Closet Treats

by Paul E. Cooley

  Alan headed toward the playground.

  As soon as the glass doors swung open, the cold bit into him like a wild, rabid animal. The sky was dark enough to have tripped the street-lights in the parking lot. Alan walked to the curb and shivered. One of the admins had brought him a note during class, letting him know that Daddy wouldn't be there to pick him up. But he waited anyway.

  He watched the large line of cars that stretched all the way through the next block. Everyone, it seemed, wanted to pick their kids up from school today. Headlights glowed in the street and parking lot. Children silhouetted against the light clambered into cars or, like him, shivered in the cold. Waiting.

  Without thinking he looked toward the group of pines near the schoolyard's edge. No Ice Cream Man. No piercing bells. Alan smiled against the wind. At least he was gone.

  A woman walked toward him from the parking lot. She wore a heavy woolen coat, her hair wound tight in a ponytail. The woman looked tired and a little lost. She looked at Alan and stopped about five feet away from him. "Hi," she said.

  "Hello," Alan said. He knew he shouldn't talk to strangers. But she looked so... "Are you okay?" he asked.

  The woman managed a grim smile. "Do you know my son?" she asked and handed him a small piece of paper.

  He looked at it. Bryan Greely's smiling face stared back at him. Alan shivered. "I know who he is," he said. "Are you Mrs. Greely?"

  "Yes, I am," she whispered. "Have you seen Bryan?"

  The woman looked at him with desperate hope. With a pang of sad- ness, he shook his head. "No, ma'am, I haven't." The way her expression collapsed into misery hurt some part of him.

  She nodded. He handed the paper back to her, but she shook her head. "Give it to your parents," she said. "Make sure they know he's missing. Okay?"

  "Yes, ma'am," Alan replied. The woman nodded again and turned around, heading toward the dwindling line of cars. Alan watched her trudge forward, head cast down to the concrete.

  When Daddy was in...that place...Alan had felt like that. Like some part of him was missing. Mrs. Greely didn't know where her boy was. Alan had a feeling she never would.

  He turned away and stared again at the copse of trees. Before the Ice Cream man had turned up, he and Daddy had often walked through those tall pines. Especially during early fall and late spring when the heat was so intense. The cold wind bit through his jacket, causing him to shiver once more.

  Daddy wasn't coming. Mommy wasn't coming. He was going to have to walk. So he better get moving.

  One foot in front of the other, Alan headed toward the trees. So many happy children had sprinted that way, heading toward the Ice Cream Man's van, money held out in front of them. In a way, Alan wished he'd been one of them. Wished Daddy hadn't seen what Daddy had seen.

  Alan made his way beneath the tall pine limbs and out into the street. He looked both ways before crossing. That was something Daddy had made sure he knew to do.

  The cold air was getting more biting by the second. Alan walked fast, trying to make it to the tree-lined main road where he would at least have some protection from it. Cars passed by him, each carrying at least one child. A boy his age, tucked into the back seat of a black sedan, stuck his tongue out at Alan as the car passed by. Alan shook his head and wrapped his arms tighter around himself.

  Usually if Mommy and Daddy couldn't pick him up, Dick would have, but he was in the hospital. The real one. Not the place Daddy had been.

  Alan walked a little faster. Daddy wouldn't tell him what happened, only that Dick had been hurt and he wouldn't be home for a while.

  Alan reached the main road at last. He walked as far to the right as possible, hugging the tree-lined path. More cars passed, heading toward the newer parts of the subdivision. Above him, the wind rushed through the green pines and bare-branched oaks. It was still cold, but at least the wind no longer chomped his skin.

  As Alan walked down the path, still shivering in the cold, he became aware of a different kind of rustling. He turned his head toward the trees. The wind rushed through the tree tops, the bare oak branches clacking together and the pine trees swishing against one another in the breeze. But there was something else. The sound of something walking through dead leaves, its weight cracking against dead limbs and the forest floor.

  But he saw nothing. He heard it, or thought he heard it, but there was nothing to see. That part of the path was thick with pine trees, the branches wide and low before sprouting straight toward the sky. Tall bushes covering the forest floor still held onto their leaves in defiance of the cold weather.

  Alan turned back to the path. The crowd of cars passing by on the road had thinned. The sound in the brush continued as he walked. Alan stopped. The rustling did too. He shivered again and turned his head back toward the trees. Nothing. Still nothing but brush.

  He started walking again as fast as he could without running. Despite the cold, he felt sweaty beneath his jacket. His breathing was rapid, the cold air hurting his lungs. He knew that if he started running, he risked falling down. The idea of crashing to the concrete, flat on his back with the thing in the woods bearing down on him chilled him to the bone.

  Whatever followed him in the woods paused each time he stopped to catch his breath. He was so intent on trying to see what was in the woods that he failed to hear the car's approach until it was already past him. As he watched its tail lights progress into the gathering gloom, a numbness crept into his mind.

  He was alone, out on the road, with whatever was in the trees. Alan started walking again, quickening his pace as much as he dared.

  Quarter mile. Each step brought him closer to the distant, shining street lamp, its acetylene glow spooky and foreboding in the darkening day. The crashing in the brush stopped as he continued to walk. Alan was afraid to turn around, afraid to look into the woods. Had it gotten ahead of him somehow? Or had it stepped out of the brush and onto the concrete so it could pursue him with reckless speed?

  Alan started running. His pack bounced between his shoulder blades, thumping in time as each of his small feet connected with the concrete. The crunch of gravel beneath his feet was a grinding symphony keeping time with his pumping legs. He passed the street lamp. The T was up ahead. He could make it. He could--

  The world flipped on him as his foot slipped on stray, wet leaves. He looked up into the slate sky as his body went parallel to the concrete and then fell to the ground. The pack pressed into his back, the hard edge of a 3-ring binder pressing into his skin. Alan struggled to regain his breath. His head had connected with the ground hard enough to blanket his vision with pinpricks of starlight. Trying to ignore the shrieking pain in his back and the pounding in his skull, Alan rose, pushed himself to his hands and stood.

  He managed a low lope, stumbling to get up to speed. The thing could be right behind him, closing in fast. Alan reached the T and trotted past the mailboxes. He saw a neighbor getting the mail. He saw three kids outside, throwing a ball in the cold. He slowed, ignoring the puzzled look of the old lady at the mail box. She called out to him, but he didn't understand her and didn't care. Breathless, he made it to the front door.

  It seemed to take forever to pull the keys from his pocket. He juggled them, struggling to find the right key and push it into the brass deadbolt's keyhole. He finally managed it, turned the key, and heard the blessed click of the bolt striking back.

  "Young man?" a voice croaked from the driveway.

  Alan turned, a scream locked in his throat.

  The old lady stood on the edge of the driveway frowning at him. He tried to speak, but nothing came out. "You almost--" She stopped in mid-sentence, her face turning from a frown into a look of shock. "Young man, are you all right? You look--"

  Alan held up a hand and caught his breath. "Yes, ma'am," he managed. "I'm okay. I--"

  She pointed toward him. "You have a rip in your jeans. Did you fall down?"

  "Yes, ma'am. I--"

  "Are you okay, son?" She had taken seve
ral steps up the driveway, squinting at him.

  Alan forced a smile. "Yes, ma'am. I'm okay."

  She nodded to him. "Were you running from something?"

  "Just spooked myself," he said.

  The old lady shook her head. "Be more careful, son. Don't kill yourself out there." She turned from him and walked up the street toward her house on the cul-de-sac.

  Alan blew out a hiss of air and turned back to the door. His key was still in it. Alan turned the door knob and entered the warm house.

  The run had left sweat beneath his sweater, but it wasn't until the warmth of the house blasted against him that he realized just how cold he'd been. His feet hurt, his back ached and twinged and his head pounded.

  Mommy was going to be mad. He'd torn his jeans, all right. The slip on the concrete had made a jagged hole in the back of the left leg. He unshouldered the pack and took three steps toward the living room before he stopped and turned to look at the front door. The dead-bolt was in the vertical position--open. He leaped to the door, grasped the lock and swiveled it shut in one smooth motion. The bolt slid into place and he let out a long sigh.

  Through the smoked glass, he watched another car pass on the street. Normalcy. The world was normal; he was the crazy one.

  Alan bent and stepped out of his shoes. He stripped off his heavy jacket, tossed it on the coat rack, and went into the living room.

  The pain in his back forced him to lean forward. He sat on the couch, listening to the sound of his back pop as he straightened. The pain was exquisite and for a moment it offset the pounding in his head.

  The thing in the woods. The thing that had kept pace with him. He closed his eyes. Nothing. It was nothing. He laughed in the living room's twilight. He hadn't turned on any of the lights, and the fading day barely illuminated the room through the window blinds.

  God, his head hurt.

  He stared at the cordless phone on the end table. He picked it up, getting ready to dial his mother's number. His finger paused near the keypad, his head swiveling toward the kitchen. A scratching sound came from the sliding glass door that led to the deck. Alan's hand began to shake and goose flesh broke out across his body. From the living room, he couldn't see what was behind the door. He didn't want to either. He slowly raised himself from the couch, his back protesting the movement. With the adrenaline dumping into his bloodstream, he barely noticed.

  Phone still in his hands, he took two steps toward the foyer, away from the kitchen. "Daddy?" he called out to the empty house. The scratching at the sliding glass door became louder. Alan paused, his body leaning toward the foyer hallway. Three steps to the stairs. If it wasn't Mommy or Daddy at the back door, he could make it to the second floor before whoever it was came in.

  The hammering in his chest, the pounding in his ears, was not enough to drown out the insistent scratching at the door. There was a metal click and the sound of the glass door sliding across its tracks. Alan's mouth opened to call out, to ask who it was. A cream colored leg thrust through the vertical blinds. Feeling as though someone had punched the air from his chest, a scream trapped in his throat, Alan stumbled toward the stairs, his eyes still focused as the vertical blinds parted. A cream colored sleeve, soiled and ripped in places, reached through. The hand was taloned in long, black nails.

  Alan turned and ran for the stairs. His feet pounded on the carpet. He tripped halfway up, falling to his knees on one of the steps. The phone bounced from his hand and fell down the stairs. Screaming, he managed to make his way up the steps in a fast crawl, running for his bedroom.

  He managed a quick look over the balcony and saw the cream-colored figure staring back at him from the foyer. Bright yellow eyes, crimson waves of fury burning in their center.

  Alan screamed again and ran into his room.

  He slammed the door, his ears ringing with the gunshot sound, and fumbled with the pushbutton lock. He ran to his desk and pulled out the wooden chair, quickly placing it beneath the knob.

  Footsteps. Heavy. Loud. Deliberate.

  Alan stepped backward toward his bed and whimpered as he listened to the breathy gasps on the other side of the door.

  Chapter 61

  Her nerves were shot. Accidents cluttered the interstate. What should have been a forty-minute commute had turned into an hour and a half of watching the speedometer crawl between 0 and 10 mph. Although she'd used the traffic map to try and plot a speed course, a new wreck had appeared at every turn.

  Stomach rumbling from hunger, eyes irritated from looking at taillights, foot cramped and tired from flipping between brake and accelerator, Carolyn wondered if she'd be able to stay awake more than five minutes once she hit the couch.

  Entering the neighborhood, the nervous tension in her body began to unwind. She let out a long sigh. Her jaw relaxed and she finally realized she had been grinding her teeth. Great, she thought, her dentist was going to give her more shit.

  The darkness was complete. She wound through the main street, the trees swaying in the wind. The occasional car passed her. Someone else heading for dinner or shopping. Heading out into the night to do the normal things people do.

  Another sigh. She wondered if Trey would be home yet.

  Trey hadn't answered his phone. Alan hadn't answered the phone. Carolyn had felt a bit nervous about not being able to get in touch with Alan, but he usually didn't check the messages. Besides, he was probably sitting on the couch, working on his homework, or playing the Wii.

  But Trey...

  When she'd called him, it had immediately gone to voice mail. Maybe his phone was dead or maybe he had it turned off since he was still in the hospital. She'd left him a message, to make sure he was okay, but he hadn't called her back.

  While fighting the traffic to get home, she'd tried to think about Dick as little as possible.

  The T-intersection that led to the house was before her. She stopped at the stop sign and felt a hitch in her chest. She turned onto the street. A tear welled up in her eye and she wiped it away as she pulled into the driveway. She saw Dick's dark, lifeless house in the rearview mirror.

  Dick wasn't coming home. Dick would never come home.

  Carolyn sniffed back another tear and brushed at her eyes again. God, what was she going to tell Alan about Dick?

  She shook the thought away and then frowned. The porch light was off. The house was dark. The other houses along the street were lit, but not hers. Did Alan fall asleep? she wondered. In a way, she thought, that would be a good thing. If Trey were there when she had to talk about Dick, it would be easier. She killed the engine, pocketed the keys, unfastened the seat belt, and stepped out into the biting air.

  Removing the laptop bag from the backseat, Carolyn closed the doors, locked up the car, and headed onto the dark front porch deck. This wasn't the first time Alan had forgotten to turn on the light. She'd been after Trey to install a timer on the damned thing, so they wouldn't have to try and unlock the door in the dark. With the pine tree canopies overhead and the roof overhang, the front porch always turned into a murky abyss at night. Carolyn fumbled for the house key and then attempted repeatedly to find the keyhole.

  At last, the key found the slot and slid in. She turned the key, letting out a deep breath as the lock clicked and the door opened. She walked into the foyer, closing the door behind her and placing her laptop bag out of the way. She reached for the foyer light and then stopped.

  Something wasn't right. There was a sound coming from the second floor. She furrowed her brow and walked to the edge of the stairs. Carolyn flipped on the stairway light. She blinked at the muddy and soiled Berber carpeted steps. "Alan? What the hell--"

  Alan's voice yelled something from his bedroom, but the words were indistinct.

  "Dammit, Alan," she muttered and began trudging up the steps.

  She was furious. Alan knew to wipe his feet. And the footprints were so large. What the hell had he done? Twisted his feet on each step? "Alan? You're in big trouble!" she yelled.r />
  "DON'T COME UP HERE!" Alan screamed.

  The sound was muffled, almost distant. "Why? Alan," she said as she reached the top landing and stared down the darkened hallway toward his bedroom. "What's--"

  "The Ice Cream Man is here! He's here!" Alan shrieked.

  The confused and angry expression on her face faded. A cold chill touched her spine. She looked down at the floor. As the light faded down the hallway, she saw the muddy footprints stop at Alan's door. And then they became indistinct, as though they had turned.

  She swallowed. "Alan?" she said in a shaking voice. "Where is he?"

  "Mommy, go away! Get help!" Alan screamed.

  She took a step backwards toward the landing and then froze. A shadow moved at the end of the hallway, something emerging from the guest bathroom door.

  Carolyn's heart slam danced in her chest as a pair of bright yellow eyes opened in the darkness, furious crimson embers burning in their centers.

  She tried to scream as the thing advanced.

  Chapter 62

  The walk from the bus stop to the house was fucking cold. Trey was shocked he hadn't frozen to death before getting close to home. A fifteen minute wait for the warm train to whisk him away to the center of downtown so he could catch the commuter bus was followed by a twenty minute wait in the downtown wind tunnel before the bus finally appeared.

  Both times, he'd had to fight to find space. The lines were stuffed with people trying to leave early. Gulf moisture had struck the cold front and the air was heavy with moisture.

  When the commuter bus landed in The Woodlands, Trey pulled out his phone. He clicked the button. Nothing happened. Right, he thought. Turned it off at the hospital. He cursed and turned it back on. The screen lit up. The phone vibrated. He unlocked it. Voicemail.

  Carolyn's voice came through the speakers. "Hi, honey. Just wanted to check in on you. I'll be leaving here soon and heading home. I'm so sorry about Dick, baby. Please call me. Worried about you." Her voice paused for a moment as though she was choking back a sob. "I love you." The message ended.