He Comes in the Night

by Ricky Fry

  Perhaps he was wrong, Bogdan thought. Maybe hope was nothing more than a fool’s errand, or worse, something which invited danger in like a kind-hearted family giving shelter to a murderous stranger. “But what of the other villages?”

  “Have you not listened, boy? When word spread of your return, there were some, much the same as ourselves, who took joy in your victory and found solace in the Devil’s defeat. They were no less tired of sacrificing their children than we. It was a custom long overdue for a swift end.”

  “They stopped making the sacrifice?”

  The priest nodded. “Yes, Bogdan the Great. When they learned of your triumph they cast off the old traditions and sent their children to die no longer.”

  “Now they pay the price.” It was bad enough to imagine himself as the cause of his own village’s suffering, but they were not alone. Others suffered as well, and he was to blame. “And what of those who continued the sacrifice?”

  “Ah,” said the old man. His bony hand, still resting upon Bogdan’s shoulder, grew heavy as if he might buckle beneath some great invisible burden. “Their sacrifices were sent to an early grave, but the rest of the villagers have been spared.”

  So it was true. The evil spirit had only come to claim his bitter revenge on those who had dared to defy him. “Then the ceremony must resume.”

  “It cannot,” said the priest. His eyes reflected the swirling flames of the bonfire. “The others will not be told—this must remain a secret.”

  “But why?” It had never been in the old man’s nature to keep secrets, and Bogdan failed to understand the reason for his deception. “Lives can be saved.”

  The priest sighed. “You may be right, but how many more years can this continue? Fifty? A hundred? A thousand? How many mothers and fathers must give their young to feed a curse that’s plagued our lands for as long as anyone can remember?”

  “What would you have us do?”

  The old man dropped his grip from Bogdan’s shoulder and lowered his eyes to the ground. “I don’t know. But I choose to believe—no, I must believe—that a boy who survived the beast not only once, but twice, holds the key to ridding ourselves of this evil once and for all.”

  Though nothing the priest had said was funny, Bogdan couldn’t help but laugh. It was the desperate laugh of a man who had no other choice than to find humor in such impossible circumstances.

  “Do you think me a fool?”

  It was his turn to take the old man by the shoulder. “Look around. Yekaterina is dead. Kyrill is dead. How can I possibly be the one to end this curse?”

  A spark returned to the priest’s eyes. “You were always such a sad and lonesome boy. The other children would call out your name and you’d pretend not to hear them, preferring instead to wander alone into the forest and spend hours lost in thought. Yekaterina, may God rest her soul, was the only one who could draw you back. But there was one thing you enjoyed more than being alone.”

  Bogdan smiled as he remembered the stories the old man used to tell as they’d gather around a late night fire. They were from the Bible, and though Bogdan had never taken much interest in religion, the priest had a way of bringing the stories to life in a way no dusty old book ever could. Bogdan would sit crosslegged at his mother’s feet, vivid images racing through his mind, as the priest spoke of strange men in foreign lands who did the work of a God who was both cruel and forgiving. “How could I ever forget the stories you’d tell?”

  The priest smiled back at him. “Then surely you remember the Book of Job?”

  “Job?” While he’d always enjoyed the old man’s skillful story-telling, the specifics had been lost to the passage of time.

  “Yes, dear Bogdan. As a man of faith, I should love all of God’s revelations with equal fervor, though I must admit the Book of Job has always been my favorite.”

  “Tell me again.” It would be a useful distraction to hear the priest recite one of his many stories.

  “Well—” The old man cleared his throat. “I’m afraid there isn’t time for the finer details, but it goes something like this: There lived in Uz a man named Job, who was known across the land for his faith and prosperity. All those with whom he conducted business were blessed with good fortune, until one day his luck changed. You see, God, in all his wisdom, granted the Devil permission to tempt Job away from his Divine Grace. Soon Job’s fortune was diminished, and he found himself in grave poverty. His daughters fell ill and died. And his friends—full of feverish restlessness and false counsel—cursed whatever wrath God had certainly set upon him.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Bogdan. “But Job, despondent as though he was, would not bring himself to curse God’s name. He accepted his suffering as the will of the Lord.”

  “I shall die a happy man, my son. For the toils of a sad old priest have not been entirely lost on the children of my flock. But I wonder, do you remember what happens to that most faithful of men in the end?”

  “He was restored to even greater prosperity than before, and blessed with seven more daughters—the most beautiful in the land.”

  “Yes, said the priest. “And so, like Job, we must remain patient in our suffering. This curse will not last forever. There will come a day in the future when men and women will speak of a horror long past as though it was only a fable, and their children will abound with joyful innocence. You ask what we must do, my son. I cannot say, but the Lord will lead us back into the light if only we might accept his divine will.”

  They were strong and compelling words, uttered with the conviction of a man of unshakeable faith. “Very well,” he said. “I will keep your secret, priest—at least for now.”

  “Thank you.” The old man kissed him on the forehead and charged into the night, black robes swishing in the dying light of the bonfire before he was swallowed whole by the darkness.

  The curtains did little to block the early morning daylight pouring in through the window. He slept in fitful bouts, his dreams afflicted by the many horrors set upon in them in the previous weeks.

  The priest’s words had sent his thoughts spinning. If it was true—if the villages who’d continued the ceremony had lost only one of their own and no more, then the spirit had not unleashed his wrathful vengeance upon them. But what of the others—what could be done to lift the curse and break the cycle of suffering?

  He’d just drifted back into something resembling a nightmare when a mother’s wail arose from a nearby house. This time, it wasn’t enough to startle him. He’d grown accustomed to the sorry sounds and was almost surprised on the mornings when no one was found dead.

  Their vigilance had been in vain. The torches had done little to fend off the intruder. We’ve lost another, he thought, as he pulled on his boots and steadied himself for the tears and anguish that would greet him.

  FIFTEEN

  She watched from the bedroom window—camera crews encircling a black sedan as it slowed to a stop in front of the house. Mr. Bennett was the first to exit. His attempt to wave the reporters off was almost comical, a small man in a designer suit flapping his arms around like some kind of bird. They only pressed in closer, like ravenous vultures crowding around a dead carcass, to greet her husband as he stepped out of the vehicle.

  Worse yet, the neighbors were watching the spectacle unfold from across the street. Sure, embezzlement, bank fraud, and tax evasion were crimes in their own right. But among the high society families, there was no greater crime than drawing unwanted attention to their doorsteps.

  How she hated her husband now for the shame he’d caused their family. It was a good thing her father was dead, because she never would have heard the end of it. She imagined him in one of his ridiculous golf outfits, whiskey sour in one hand and a cigar in the other, as the old man prattled on about the other men she could have married.

  As the spectacle unfolded on the street below, another image crept into her head. It was the face of the young woman from the courthouse, tears rolling down her cheeks as she
described her husband losing their savings, and eventually, taking his own life. These things happen, she told herself. People lose money all the time. Surely, Byron wasn’t solely to blame. Still, the woman’s sobs had haunted her since that day.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the front door swinging shut. She found some relief in the sight of the reporters and camera crews returning to their vans. Byron would no doubt be waiting for her in the study.

  “I’m sorry, Nancy,” was all he managed to say before turning his attention to the disheveled drawers of the desk and filing cabinet. Inez had attempted to return some order to the room after the police raid, but Nancy insisted she leave the task to her husband. “Are you certain they didn’t find anything?”

  “I did exactly what you told me to do, Byron.” Was it too much, she thought, to expect a more sophisticated apology? He could have at least stopped along the way to buy fresh flowers.

  “What did they take?”

  “A few boxes of paperwork from the desk drawers.”

  “And the shredder?” He was still rummaging through whatever they’d left behind. “Where’s the shredder?”

  “Oh, they took that, too.”

  “Jesus Christ, Nancy. Did you at least empty it first?”

  “I didn’t have time.” She couldn’t guess what the problem was. “It’s not like you gave me a lot of notice. Just imagine what would have happened if I had been out with the ladies.”

  “Great,” he said. “That’s just great. You know they can put all those little pieces of paper back together again. They have people who do that.”

  “What?” She almost felt sorry for whoever’s job it might be to sort through all those tiny shreds and put them back together. “I had no idea.”

  “Maybe if you weren’t so busy worrying about what all those fussy ladies think, you’d have time to consider these things.” He ran his fingers through his hair as his eyes darted around the room. “If they trace those account numbers, I’m sunk.”

  “You have some nerve, Byron Hardaway, blaming me for this like it’s my doing. Is it true what the papers say? Did you really steal from all those people—from the people we call our friends?”

  “Oh, come on,” he said. “Don’t pretend like you’re innocent, Nancy. You had no problem spending the money. Those fancy designer dresses—a house like this—these things don’t just pay for themselves.”

  She wanted to slap him across the face. “You never told me it was stolen.”

  For a moment, he looked as though he might jump across the desk and strangle her. Nancy watched as he took a deep breath and composed himself, poured a drink and offered her one.

  She declined.

  “Look,” he said. “I didn’t steal anything. It’s not like I put a gun to anyone’s head. It’s all in the accounting.”

  “Are you going to prison?” It was the question she’d wanted to ask since the day of his arrest. Sure, she’d asked the lawyer, but getting a straight answer from that man was next to impossible.

  He took a sip of cognac. “Do you want the truth or do you want me to make you feel better?”

  “Tell me,” she said. “I need to know.”

  “It’s possible. It’s a complicated situation—things could go either way.”

  At least he wasn’t holding that back from her. She took a seat on the leather sofa and smoothed her dress. “What about the credit cards? Mr. Bennett said something about a bank hold.”

  “They froze our assets pending investigation. I was hoping the cards in your name would still work.”

  “I didn’t even know they could do that. How are we going to pay for things? There’s the matter of Inez’s salary, never mind the caretaker and the nanny.” She tried to catch the last word as it slipped off her tongue.

  Too late.

  “What nanny? I thought we’d stopped looking.”

  “The old woman,” she said. “I needed help with Nora while you were away.”

  “But, Nancy—”

  “What, Byron? I won’t argue this with you.”

  “We can hardly afford to pay Inez. If it wasn’t for the money I secured in Nora’s trust, we might lose the house.”

  “You’re a clever man. I’m sure you can find some way to make it work.”

  “Besides,” he said, “I don’t like that woman. Something about her isn’t quite right. The way she just showed up at our door like that in the dead of night—it gives me the creeps.”

  As if on cue, the old woman appeared in the doorway. “I’m sorry to disturb you. I only wanted to welcome Mr. Hardaway back home. I do hope they were kind.”

  Nancy wondered if she’d heard what her husband had said about her. “Iryna, please come and have a drink. We were just saying how nice it is to have your help with Nora. She’s really taken a liking to you.”

  “Oh, it’s my pleasure. She’s really such an angel. You should be very proud.”

  “We are,” said Mr. Hardaway. “Now if you’ll please excuse us, we have important matters to discuss.”

  The old woman smiled. “Can I bring you anything? Nora’s down for her afternoon nap and I’m afraid I’m not much use to anyone wandering alone around the house. Perhaps you’d like something to eat with your cognac? You really shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach. They say it’s quite unhealthy.”

  Nancy had spent enough time around the women of Boston to recognize the insult hidden behind such an innocent question. Byron could fuss until he was blue in the face. She was starting to like the old woman more each day.

  “No, thanks,” said her husband. “I’m sure Inez will prepare a wonderful dinner.”

  Iryna bobbed her head as she ducked from the room and disappeared back into the empty space of the big house. She’s light on her feet, thought Nancy, for such an old woman. It had given her great pleasure to watch Iryna take a stab at Byron.

  “As I was saying, Nancy.”

  “You’re always saying something.”

  “We don’t have the money, at least not while the bulk of our assets are frozen. You can keep the nanny if you like, but the caretaker will have to go.”

  “He has a son,” she said. The boy was seven or eight, the product of a previous marriage, and lived with his laconic father in the basement apartment. Nancy had hoped he might play with Nora when she was old enough.

  “I’m sorry, but we can’t afford three salaries, and we’re not getting rid of Inez. Nobody cooks like that woman.” He rubbed his belly as though he might eat something after all. “You said you want to make decisions, Nancy, so make a decision. Will it be the caretaker or the nanny?”

  The slender man’s head hung low and heavy. She’d found him trimming the hedges in their small garden while his son rode a bicycle in circles on the back patio.

  “I’m sorry, Leroy.”

  “Don’t be sorry, Mrs. Hardaway. You’re not the only one who’s ever fallen on bad times. These things happen. I understand.”

  Bad times? He pities me, she thought. It was the first time she’d ever been pitied by someone as low in life as a simple caretaker. Were things really that bad? “We’ll pay you through the end of the month, of course.”

  “If it’s not too much trouble, do you think my son and I could stay on in the apartment? I could still help out around the property, you know, in place of rent. The boy is just so happy in school and I’d hate to move him to another district.”

  It felt good to consider his request. It meant she was no longer being pitied. Instead, she was in a position to grant favors. Besides, it was nice having someone around to look after the place. The hedges weren’t going to trim themselves. “I’ll have to discuss it with Mr. Hardaway, but I don’t see any reason why that would be a problem.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Hardaway. That’s very kind. I always knew you were good people. I can’t fathom all the things they’re saying about your husband are true.”

  “Yes, well—there’s no need for thanks. It’s the least
we could do after so many years of loyal service.”

  The whole exchange had gone rather well. It was the first time she’d fired anyone, and it hadn’t been nearly as dreadful as she’d imagined—though she would have preferred he kept the comments about her husband to himself. She didn’t like being reminded. It was bad enough with all the reporters drawn to the house like sharks to blood in the water. Poor Inez had no choice but to slip out through the back gate and scramble down the alley on her way back home that evening. Nancy wondered how long all the negative attention might possibly last.

  Still, she was feeling especially good about her charitable act of kindness. Byron, lost among the stacks of paperwork in his study, hadn’t even put up a fight when she announced the caretaker would continue occupying what would otherwise be an empty apartment.

  It was well after dark when the last of the news crews retreated for the night. Finally at liberty to relax, she’d just drawn herself a hot bath when she was startled by a loud slap against the glass of the bedroom window. It was followed seconds later by another slap.

  Then another.

  “Byron!” She switched off the lights and crept toward the window, but she couldn’t make out anything in the darkness beyond. “Please, come quick!”

  She heard her husband fumble as he rushed up the stairs. He was short of breath and red in the face when he joined her at the window. “What is it? What did you see?”

  “There was a strange noise, like someone might be trying to break in.”

  Just then there was another loud slap against the window, followed by something slimy sliding down the glass.

  On the street below, a group of teenage boys had gathered and were passing around cartons of fresh eggs.

  “It’s just kids,” said her husband. He opened the window just in time to get hit squarely in the face with an egg. “Get lost, punks! I’m calling the police!”