“He doesn’t explain much, does he?” Jake whispered to Ron, once Terrell was far enough away.
“I’m beginning to think he doesn’t really have anything to explain,” Ron replied.
“Huh?”
“I don’t think he has the faintest idea what’s going on here.”
“Oh.”
They watched as Terrell moved around the yard at the edge of the bramble, picking up his rocks and examining each of them.
“In fact,” Ron continued, “if we hadn’t experienced what we did last night, I’d say this kid is a complete charlatan. I mean, seriously, Jake…rocks?”
“Guys?” Terrell called. “Guys? You should see this.”
Ron and Jake walked to the other side of the yard, where Terrell was standing next to the blackberries. “What?” Jake asked as they approached.
Terrell pointed to the ground. “I don’t recall seeing this yesterday, when I placed these traps.”
A hole in the ground behind Terrell was about two feet wide and rectangular; three feet of it exposed up to the bramble, the rest of it disappearing under. Ron stepped up to it and looked down; it was deep, at least five or six feet. The edges were squared off, as though it had been created with a shovel.
“It wasn’t,” Ron confirmed. “I guarantee that wasn’t there.”
“Maybe it was under the blackberries?” Jake offered. “And somehow the fog exposed it?”
“I don’t think so,” Ron replied.
“It looks like a…” Terrell said, but stopped.
“Yeah, I know,” Ron said. “We need to cut these back. I’ll get the chainsaw.” He left for the garage.
“Bring gloves, too,” Jake called to him, then turned back to Terrell. “The thorns on those blackberries’ll tear your hands up.”
Ron returned with the tools and gloves, and cranked up the chainsaw. He cut into the bramble, slicing through the thick stems. Jake and Terrell stepped back to avoid the thorny branches as they unpredictably flew like shrapnel from Ron’s blade. Ron deepened the recess that exposed the hole, slowly revealing more of it, confirming what they suspected it to be.
As he cleared the top edge, the chainsaw hit something hard and bounced back in protest. At first he thought it was a rock, but as he used the tip of the saw to more precisely cut around it, the shape of the stony form also became evident.
Ron turned off the chainsaw, and everything became quiet.
“A headstone,” Jake said.
“There are carvings in it,” Ron replied, kneeling, taking care to avoid the sharp thorns. Using his gloves, he wiped at the dirty surface of the stone, exposing shallow engravings that looked as though they had been made hundreds of years ago. “It’s initials. T.S.” He stood up, looking at Jake and Terrell, who both had their eyes locked on the pale grey stone.
“Sullivan,” Terrell said. “My last name is Sullivan.”
Ron saw the blood drain from both Terrell and Jake’s faces at the same time.
Jake looked back at him. “Don’t try to tell me it’s a coincidence, Ron.”
“It’s not,” Terrell replied, also looking up at Ron.
It was as though they were waiting for Ron to pronounce something, as though his confirmation would be official. “I don’t know what to think,” he finally replied.
For the first time since he arrived, Terrell looked really shaken. “Can you take me back to the bus station?” Terrell asked Jake, his voice wavering. “I need to go home.”
“I don’t blame you,” Jake said, looking back at him. “If one of those shows up with my initials on it, I’m gone too. Hell, I’m not sure why I’m still here.”
“I need to go back to Port Orchard to talk to someone about the traps,” Terrell replied. “I think there’s data in them, but I just can’t read it. I know somebody who probably can, though. He’ll help me. If he can make out what’s in them, it might give us some place to start.”
“Right,” Ron replied. If I just found my initials above an open grave, I’d be looking for an excuse to leave, too.
“Come on,” Jake said. “Pack up and I’ll run you into town.”
As they walked back inside, Terrell seemed to be apologizing. “I just can’t see them the way I normally can. Usually I can interact, but you guys tell me about these things that happen, and I don’t have any recollection of it.”
“You don’t remember being on the ceiling last night?” Jake asked.
“No. Everything feels hidden. I’m not…” he paused, considering his words. “There are other people who are more gifted than I am. Abe might…that’s the guy I want to show these traps to, Abe is much more powerful. He might…”
“Listen,” Ron replied, cutting him off. “I appreciate you coming all the way here. I don’t have any explanation for that grave in the back yard. I don’t blame you for leaving. It’s OK.”
“No, I’m not scared of the grave,” Terrell said. “Really. This whole thing, it’s totally fascinating. I’m just completely stuck, I can’t figure out any of it. When I get back home, and convince Abe to help me, I’ll call you and let you know what he thinks.”
“You do that,” Ron replied as they entered the house, and Terrell gathered his things.
“I’ll be back in a few,” Jake said to Ron, walking Terrell to the door.
As Ron heard Jake’s truck start, he sank into the recliner and tried to let the events of the morning slip away. He knew he had to figure out how that hole appeared in the ground and work his way back, rationalize all the other weird things that happened over the course of the evening. He settled in, intending to think it out, but realized he was too tired.
The room, now quiet and calm, conspired with his aching body to demand sleep. His mind wanted nothing more than to drift off, despite knowing he needed to try and analyze things, to figure out why a six foot deep grave suddenly appeared in the back yard. He decided to go with the path of least resistance, listen to his body, and see if an hour of additional shut-eye would clear his mind enough that he could come up with the rationalizations he needed.
- - -
How come you can never program your dreams the way you really want them? he wondered, as a sense of tumbling forward crested over him, making him roll like an inner tube dropped down a set of stairs. He felt as though he was going to crash into something, but after a while, when he didn’t, he decided to try and enjoy the sensation rather than fight it. It was like when he flew in dreams; terrifying at first, but kinda amazing once he bought into it.
He had a compelling desire to call out, to warn someone about something dangerous, but there was no one there to call to. It was just him, rolling, twisting forward and coming back up, descending, as though he was a graceful acrobat performing an endless series of spins above a trampoline or a circus net.
At first the point in the distance didn’t look sharp, it just seemed like something he’d roll right past. Each time he turned, it grew and became closer, until it was obvious that he was headed toward it. It was a long, sharp spike, like a piece of rebar sticking out of cement, tapered at the end to a fine point. He kept tumbling toward it, trying to shift to the side, fearful that he might hit it. No matter how he attempted to influence the dream, he kept falling toward the protrusion, and he realized with horror that he was going to land directly on it. Panic rose in his throat, and he reached out in frustration, hoping to alter the course of his trajectory, but it was no use. He completed another turn and the tip of the spike ripped into his outstretched hand, piercing through it. He expected it to hurt, but it didn’t; it simply slipped through his flesh and came out the top of his hand as he continued to fall. As his hand slid down the spike, he felt bumps of resistance, and he wondered if it really was rebar. The sharp tip moved closer to his face, and for a second he thought it was headed for his eye, preparing to impale him and achieve one of his worst nightmares. As he neared the spike, he tried to avoid it by raising his head as far back as it would go, hoping the sharp point woul
d miss his chin. Instead, he felt it plunge into the underside of his neck, just below the jaw, and effortlessly slide upward into him, passing through his brain and hitting his skull.
The recliner physically shook in reaction to his spasming body. He awoke to find himself gripping the upholstered arms, his chin thrust forward into the air, lifting his head from the chair’s back. He shook for a moment until he realized that he was awake; there was no impalement, just his reaction to the horror of the dream. Slowly his body relaxed until he was resting fully against the recliner. He felt each muscle give into the realization that everything was OK, that he wasn’t dying.
The house was still quiet. He checked his watch; it had been an hour. Jake would be back soon.
If he comes back at all, he thought. Given last night, it wouldn’t surprise me if he bails. I’ve never seen the guy so freaked out.
He rose from the recliner and walked to the nearest bathroom, adjacent to the guest bedroom where Jake had been sleeping. Before he managed the turn into the bathroom, his eyes caught the dresser against the far wall.
It was the dresser that he found under the stairs days before, and had slid into this room to get it out of the way.
Ignoring the bathroom, he walked to it and examined its top. It was made of wood; nicks and scratches pockmarked its surface. Someone had painted it black, probably in an attempt to lessen the appearance of the imperfections. He wouldn’t have given it the time of day if it was in a used furniture store; not his style, and not in good enough shape. Still, there was something about it he liked, though he couldn’t identify what it was, exactly. Before the sale of the house was completed, the bank was supposed to clean all items out of the property, but for some reason, they hadn’t removed this dresser. Maybe they just missed it, he thought. I did, the first time I looked into the closet. I didn’t realize what it was until I pulled it out.
He’d already checked the drawers, but he found himself wanting to inspect them again. Although all of the pulls were intact except for one, he went for the one that was missing. In the pull’s spot was an inch of metal screw that formerly held the pull in place, jutting out dangerously. It was enough to grip between his fingers so he could slide the drawer open. For a second he worried it might have sharp edges and cut him, but wood that had accumulated inside its ridges made it feel smooth, and the drawer slid out easily.
Like all the other drawers he’d inspected when he first found the dresser, it was empty.
Oh, no, they weren’t all empty, he remembered. There were those old catalogs.
He was about to slide it back in when he saw something small fall into the back of the drawer, something that had been attached to the underside of the dresser’s top. At first he thought it might be a spider, and expected to see it move. Instead, it sat inert in the back.
He pulled the drawer out completely, and sat it on top of the dresser.
He was sure it wasn’t a spider, but wasn’t exactly sure what it was, either. It was black in the center, about the size of a nickel, with wiry coils looping out from underneath, giving it the vague appearance of a dead arachnoid with many thin legs curled under itself.
He reached for it, stopping before the tip of his finger touched its edge.
I don’t know what the hell that is, he thought. What if it really is some kind of insect, and comes alive?
Pulling his hand back, he looked in the room for something he could prod it with, a pen or a short piece of wood. He found a long receipt inside a plastic bag next to the bed Jake had been sleeping in, and folded it several times until he made a rigid six-inch paper stick that would at least allow him to poke at the thing and see if it reacted.
He eased the paper into the drawer and lowered his face closer to better observe. He slowly edged the probe toward it, and getting no response, gently nudged it. It slid a little, the thin coils at its edge firm and unmoving. As he pushed it around the bottom of the drawer, his confidence that it wasn’t an insect grew. He’d seen spiders that he thought were dead suddenly come to life after being jostled awake, but this thing was heavier than a spider, and although difficult to make out exactly what it might be, appeared more mechanical than animal.
He reached in with his other hand and picked it up. He expected the coils to feel like metal, but they were soft, like hair, almost tickling his skin. He flipped it over, for a split second expecting to see the armored underbelly of an arachnid; instead the surface was smooth and black, with a small whitish discoloration in the center that looked vaguely like a face, or a portrait.
A cameo? he wondered. If it was, it was severely deteriorated to the point where the likeness was indistinguishable. It looked more like a flaw in the stone, like a cloudy vein running through the black.
He turned it over several times, his brain trying to assess what it might be. He felt a headache coming on. Here was another baffling thing, a mystery without explanation, another to add to the list of irrational things in the house.
He heard the front door open, and Jake came inside. He left the bedroom, slipping the object into his shirt pocket. “Success?”
“Yeah, he’s on the bus,” Jake replied, placing a bag on the coffee table. “I stopped at McDonald’s. There’s two Egg McMuffins in there. Figured you might want some. I ate mine already.”
“Thanks,” Ron replied, realizing how hungry he was, and going for the bag.
“Listen, Ron,” Jake said, “that was some pretty heavy shit last night.”
“You gonna bail on me?” Ron replied, taking a bite of the sandwich.
“I don’t wanna. But, Christ, Ron, that kid floating on the ceiling, the fog, that grave…is it still out there?”
“I don’t know, haven’t checked.”
Jake walked to the window and looked out. “Yeah, it’s gone, of course. Like it was all just a fucked up dream. That’s the problem. All this shit happens at night, then you wake up the next day, and things seem normal again, and you write it all off as a friggin’ nightmare. Except people don’t share nightmares, Ron. And then the shit happens again, the next night. Freedom said to leave, and frankly I’m thinking maybe she was right.”
“Well, I can’t make you stay, but I would appreciate it. There’s still a lot of work to do.”
“Do you remember that dark thing in the room upstairs? The thing we both saw before you turned on the light?”
“I do.”
“That’s in your fucking house, Ron! I think it’s been here the whole time. We just happened to see it for the first time last night.”
Ron finished the sandwich and ran a hand down the back of his neck, wincing. “That’s where I don’t know, Jake.”
“Here it comes.”
“What?”
“Your bullshit rationalization. You’re gonna tell me it was a shadow, or we hallucinated it because of dinner, or some other kinda horseshit.”
“Not horseshit, it just…”
“Yes, horseshit!” Jake replied, cutting him off. “I know what I saw, and I know you saw it too. You’ve got the fucking devil in your house, Ron. You can spin it anyway you like, but I saw it with my own goddamn eyes, buddy.”
“Will you listen to yourself?” Ron replied, going for the second sandwich. “Like, Satan? Like, the lord of darkness or some such bullshit, camping out in my house, of all the houses in the world? Are you hearing yourself? It’s crazy.”
“What’s crazy is staying here,” Jake replied. “It’s like a horror movie where the people are all stupid, too dumb to just pack up and move.”
“I can’t just pack up and move!” Ron said. “You know that! All my money is in this house. I can’t sell it until that well gets deepened. No one will get a bank loan to buy it until there’s enough water.”
“In the meantime, if it were me, I’d live in a fucking motel. Hell, you can move in with me and Freedom.”
“Did you run that past her?” Ron replied. “’Cause I highly doubt that idea will fly.”
“There�
�s no way Elenore will accept any of this. And if you move Robbie in here, that’s, that’s…”
“What?”
“Well, it’s goddamn child abuse, that’s what it is! Subjecting a little kid to this kind of scary shit? You can’t do that to him. It’ll traumatize him for the rest of his life! Hell, I feel like I’m traumatized, and I’m 38 goddamn years old!”
“I need your help, Jake, you know that.”
“I can’t stay here, Ron. I’m sorry, I can’t.”
“How about this…the weird shit happens only at night, right?”
Jake thought for a moment, then nodded in agreement.
“Well, how about you work with me on the house during the day, and I’ll put you up in a motel in McLean. You can spend the night there, and we can keep working on the house during the daytime.”
“And you’ll stay here? At night?”
“Yes.”
“And I’ll just drive back and forth, show up in in the morning, leave before nightfall?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ll pay for the motel?”
“And the gas to go back and forth. Listen, you’re my best bet at getting this work done before Elenore comes back. Yes, I’ll pay for all that.”
“You’re crazy. I’ll arrive one morning and find you in a grave, just like the one we saw out there.”
“I’ll chance it. It’ll give me some comfort knowing you’re going to arrive every morning.”
Jake took a moment to consider Ron’s offer. “A motel’s not going to be cheap.”
“Well, I’m not gonna put you up in the Ritz. It’ll still be cheaper and faster than trying to land a contractor.”
“True…OK. I’ll stay.”
“Good.”
“But if that thing shows up during the day, I can’t guarantee I won’t cancel this arrangement and head home. I don’t want to see any more of this devil crap.”
The idea that Jake considered what they’d seen to be the devil stuck in his craw as ridiculous, and for a second he was about to continue arguing with him, but decided instead to accept the win of having convinced him to stay. “Alright. Terms accepted. Shall we get back to work?”
The Coldwater Haunting Page 13
