-reach, wondering if he wanted to touch something that was last in possession of what? A ghost? An entity? A sort-of-mad squatter? What exactly was going on here? He thought Jandilyn had led him here, but now he wasn’t sure and even if she had, for what purpose? So that he would rapidly descend into madness culminating in suicide? He had enough Catholic in him to know he would never see his love again if he took that road. An eternity of damnation was all he could expect at the end of a rope, bullet, arrow or insert-deadly-instrument-here.
He could deal with what felt like an eternity to meet back up with his love and his baby, he thought, as long as each second wasn’t drawn agonizingly out and the pain he felt would at some point ebb. The exact opposite had been happening, though, instead of dropping off it had actually been building like a giant wave off the coast of some Southern Pacific Island that was now going to be threatened by a wall of murderous water some hundred feet high, nothing and nobody would be able to survive and that was how he felt.
“Kind of dramatic don’t you think, Patches?” he asked as he leaned on his elbows on the countertop. He yawned and his jaw popped. “What the hell—I should be until next Thursday,” he said as he eyed his nearly empty pot of coffee. “Fuck me,” he said softly when he looked at the bag of coffee grounds. “Decaf. Son of a bitch.” He yawned again.
He grabbed one of the bags off the counter and headed up, he left the lights blazing. Patches took one long look around the kitchen and followed. “This oughtta help me sleep,” Mike said as he opened up the sound machine he had purchased at the local Radio Shack. He plugged the small machine in and placed it on his milk crate nightstand.
He pressed the first button without checking what it was and instantly regretted his decision as a beating heart amplified throughout his room, the remembrance of their first sonogram and the beating heart of his unborn child slammed into him with all the force of a gale fueled wind. He started button mashing until something—anything different came through the speakers. Ocean waves breaking on a beach came next, but since that hit a little too close to home in actual feelings he moved on.
The chirp of crickets came next but he didn’t think he’d be able to sleep with insects in his room. “Last choice or into the trash with you,” Mike said as he pressed the button labeled ‘White Noise’. Static filled the room, much like late night television from its early era when after the National Anthem all broadcasting stopped. The noise made his teeth chatter at high decibels but was somewhat soothing on the lowest setting. “I guess that’s the point,” he said. “To remind us of when we were kids and we would fall asleep with the tube on.” He set the device down.
Patches didn’t seem to mind what noise came out of the thing, she was already curled up and purring contentedly. “I know it’s early cat, but I’m wiped out. Do you mind?” He shut the light off. Mike was having dreams of Jandilyn and the baby, a boy he figured by the blue pajamas he was wearing. Jandilyn was laughing, her eyes twinkling as Mike swung the baby gently around their old apartment. The baby was squealing with delight, issuing small gurgling sounds and grinning toothlessly.
The baby’s smile started to droop as color began to vanish, pink turned to blue, Jandilyn was screaming at him to stop swinging the baby, but his feet wouldn’t listen, in fact they started speeding up so that the room was violently spinning. Jandilyn was reaching out but he kept moving farther away, the baby went slack in his hands. The blue terry cloth pajamas began to sprout a patchwork quilt of fur, within moments the baby’s lifeless face turned into the intense watchful gaze of Patches. Mike tried to push the cat away but the faster he twirled the closer the centrifugal force pulled them together almost in unification.
Just as Patches’ nose was about to touch his own he woke with a start, not realizing where the nightmare ended and reality began. Patches was within inches of his face staring intently. “Fuck, cat!” he yelled, scooting back, his head slamming into the headboard. Mike was rubbing the back of his head, Patches was alternating looks between Mike and the white noise generator. Chills began to spread down Mike’s arms as his heavy breathing became visible, a wisp of breath drifted up like a fine filament of smoke.
Through the static Mike could hear something trying to make itself known, his first initial fear was that it would be the gurgling of a dying baby. “Michael,” came through, hardly louder than a whisper.
“Jed?” Mike asked. The voice was male. That was the only thing he could be certain of.
“Michael
…” again hardly above a whisper. “THE CLEARING!” Blared through the machine, ripping a hole through the speaker. Mike had enough adrenaline splashing through his veins that two pots of coffee and a pound of sugar wouldn’t have been able to match. The white noise now sounded like ripped paper blowing in a stiff breeze. Mike made sure to tear the plug out of the wall, he’d seen enough horror movies to realize it would without a doubt turn itself back on sometime in the middle of the night. Although he’d also seen enough to where it didn’t matter if it was plugged in or not.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN - The Clearing
“I’m in a horror movie now—when d
id this happen?” But he knew the answer, it was the very second Jandilyn’s heart stopped beating. Everything since was merely filler. Mike sat there waiting for the surge of endorphins to wind their way through his body. He got up and took the sound machine out of the room and downstairs to throw it into the trash barrel in the kitchen. He was not surprised in the least to see the words ‘THE CLEARING’ on the fridge, what put ice into his veins was that whatever had done those letters had used something sharp enough to engrave them permanently into the stainless steel.
“That was a nice fridge!” Mike shouted, pulling the fridge out of its little cubby against the wall. He unhooked the plug and pulled it clear from the kitchen and down the hallway. He opened the front door and then propped open the screen door. He only became concerned for a moment when the fridge caught on the small riser but he still had enough reserves in the adrenaline tank to get the large machine over the hump, so to speak. It tottered for a second then crashed to the porch. A flock of something lifted off from the woods nearby and gave a loud protest at the disturbance. “And fuck you too!” Mike yelled to the retreating fowl.
Mike pushed the fridge far enough so that he could again shut the screen door. “Write something on that, you asshole!” Somewhere deep down Mike knew he was losing his grasp on reality, at the moment, though, he was just really thankful he didn’t have any neighbors to watch him.
Patches was sitting on top of the stairs, watching the whole scene seemingly unconcerned. What did she care? Her food was in the pantry.
“Jandilyn, help me!” Mike shrieked to the heavens, a ghostly imagined voice sang out and Mike knew what he had to do.
“Do I even own a flashlight?” he asked himself as he sat down and put his boots on. Patches came down and watched him intently. “What, cat? Are you hungry? Go eat, your bowl is overflowing with food.”
Mike got up and walked toward the door and out, almost falling over his newly discarded appliance in his haste to get to where he was going. Patches was at the bottom of the steps. “Holy shit, you’re fast,” Mike said, avoiding stepping on her by the minutest fraction. She hissed violently at him. “Oh, shut up, I didn’t even touch you.”
Mike headed to the brush line where he had seen Patches emerge some years ago. Days, he corrected. What made me think that? he thought. Thorns caught on his bed clothes, most punctured and ripped at his skin, the pain did little to deter him, if anything it spurred him on. Mike was bloody with effort by the time he came out to a small moss laden clearing roughly six feet in diameter. Moonlight flooded the small space and illuminated just how much damage he had sustained.
Blood welled up from over a dozen wounds, some considerably worse than others, his bed clothes were in tatters, getting the blood out was of no concern at this point, by the end of the night he figured he would toss them on top of the discarded fridge. A small hand axe was imbedded in a tree a few feet from where he had entered the opening. With some effort he pulled it free, remarking how warm the handle was, as if the last lumberjack had just clocked out and now it was Mike’s shift. The blade glinted in the moonlight, it appeared as if it had just received its factory edge yesterday. Mike’s arms vibrated as he buried the blade deep into a tree. Patches howled loudly, Mike paid her absolutely no heed as he swung repeatedly.
Mike barely stopped to watch as the forty foot behemoth crashed to the ground before he began swinging at the next tree. The woods had become deathly quiet except for the hammering blows of Mike’s axe on the tree. Any animals that had not completely vacated the area waited expectantly. The sun was burning high overhead by the time Mike’s shoulders could not rise much more than an inch or two from the sides of his body and still he tried to wield the axe by turning quickly hoping centrifugal force would plant the head of the axe where it needed to be.
He might have had a modicum of success if not for the blood pouring from his hands, making his grasp tenuous at best. He laid down on the ground, blessedly thankful for how cool the moss was. Patches was a cat with a vengeance, she kept meowing at him, completely walking around the clearing, protesting loudly, always staying out of reach of his half-hearted attempts to shut her up. She was in absolutely no danger as Mike could do little more than point a finger at her and tell her to hush up.
The sun was past its peak but it was not yet twilight when Mike poked his head up. “I need to get to town!” he said, sitting up, his arms still twitching violently from overexertion. Patches was at the outer edge of the expanding clearing. She led the way as Mike effortlessly walked back through the brush. The thorns were angled to keep intruders out, not in. Mike stepped back onto the grass, he was not in the least amazed to see that his fridge was no longer on his porch, in all reality he didn’t even care.
That it was back in its original cubby and plugged in made him pause, but not for long as he grabbed his keys off the counter.
“Must have dreamed that whole fridge thing,” he told Patches who was sitting in the passenger seat. “How did you get there?” Mike asked as he pulled out of his long drive. He was mildly surprised to see small rivulets of blood rolling down his steering wheel from his damaged hands and falling on to the floor mat below, an ant might not drown in the growing puddle but it would have to swim across. Mike jerkily stopped at the front of the hardware store, effectively cutting off the strategically placed fire hydrant, and quickly walked in.
He took no notice of the people staring at him as he went around the store grabbing the supplies he would need. A brownish mixture of blood and dirt covered the majority of his bed clothes. Welted flesh oozed out of every torn hole in them.
“You alright?” the clerk asked, wishing it was his break time now so that he wouldn’t have to be close to this person who smelled of sweat and insanity, if the latter had a scent then the man before him was bathed in it.
Mike grunted a potential affirmative as he gingerly pulled the items out of the shopping cart.
“Leave the big ones in. I’ll scan them,” the clerk said. “In fact, leave them all in, I’ll get them.” The clerk was wondering how he was going to touch any of the items without touching this man’s blood, they were coated in it like they were factory shipped that way. “I’ll be right back.”
Mike didn’t acknowledge him as the clerk walked over to the register at customer service.
“What’s his story?” Becky, the owner’s daughter, asked Darvin, the clerk who had the unfortunate luck of the draw to be checking Mike out instead of manning the plumbing section like he usually did.
“Hell if I know, but this is the last time I cover for Lacy when she goes on break. The freak has blood on everything.”
“Blood? Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. It’s fucking disgusting. Do you have gloves?”
Becky handed him the whole box of surgical gloves. “Should I call the cops?”
“He probably did murder someone. He’s got an axe and a shovel and what’s left of his clothes look like something you’d wear to bed. Maybe you should call Sheriff Wamsley.”
“Don’t think we’re going to need to,” Becky said, pointing to the front door, where the town’s only other Deputy besides Caldwell was walking in.
“Okay, who’s the brain child parked right outside? Now I realize from your plates you’re from out of state. But I can’t imagine that even California, with its strange set of values, allows cars to park in front of fire hydrants. Now, if someone here were to say, maybe get in that car while I was all distracted, looking at some new lawn mowers they probably could get out of here before I find my way back to my squad car and grabbed my ticket book. Sound like a fair enough deal, Mister or Missus California?” True to his word the deputy began to stroll over toward the new line of John Deere lawn mowers that he’d been trying to persuade his wife to no avail, that they needed desperately. He was at the first row of grass cutters when his gaze fell upon Mike. A ticket he could afford to avoid this he could not.
“Sir?” the deputy asked with concer
n. “Are you alright?” He didn’t know whether to pull his sidearm or radio for a medic—both seemed like valid responses. Darvin was making his way back to the register before Deputy Baker waved him away. Darvin didn’t need to be told twice as he retreated back to Becky’s station.
Mike looked up and staggered. His contact which he had been long neglecting had shifted slightly throwing his world askew. Light and dark flooded into the far reaches of his mind, he gripped the counter to keep from succumbing to the vertigo. He fell backward as his blood soaked hands could not seek purchase. He was looking up at the very large barrel of a Colt .45 when the spinning subsided.
“Stay down, sir. An ambulance is on the way.”
“I need to get back to her,” Mike croaked.
“Is she hurt?” The deputy asked trying to pull information from the man on the ground.
Mike looked at the deputy strangely. “She’s dead,” he answered.
“Sir, you have the right to remain silent, anything you…”
Mike passed out, he awoke a few hours later in a hospital bed. His clothes gone, replaced by a less than modest hospital gown, his cuts and scrapes covered in a thick goo that could only be Bacitracin and a soap opera was playing on the television across the room.
The deputy, upon seeing Mike come awake, immediately turned the television off. “I was looking for some sports,” the deputy said guiltily.
“I won’t tell anyone,” Mike promised. “What’s going on?”
“You tell us. You look like you were on the losing end of a fight with a floral shop owner. The sheriff went out to your house, he said the front door was wide open and your fridge looks like you went to town on it with a sledgehammer”
