John S. Iblis traced his fingers over Jason’s signature, then rubbed his palms together in anticipation. The weak-minded were such easy prey.
The game itself was just for fun.
17
Jason was late for work on Monday. Again.
Chapter Six
Red Sky at Night
1
On Thursday morning, Jason opened his back door and froze in place. The tail draped across the doormat in a comma of bloodstained brown and white fur did not belong to a cat.
That little piece of shit.
The morning air held a chill, enough to prevent the stench from rising up in the air, though not enough to dissuade the flies. They circled what remained of Jasper, or some other unfortunate collie, landing, then flying off, only to buzz around and take up residence elsewhere amid the fur, as if testing to find the sweetest spot. Or the most vulnerable.
His arms broke out in gooseflesh. Rubbing them briskly, he stomped into the kitchen and grabbed a trash bag. He guessed cats weren’t good enough for the kid now. What in the hell had he done to attract the kid’s attention? Why was his doormat the unlucky recipient of his psychosis? When he got home from work, he planned to walk across the street and have a little chat with Alex Marshall’s father. He thought it was time someone let him know what a sick little shit he had for a son.
2
By the time Jason got home, all thoughts of the kid across the street had vanished. His boss held a project status meeting at the end of the day; the look of irritation he wore lingered in Jason’s mind. Yes, he knew that Jason’s dad died, yes, he knew that things were tough, but he needed Jason to ”stay on the ball” and ”stay focused”.
Asshole.
He grabbed his mail and went inside, but after tossing the mail on the table, he paced back and forth in his kitchen, jingling his keys in his hand.
“Fuck it,” he said, and walked back out, slamming the door shut behind him. His car door was half open when a distant voice carried up from the end of the street.
“Jaaasper.”
A few minutes of silence.
“Jaaaaaaaaaasper.”
Martin, I hate to tell you, but Jasper isn’t coming home any time soon. Maybe you should ask Alex if he had any last woofs.
He slammed the car door shut, too. His hands shook when he pulled out of his driveway, and with no destination in mind, just a feeling of helplessness deep in his bones, he drove. Familiar and unfamiliar streets turned to a blur. Time slowed to a crawl. The sun dropped low in the sky, and the streetlights turned on with a low metallic buzz. Jason drove and drove and drove.
Dead dog. Dead Dad.
The words popped up, unbidden—a sharp little hurt of severed hope. Pins and needles struck when he arrived in Fells Point, racing from the top of his left arm all the way down to his fingertips, then back up again. He shook his arm, but two minutes later, they returned, down, up, down, up. Extending his arm out the window, he flexed his fingers once, twice. His entire arm exploded with the sensation, his right hand slid on the steering wheel, and the car swerved to the left. He turned the wheel to the right, overcorrecting, and slid by a parked car with only inches to spare.
Shaking, he pulled into an empty parking spot on a side street and sat, breathing hard, with his left arm curled against his chest. “Dammit,” he said and punched the door panel with the side of his fist. The prickling flared, exploding into white-hot pain. He grunted out loud and got out of his car; when he let his arm drop to his side, the pain subsided. Standing with his back against the car, he stared out at nothing but rubble. He’d parked next to a fenced lot with the piled remnants of dilapidated buildings, all part of the Fells Point rebuilding progress. Many of the old buildings were being torn down to make way for new buildings—houses, offices, shops, all designed to bring more money to the city. To bring life to the dead parts of town.
Can’t resurrect the dogs or the dads, though, not with all the concrete in the world.
Jason walked away from the parking lot, ignoring his arm. The purple of twilight turned the pavement gray and shadowy, and a breeze picked up, sending discarded cigarette butts and scraps of paper spinning through the gutters.
He passed a homeless man wrapped in the stink of his miserable existence. The man held out a grimy hand. “Got any spare change, mister?” he asked, his voice raspy.
Averting his eyes, Jason caught only a glimpse of dirty, gray hair, soiled clothes and sunken cheeks. The man chuckled, a wet, cheerful laugh. Jason shoved his hands in his pockets and kept walking. Behind him, the homeless man broke out into a wordless song, more than a hum but not quite singing. Chanting? Jason shuddered, walking faster. Not just homeless. Crazy, too.
Jason took a right turn at the end of the street and passed several old row houses already dressed up in their renovation best with new windows and doors. The front windows of one house revealed a gleaming, dark wood staircase and freshly painted walls. They’d salvaged the old brick exterior and gutted the inside instead of total demolition. A few years ago, only rats and the homeless made these houses their homes; now they sold for ridiculous sums of money. Some of them, like Mitch’s house, were only fifteen feet wide—tiny, yet charming.
The tingle in his arm faded as he crossed another street. More narrow houses with brightly painted front doors, more marble stoops. A white cat curled up in a window raised its head when he walked by and yawned, exposing a tongue the color of cotton candy.
Or bubble gum. Be glad you don’t live in my neighborhood, puss.
Jason turned another corner, but the buildings on the new street did not have the shine of renovated bliss. A For Rent sign sat in one dark window, the red letters beginning to show signs of sun fade. The window, with the first traces of dust at the corners, shimmered in the pale light of a far streetlamp. The streetlamp closest to the building was dark, the curve of the bulb smoky gray.
Dead bulb. Dead dog. Dead Dad. These buildings are close to dead. Even the café with its colorful sign.
Jason stopped and stared into the darkness as a wave of déjà vu raced over him. He’d been here before, oh yes, he had. The empty building was number 1305. On Shakespeare Street. Home of emptiness, closed cafes and tattoo shops, but not just any tattoo shop—Sailor’s shop.
Drove to get away from everything, and somehow I’ve ended up here. Maybe he can tell me why my arm hurts? It has to be a coincidence, but I don’t remember having this pain before the tattoo. Only after.
Once again he could not see the entrance for 1303 Shakespeare Street.
It’s a trick entrance, remember?
Jason stared at the spot where the entrance should be until his vision blurred and his eyes stung. Still nothing but a faded brick wall.
Oh, come on. The door is there. It’s set back, just a little bit.
He stepped back to the edge of the sidewalk and tried again. When his eyes started to burn, he blinked several times, willing his mind to see the door, and still, nothing. No door, no weathered sign, no entrance at all. It didn’t make sense.
Jason walked up to the building and pressed his hands, palms flat, against the brick. It was cool and rough to the touch.
Wrong. There should be a door here. A door with faded gray paint. Not just brick.
He ran his hands down the brick, feeling for a break, a seam, a doorframe.
No door. But of course there’s a door. I went through it. Through the door and up the stairs with the weird, face-like wallpaper and into the shop.
“Find everything you’re looking for, mister?”
Jason whirled around. The homeless man stood a few feet away, leaning up against the dark streetlamp. The wind shifted and carried a rich, high smell of stale urine, spilled liquor, unwashed flesh and the ashy stink of bummed cigarettes. He rummaged under his tattered coat, and Jason stepped back.
What if he has a knife or a gun? The guy is crazy. It’s easy to see. Those eyes, all faded and watery, like he’s leaking.
The man pulled out a bottle but didn't brandish it over his head. Didn't threaten or yell. Instead, he unscrewed the cap. His fingernails were long and ragged and stained a bilious yellow-brown; the creases of his fingers were caked with filth. After a quick nod of his head in Jason’s direction, he took a large swallow. The amber liquid disappeared in a rush.
Yo-ho-ho and all that.
The bottle vanished back under his coat, and he walked away. No, he didn’t walk. He rolled. Sailor?
“Hey,” Jason called out, but the man kept moving, his steps fast, despite the hitch in his stride.
The homeless man sang out the horrible, familiar song without words again. He’d almost reached the end of the block when Jason took his first step, his feet making quick taps on the pavement as he tried to catch up. With the tattered coat billowing out behind him, Mr. Walks Like Sailor spun around the corner. Jason jogged to catch up, and when he approached the corner, he had a sudden fear that the homeless man wanted to lure him somewhere, perhaps to smash him over the head with the bottle of rum and take his wallet.
And maybe he was just paranoid.
Sure, the shipwalk was sort of the same, and they both had that strange rasp in their voice, but the face wasn’t the same. Even under the dirt, it wasn’t Sailor. So why was he following him? Jason slowed his steps, and the pins and needles in his arm danced under the skin.
Why, indeed? He should turn around and forget about the homeless drunk, but then he might stop to think a little harder about the disappearing tattoo shop, or dead dogs and dead dads, and he thought there’d been quite enough of that already.
The corner of the last building loomed ahead. He’d made it this close, he might as well look. What harm could it do? He took a deep breath, held it in and turned the corner.
The homeless man was gone.
3
Jason pulled into his driveway, his headlights carving out a bright arc in the darkness. Someone stood on the sidewalk with his head down. Jason’s heart rate doubled. The homeless man?
It wasn’t the homeless man of course. He was thirty minutes away, in Fells Point, and unless he grew wings the possibility of said man in front of his house was slim to none. He’d been nothing more than a crazy drunk anyway. No, Martin Cooper stood outside, his thinning hair hanging over his forehead and something in his hand.
He found the tail. He went in my garbage can and found the tail and thinks I did it. Oh, shit.
Jason got out of his car as slow as possible and walked around to the front. It wasn’t the tail. Martin held a leash—Jasper’s leash. Relief flooded Jason’s veins, followed by a wave of guilt. Martin turned his face toward Jason, his mouth downturned. The dark shadows under his eyes turned his skin gray.
“Have you seen Jasper around by any chance?” Martin said in a paper-thin voice.
Dead dog. Dead Dad.
“No,” Jason said, and his stomach twisted. It wasn’t completely a lie. The tail could’ve belonged to another dog. There were other collies in the neighborhood, weren’t there? The end of the leash trailed over Martin’s hand and dangled in the air, like Jason’s lie.
I didn’t lie. If I tell him what I found, the anguish will turn to outright horror. I can’t do that to him. And I don’t know for sure it was his dog. I don’t know for sure his dog is dead.
A warm wind blew by, carrying the smell of freshly cut grass, and the leash swung gently in the breeze.
Sure, tell yourself another lie. Do you think someone would cut off a dog’s tail and leave the rest of him intact? Do you?
“We have a doggie door. He went out the other night and didn’t come home. But he has a collar and a tag, so if someone found him they’d call, right?”
“Of course they would. I mean, they will. He’s probably out running around, enjoying his freedom.” Jason forced a smile. He couldn’t tell him. He just couldn’t.
“Yeah, sure,” Martin said and turned to go. Then he turned back and gave a small shake of his head. “Except I keep the gate locked, and Jasper can’t jump the fence.”
Jason opened his mouth, but nothing came out. What could he say? Not the truth, that was certain. When Martin walked away, the hair on the back of Jason’s neck rose. He glanced around and a shadow across the street moved. The kid, Alex, standing near his own house, with a baseball cap, red this time, not black, pulled low over his eyes. Watching him.
You little son of a bitch. You did it, didn’t you? And I bet you like seeing the old man crushed at the edges. It probably helps you sleep at night. Most kids think about what they want to be when they grow up. I bet you think about what you’ll kill when you grow up.
Or maybe who.
A chill raced up Jason’s arms as he turned away. Maybe it was all just a strange coincidence. Maybe the kid had done nothing wrong.
Maybe, but the weight of his gaze followed Jason into the house.
4
That night, Jason double-checked all the locks in the house before he went upstairs. He turned off the light and climbed in bed, but the wind pushed tree branches against his window, a sound far too much like tapping.
Let me in, son.
The dark shadows in his room shifted, and he fought the urge to call Mitch. Sure, he’d call her and tell her he was having trouble sleeping and could he come over because a tree was knocking on his window? She would love that.
He rolled over, and the shadow in the corner of the room moved.
Dad? Is that you again?
It moved again. Jason’s mouth went dry.
Something in my room. With me.
He waited for a sensible voice to pop up in his head and call him a fool; the voice didn’t come. The wind rose in a high-pitched wail. Jason stared at the corner shadow. His stomach twisted.
Here. With. Me.
Moving fast, he turned on the lamp on the nightstand, but it threw off more shadows than it chased. It did, however, illuminate the corner of his room enough to make out a pile of folded laundry on the corner of the dresser.
No one here. Just me.
He got up and flipped on the overhead light. Once back in bed, he folded his arms behind his head and frowned up at the ceiling. With the light on, the tiny tap of the tree branches was just that. A trick of the wind. The racing heart in his chest didn’t care, though. No, it thought the sound was horrible, like a skeletal hand knocking softly.
Keep on knocking, you can’t come in.
Jason closed his eyes and, after several long minutes, fell asleep.
5
His father stood in the corner of his room, wrapped in shadows. Jason didn’t want to see him; the smell was enough—sweet and sickly, the kind of smell that climbed inside and stuck to the back of the throat. It wasn’t the not-father—the dadmonster—this time. Jason sat up, unafraid. His dad didn’t want to hurt him. He just wanted to talk, to stay on this side for a little longer. Once he crossed the line, he wouldn’t come back. He couldn’t.
“Son, what did you do?”
“Nothing, Dad. I didn’t do anything.”
“It’s bad, Jason. I think you know it is. You should’ve read the fine print.”
“I don’t understand.”
His dad shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. It is what it is.” The words echoed off the bedroom walls. “I can’t stay long, but you have to find a way.”
“What do you mean?”
“I know you’re smart, but he’s tricky. Don’t forget that.”
How could he forget what he didn’t know? And who? Who was tricky?
“I’m sorry, son. I have to go now.” His flesh made a wet and sticky, slithery sound as he stood up, gripping the wall with his right hand.
“Wait, don’t go. Please.” Jason crossed the room and reached out. When his fingertips brushed against his dad’s hand, the smell of rot grew stronger. Thicker. He gagged and stumbled back.
His father began to spin in the corner, moving in a tight circle, and as he spun, he faded. The dark blue of his suit turned
transparent, then his father turned into a spiraling column of ashy gray. It lifted from the floor like a tornado. Jason smelled burning flesh. His father’s voice twisted and turned inside the column, then a scream, high-pitched and inhuman, exploded from within. Jason stumbled back, covering his ears. A horrible nightmare of pain and rage moved inside the spiral. Something not—
Not-father! Not-father! He’s back and he wants me.
Jason scrambled back on the bed until his back pressed hard against the headboard. The scream came again and again and again and its eyes… Green, gleaming eyes, filled with a liquid hate. They bored into Jason’s, and the venom behind the gaze burned into his mind. The swirling mass lifted and moved toward the bed, toward him. The end stretched out into a long, needle-sharp point and stabbed into his left arm. The pain of a thousand needles, tipped with poison, tipped with fire, burning their way inside him. The column spun faster and faster around him, engulfing him in rushing wind and screaming fire.
Just a dream. I need to wake up. I need to wake up right now!
Caught inside the spiral, he couldn’t scream. Heat scored his cheeks. The eyes found his and screamed their fury.
Jason woke up with his hands pressed to his ears and a ragged whisper in his throat, and sat up, staring out the window at the lightening sky while his heartbeat slowly returned to normal. He pulled off his sweat-soaked T-shirt, wincing as the left sleeve stuck to his arm. After he tossed the shirt onto the floor, he looked at his arm. Smears of blood streaked the skin and oozed from a scratch, three inches long, right below the tattoo, a curved and bleeding wound that wasn’t deep, but stung when he touched it.
And he had blood underneath the fingernails of his right hand.
6
Jason picked Mitch up at eight on Friday night and took her to a small restaurant not far from her house. The spare key to his house, Shelley’s old key, rested heavy in his pocket. He hoped it would be okay. Maybe it was crazy—he and Mitch had not been dating that long—yet it felt right.
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