Until... | Book 1 | Until The Sun Goes Down

by Hamill, Ike

  Walt shook his head. “I’m not messing with anyone. If it happens again, I’ll prove it to you.”

  I forgot all about the flickering lights until the last night of our mini-vacation. We were going to leave for the airport in the morning and Mom was sweating out a looming storm. She was afraid that our flight would be cancelled and we would be stranded in Maine. Uncle Walt was completely calm. He said that the weather report was always wrong in the beginning of December.

  “They’ve figured out a lot of things, but December weather in Maine will always be a mystery…”

  Mom was about to say something when the lights above the table flickered.

  Uncle Walt jumped up from his chair and sprinted for the cellar door. Throwing it open, he practically threw himself down the stairs. A moment later, every light in the house went off. The record player spun to a stop as the music faded.

  “Walt, what on earth are you…”

  The light over the sink flashed. It was the same pattern, only reversed. Instead of blink, blink, pause, blink, it was flash, flash, pause, flash.

  I jumped when I heard my uncle’s voice in the darkness.

  “See?” he asked.

  The flashing moved to the living room.

  “Every breaker in the house is off,” he said. “Whatever is making those lights flash isn’t coming from Central Maine Power.”

  “It could still be an electrical problem,” Mom said. “In fact, I imagine this just means it’s even more serious.”

  In the years since, I’ve studied electricity enough to believe that Mom was wrong. Walt didn’t have a generator or any batteries hooked up to his power. There was no good explanation for why the lights flashed at all, let alone in a pattern that roved through the house. Uncle Walt could have hooked up an elaborate system to trick us into believing that there were fairies in his house, but that wasn’t in his nature. He wasn’t a trickster like that.

  His house and his life were just strange—that’s one of the things that I liked best about visiting. In other parts of the world, people call you silly or dumb for believing in weird things. At Uncle Walt’s house, you would have to be dumb to not believe. If it’s all around you, it’s undeniable.

  The next time we came back for a visit, I asked about the lights.

  Uncle Walt shrugged and waved and told me that whatever had been causing the flicker had simply moved on. As quickly as the mysteries arrived, they moved on. Oh well. But there was always something new to wonder at. One time we saw the northern lights over the hills, rolling across the sky. One winter we saw footprints that led from the side door, David’s door, out into the snow that disappeared after exactly thirteen paces.

  Uncle Walt never tried to come up with dismissive, rational explanations. We experienced what the house offered and sometimes we even investigated, but we never jumped to any conclusions. Most people feel the need to classify and explain. Uncle Walt accepted things as they were.

  There’s a dark side to that philosophy though. The dark side is that when it’s the middle of the night and you can’t sleep because of the hook and eye latch at the neighbor’s house, you have to accept that there might be telekinetic vampires down in the man’s cellar.

  If they’re over there, they might decide to stroll down the road to my house. After all, Mr. Engel is at the hospital now. If they were feeding on him, they’re probably pretty hungry by now.

  I’m moving through the dark living room, trying to find the fan. I really don’t want to turn on the light and advertise that someone is home. If anything is out there moving around in the dark, I would rather have them assume that this house is still unoccupied.

  Then again, telekinetic vampires can probably track someone by their scent. I’m sure I left my scent all over Mr. Engel’s house and it’s probably coming off of this house in thick waves. If they’re out there, they’re probably headed my direction.

  My hands find the fan and I trace the cord back to the wall so I can unplug it.

  At the bottom of the stairs, I stop to look through the window, across the meadow.

  When I was a kid, Uncle Walt used to keep the field mowed short. One spring he ran over a family of baby rabbits. After that, he only cut the field in the fall. He called it ”bushwhacking” the field, because it would be grown up with heavy brush and seedlings by the time he cut it.

  “Around here,” he said, “the forest is always encroaching. If you let that field go for two summers, it would be impossible to clear. Not impossible, but you know what I mean.”

  I did know. Together, we had cleared space for a garden behind the manure shed. It had taken forever. The black alders were so thick back there and we had to pull each clump with the big tractor.

  The tall grass was pretty in the summer. It would wave in the slightest breeze and I always thought about little rabbit parents, free to raise their babies now that nobody bushwhacked the meadow until fall. Unfortunately, it was also terrific cover for whatever might try to sneak up on the house. Across that meadow and down the road, Mr. Engel’s house sat in the dark. The cellar door was open because the hook was out of the eye. Anything that came up from the cellar could track me here and invisibly move through the tall grass of the meadow.

  I like the strangeness of Uncle Walt’s house and the idea that anything is possible here, but it’s not a comforting thought at three in the morning.

  I take the fan upstairs.

  (Everything seems clearer in the morning.)

  Everything seems clearer in the morning.

  Overnight, the heat has broken and the air has that crisp edge that Maine is famous for. I think that’s why people like to vacation up here so much. If you come and stay for a couple of weeks, even in the armpit of summer, you’re going to wake up at least once to a morning where you can see your breath. Maine wants to remind you that the winter nights are dark and deep. August is only two months away from the first snowfall.

  That contrast—between the heat of the noon sun and the overnight chill—reminds you that you have to cherish each moment of hot weather. It will soon be gone.

  I cherish the cooler air as I come downstairs and survey the mess. I tie up trash bags and take them out to the truck. I bring down a heavy hand on some of the items that had been wavering between the keep pile and the toss pile. It feels good to make bold decisions. It feels right.

  In an hour, I have most of the garbage in the back of the truck and the house is looking austere and clean.

  I sit down with my coffee and listen to the Mountain of Pure Rock while I go through Uncle Walt’s ledger. He recorded all the expenses of the house for decades. Unfortunately, he used his own names for each of the recipients of his checks. It’s a bit of a guessing game as I try to align the entries in his ledger to cancelled checks I found in the bottom drawer of his desk. All I’m trying to do is track down a few mysterious expenses that occurred every month, according to his records. I’m terrified that I will fail to pay one of the bills and invite a lien on the house or get one of the services disconnected.

  We’re listening to Jethro Tull this morning, which is followed by CSN&Y.

  The phone rings.

  I reach back and grab the cordless phone from the counter.

  “Hello?”

  I sit up straight when I hear her voice.

  After reestablishing our identities, I can already guess what she’s going to say by the tone of her voice.

  “He passed during the night,” Amber says.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

  I want to ask questions, but that would be rude. She answers a couple of them anyway.

  “Aplastic anemia, is what they’re guessing, although it also could have been just a vitamin deficiency. We’re not asking for more tests. He was ninety-seven.”

  I swallow. All things considered, I think he was doing pretty good for ninety-seven. He was living on his own and climbing those stairs every day. That’s not nothing. I don’t say any of this. She doesn’t need to
hear my assessment of a man that I knew for ten minutes.

  “There’s a tiny, tiny chance that there was something toxic in his house, but if that’s true he was probably exposed for decades. I just wanted to mention in case you want to get some blood work done.”

  “Oh. Thank you.”

  “No, thank you. I’m so glad he didn’t, you know… All alone in that house. He loved that house. We could never get him to leave for even a long weekend.”

  My Uncle Walt was the same way. One time I mentioned an eclipse to him. He said, “Well, if you can get them to have it at my house, I’ll be happy to watch it.”

  She thanks me again for being a nosy neighbor and we say our goodbyes. After we hang up, I almost want to call back. I should have told her to stop by if she comes to clean out the place. I might have some pointers for someone coming to clean out Mr. Engel’s house. My experience in that department is super fresh.

  I’m just about to pick up the phone when it rings.

  It’s her again.

  “Sorry. I meant to ask you one more thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “Is there any chance—and feel free to say no—but is there a chance you would be willing to stop by the house and shut off the power and water and lock the place up?”

  “I’d be happy to, but may I ask why?”

  “We’re not sure when we’re going to get up there and I hate to think of some electrical problem burning the house down or a leaking pipe flooding the place, you know?”

  “Yeah, I hear you. The problem is that without heat, the pipes are definitely going to freeze in a couple of months, and if the furnace is anything like the one here, it needs power to keep going.”

  “Oh,” she said.

  I’m wondering if she’s really young, or maybe lives in an apartment. The issues I’m raising seem pretty obvious, but maybe that’s just because I’m living with them right now in Uncle Walt’s place. When I was thinking about cleaning out and selling this place, the realtor I talked to warned me that I would need to “pickle” the place for the winter.

  “What would you recommend?” she asks.

  I tell her the things that my realtor mentioned to me—draining the pipes and adding antifreeze to the toilets and traps. I can hear her brain overloading over the phone.

  “You don’t have to make these decisions today,” I say. “Listen, I’ll go over and shut off the power. That will take care of the water too, by the way. The house has a pump.”

  “Oh?”

  Even that seems like too much information for her to process.

  “Don’t sweat it,” I say. “Just make a note on your calendar to think about this again in a month or so, okay?”

  “Okay,” she says. She sounds relieved. A month is far enough away that she can catch her breath. “Thanks again.”

  I don’t mention the thing about stopping by. I’ll bring it up when we talk again, if we ever do. I’m starting to think that Amber is never going to set foot in Mr. Engel’s house. I want to ask how she’s related, but I hold that question too. It will likely be answered by the obituary.

  We say our goodbyes and hang up.

  It’s not until I put the phone back in the charger that I realize what I’ve just signed up for.

  “Turn off the power,” I say with a sigh.

  I’m thinking about Uncle Walt’s breaker box. It’s located in the cellar. I bet Mr. Engel’s is too.

  Cellar

  (I've put it off as long as I dare.)

  I have put it off as long as I dare.

  Now, it’s about five in the afternoon. I still have three hours until sunset.

  I did every other errand and chore I could think of first. I went grocery shopping and got my hair cut. By the way, it only costs six dollars to get a crew cut around here. Any other cut costs ten. I think it’s Mr. Bean’s way of imposing his sensibility on the men of the area. I replaced two of the tires on the truck as well. The rear tires were brand new and the old were circulated to the front. The spare was back in the bed.

  I have no more excuses.

  I drive the truck down the road and park it in Mr. Engel’s driveway. The crisp air from the morning has all burned away. We are back in the heat and I am staring at Mr. Engel’s front door from the driver’s seat.

  The Mountain is playing a song by Elton John. I shut off the radio and push open the driver’s door as a breeze stirs.

  I sing to myself under my breath as I look at the house. “Hey, kids, shake it loose together.”

  If this was a western, this would be the showdown in the center of town. Me out in front of the saloon, flipping my keys around a finger—the house down near the jailhouse, waiting for me to draw.

  But this isn’t a western, it’s a horror movie. This is the part where you yell at the screen while the hapless hero goes into the house against everyone’s better judgement.

  When I take a step forward, the breeze pushes open the front door a little.

  “Come on,” I whisper.

  This is too much. I know that I closed the door. I didn’t lock it because I figured that Mr. Engel might not have his keys, but I know that I closed it.

  Someone must have been here in the interim. Maybe the police finally came by to check out the place? I could come back another day. I could just break my promise to Amber. What does it matter if the power is shut off? Then again, what’s stopping me? Some childish fear caused by an absurd declaration from a dying man?

  I climb the porch and put my toe on the door to push it open, just like yesterday.

  “Hello?” I call.

  I immediately regret yelling into the empty house. The way my voice reverberates back is chilling, even in the late afternoon heat.

  I remember Mr. Engel and his one good eye. The poor old man has passed now. This house was important to him—so much so that he wanted nothing more than to pass his final days here alone. I step inside. The heat is oppressive, but not nearly as bad as it was yesterday. I glance around, making sure the windows are shut tight. Amber didn’t ask me to do that, but it only makes sense.

  Work is the curse of the drinking class. I take the soiled glass from the bar and walk it into the kitchen. The dishtowel is dry now. I put it back on the stove handle, where I found it in the first place. When I rinse out the glass, washing the brown stain out with my fingers, the pipes groan and chatter before they deliver water.

  I check the rest of the windows on the first floor before I even dare to look at the cellar door.

  The hook is out of the eye.

  From my back pocket, I pull out the little flashlight that I bought at the grocery store. It was in the “Seasonal” aisle, right next to the bug spray and sunscreen. In my other pocket, I have a box of matches. I have zero intention of going down there without adequate light.

  I reach out and tug on the door, letting it swing open while I back up.

  I stab at the darkness with my flashlight beam.

  My mom hated spiders. Every time she came to visit Uncle Walt, they had a fight about it. She would take the old broom out to the side porch and sweep away all of the webs and the fat spiders that built them. Within a day, we wouldn’t be able to sit out there in the evenings—there would be too many mosquitoes and biting flies.

  “You can just put on bug spray, like a normal person,” she would say.

  “Great, we’ll just add poison to the equation. That’s far better than a few helpful spiderwebs,” Uncle Walt would say.

  I’m guessing that Mr. Engel and my mom would have gotten along. I don’t see a single spiderweb in the open framing of the stairway leading down to his cellar. He didn’t coddle the spiders. My flashlight barely finds any dust either. The whole stairwell is remarkably clean. I point my flashlight down and study the well-worn stairs. Each tread has a shallow depression right in the middle. These boards have seen a lot of use through the years.

  The light switch turns on a bulb just over my head and one at the bottom of the stairs. I keep
my flashlight on anyway. Once I kill the power to the house, I’ll need it.

  I take a step down.

  This is where a hand will shoot out from between the treads and grab my foot. Or, maybe all the treads will tilt down, turning the staircase into a ramp. Either would be terrifying.

  The song from the Mountain is still in my head.

  “We’ll kill the fatted calf tonight, so stick around,” I whisper.

  It was the wrong lyric to remember when I’m trying to psych myself up to descend into a vampire-infested cellar.

  (What if vampires were real?)

  What if vampires were real?

  I’m a big believer in self-ownership, you know? As long as they’re not harming someone else—directly or indirectly—I believe that a person should be able to do what they like. Of course, the devil is in the details. If I choose to commit suicide and someone else really cares for me, then I’m harming them, right? Should I be allowed to do it anyway?

  Are animals people? Should I be able to harm an animal? We have a ton of rules about that. You can kill a cow and eat it, but you had better not inflict too much pain on the poor thing while the heart is still pumping.

  I eat meat, but I try not to be a hypocrite about it. I don’t shy away from pictures and videos of cows and pigs being slaughtered. In my opinion, if you morally object to watching an animal being slaughtered, then you probably don’t have any business eating it.

  Kimberly used to yell at me all the time about such things. She would never, ever, allow herself to witness an animal bleeding. She also wouldn’t watch a rabbit being skinned. Neither of those things ever kept her from enjoying a ribeye though.

  “People are omnivores,” she would remind me. “But it’s sick to take pleasure from watching something else die.”

  “Is that why you took a picture of your salmon steak before you ate it?” I asked.

  That wasn’t a real argument. We were only teasing each other. We didn’t have that many real arguments.