Wildwood Road

by Christopher Golden

  He'll be all right, she told herself again.

  Jillian was running late. She had phoned Michael from the office to let him know, but there had been no answer at home. On the machine she left a message that he should just meet her at Dorothy's Restaurant, that they were supposed to be there by seven o'clock. Much as she would have liked to go home and change, there was nothing to be done for it. She looked all right to go out for dinner, in a chocolate-brown tailored suit with a hunter green turtleneck under the jacket. But after being in the same outfit all day, it would have been nice to freshen up.

  Life was simply like that, sometimes. You had to roll with it.

  From the train station, she drove directly to Dorothy's. It was almost a quarter after seven by the time she pulled into the lot. The restaurant was on the expensive side, despite its strangely quaint location. It was actually the first floor of the home of the family that owned and ran it, and the entire place was decorated in homage to The Wizard of Oz. The food was wonderful, though, and the place was small, so reservations were difficult to come by. She had felt a bit of trepidation at not having been able to reach Michael, and the underlying concern for him that had been with her all day, but as she stepped out of the car and started toward the front door of the restaurant, other concerns took precedence.

  Can I really do this? she wondered. Jillian was a woman with opinions, and the will to do something about it. But her image of politicians in general was so poor that the idea of becoming one of them was laden with doubts. Then again, what was that saying? Something about the only thing necessary for the bad guys to win was for the good guys to do nothing.

  Well, I'm not a guy, and I'm not riding a white horse or anything, but . . . She did not finish the thought in any concrete way. There was no need. Her feelings on the subject ran deep enough that it wasn't necessary to formulate them into full-blown sentences. Jillian Dansky certainly did not picture herself as some kind of hero, or martyr, but she did believe that she could help. That she could do some good.

  When she walked into the restaurant, the buzz of conversation struck her and set her at ease. There was a large fireplace on either end of the long dining room, and both were blazing. Behind a podium by the door was Dorothy herself, a fiftyish woman who refused to dye her graying hair, but wore it in a stylish cut.

  “Good evening, and welcome to Dorothy's,” she said. “Meeting someone?”

  “A group, actually,” Jillian confirmed. “It might be under Ryan. They should be here—”

  “Oh, you're with Bob's party,” Dorothy said pleasantly, a twinkle of mischief in her youthful eyes. “Poor girl. Right this way.”

  The woman led her to the far corner, where a loud group were chatting and drinking around a large table by the fire. Bob Ryan was there, of course, with his wife, Yvonne. She saw Ben and Carole Bartolini. It took her a moment to recognize Mary Elizabeth Tilden, who was also an incumbent on the council, and she assumed the man with her was her husband. With these three on her side—if they were on her side—she would have an excellent chance of being elected. But she was well aware that if they were on her side, that also meant that she was on theirs. Town politics were bitter and hard fought, with grudges going back generations. If she allied herself with these people, she'd be gaining the support of their friends, but she would also be earning the spite of their enemies.

  Something to think about.

  At the moment, however, all such thoughts were banished to the back of her mind.

  For at the back of the table, his back to the corner, Michael Dansky sat, smiling and laughing and entertaining the people she hoped to make her cronies. He wore a white collarless, button-down shirt beneath a brown suede jacket that she knew he kept on more because it looked nice than because he was cold. His eyes sparkled as he whispered something funny to Yvonne Ryan and they laughed together. He was freshly shaven and his cheeks shone in the glow of the fire.

  Her husband looked like himself again. This was her Michael. Happy and relaxed. He had a glass of wine in front of him, and as he spotted her approaching he raised it in a silent toast to her, one corner of his mouth rising in a lopsided smile.

  It was that smile that had seduced her. That smile that had won her. He wasn't arrogant, but he was a passionate man, and he wanted to share that enthusiasm with others.

  Seeing him like that, Jillian could not stop the small laugh that bubbled out of her. She took a deep breath, and it was as though the fear and anxiety floated away with it. With Michael there, and at ease, she would feel comfortable with Ryan and his friends. With him backing her up, she was capable of anything.

  Michael stood as she approached the table. The other men did as well, and she said her hellos all around, shaking hands and kissing Ryan's cheek. When she at last made her way over to the empty seat next to her husband, he pulled it out for her, but before she could sit down he took her by the hand. Jillian studied his face. There were dark circles under his eyes. Obviously he had not gotten enough sleep the night before. But the change in him was clear.

  “Hey,” he said. “How was your day?” He kissed her, just a soft brush on her lips.

  “Hectic. How was yours? You seem . . . better.”

  Michael smiled. “Not completely. But I think I'm getting a handle on things.” He lowered his voice and whispered to her. “It's possible I've only lost a few of my marbles, instead of the whole bag.”

  With a soft chuckle, she glanced at him, one eyebrow raised.

  “Sit down, Jillian. Order a drink,” Bob Ryan called pleasantly.

  She gave him a polite smile and then looked back at Michael.

  “I'll explain later,” he continued, still whispering in her ear with the intimacy of husband and wife. “For now, let's enjoy dinner. You've got votes to win.”

  AS THE HOUR BEFORE MIDNIGHT wore on, Michael lay on the dark red floral print sofa in his living room and watched Humphrey Bogart bicker with Katharine Hepburn. His eyes burned and his body ached with exhaustion, but he had passed the point of ordinary sleepiness earlier. What he needed, after the surreal haunting of the previous night and the all-too-solid and ordinary effort he had put into searching for Scooter’s house that day, was some time to wind down. The African Queen had been just starting when he and Jillian had come in from dinner. It was one of Michael’s favorite films, and he could think of no better way to let the tension slip out of him than spending a couple of hours with Bogey and Kate.

  Jilly had joined him at first, kicking off her shoes and snuggling up with him on the sofa. In what seemed like minutes, he had heard her breath deepen and settle into a steady rhythm. Only when he jostled her did she open her eyes.

  “Maybe I should go wash my face,” she said. “I want to get my makeup off. Get out of my work clothes.”

  Michael had smiled at her. “Need any help with that?”

  “I think I can handle it, Mr. Dansky.”

  “Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me,” he had told her.

  But he knew she wouldn't come back down. It was late, and her history of insomnia made her reluctant to stay up past midnight or so, as though that might be inviting a sleepless night. Usually, Michael would have gone up with her and just watched the movie in bed while she burrowed under the covers beside him. But tonight he was comfortable right where he was, and the truth was he was in no hurry to go back to their bedroom, no hurry to discover if that shadowy corner by the bed was occupied again.

  Dinner with the council members had gone very well. If anyone had ever told him he would have enjoyed himself at a table with a bunch of politicians, he would have told them they were full of shit. But to his great surprise, he had found it easy to relax around them. It was nice to be around a group of people who had such strong opinions and were just itching for intelligent conversation and debate. The truth was, he thought he might have had an even better time than Jillian.

  But there was an even deeper truth, and that was that maybe Michael had been w
orking at it. Maybe he had been trying very hard to have a good time. Not only for the sake of Jillian's political aspirations, but because he needed it. Needed to unwind. To let go.

  Whatever it was, it had worked. He felt more at ease than he had all week. A tremor would go through him anytime he would think of the strange things he had seen—or thought he had seen—but he reminded himself that that was why psychiatrists existed. If people didn't get a little fucked up now and then, the shrinks would all be out of a job. The best news of all, though, the part that comforted him the most, was the fact that he had not seen anything at all out of the ordinary since waking up that morning. Seen, or smelled, for that matter. No popcorn. No cinnamon apple pies. Nothing like that.

  He was going to be all right. It might take a little time, but if he could just take a deep breath now and then, and keep his head on straight, he would be okay. Jillian was a big part of that. Just seeing her at dinner tonight, the way she glowed, the way her eyes sparkled when she laughed, was enough to start to fill up all the empty places in him. And this, lying here for a while with The African Queen, eyelids drooping and a warm, soothing feeling of tiredness washing over him . . . this was taking a deep breath.

  In the midst of such thoughts, with the unshaven Bogart looking down upon him from the television screen, he drifted off to sleep.

  IN HIS DREAM, HE IS driving along Old Route 12. His headlights burn the darkness ahead. The road curves left, and right, and left again. Around each turn his sleeping mind expects to see her, the little lost girl, the blond angel in the peasant blouse, caught in the glare of the lights. He feels a dreadful certainty as each turn approaches, an utter sureness that this time he will not be able to swerve in time to miss her. That the car will strike her, shattering her bones, driving her down under the tires, bumping over her and leaving only a bloodied, misshapen mess behind.

  It is a terrible dream, but in its repetition, in its unforgiving redundancy, it builds to a crushing nightmare. He feels himself weeping. He wishes for the road to end, for the morning to come, for the headlights to wink out so that he will not have to see her there, pinned against the darkness as though she is some sacrifice set out for him.

  He can hear the hum of the tires on the road. Oddly, he smells cotton candy.

  D'Artagnan, a tiny voice whispers beside him.

  His fear is for nothing. She is there in the car, on the seat beside him. He continues to guide the car around each dark corner, headlights parsing the gathering night shadows, but he can breathe easier. Beside him, her wide eyes are heavy with sorrow.

  Come find me, she whispers.

  What kind of a name is Scooter? he asks, apropos of nothing. He doesn't care. He is just glad he hasn't killed her. That he will not turn the next corner and feel the impact of the car's front grill on her flesh and bone.

  Scooter, she tells him, giving him a little-girl shrug. Scoosan. Hilly could never say Susan.

  He blinks. The smell of Thanksgiving dinner—of turkey and gravy and sweet potatoes and sausage stuffing—fills the car. The lost girl—Susan—is gone.

  His gaze shifts back to the road ahead just in time to tug the wheel to the right, to avoid the massive split-trunked tree that loomed up ahead. The tires shriek as the car tears around the corner. And there she is. Captured by the headlights. Going tharn. That was what the rabbits in Watership Down called it, that paralysis that comes on when the headlights capture you. Going tharn. The girl is going tharn.

  The grill crushes her chest. Her body crumples and her head slams down on the hood with a wet crack. Michael lets go of the steering wheel, screaming, and he understands in that moment that he wants to die.

  “. . . OH,” HE SAID, JUST THE tiniest little oomph of air, as he jerked awake on the sofa, heart hammering in his chest.

  For a long moment he stared at the television screen. He recognized a young George C. Scott but the film was black and white, something he did not think he had ever seen before. Where was The African Queen? Even as he wondered, fractured images of the dream came rushing into his mind and he fought to catch his breath. His chest hurt with the grief that lingered after the dream, and yet already it was diminishing. Already the pieces of the dream were dissolving, being lost down the drain of the subconscious where all of the other dreams of his sleeping life had gone. Michael had always considered it a terrible loss, the way that the rich imaginings of his unconscious mind were cast aside upon waking.

  But he had rarely been so happy to let go of a dream as he was at that moment—although something about it had been of value. He was sure of that. In his mind he could almost hear the girl's whispered voice, but he could not hold on to her words.

  He shook his head and then swung his legs over to sit on the edge of the sofa. With a deep breath, still a bit disoriented, he stood. A quick glance at the clock on the cable box told him he had slept for less than an hour. Long enough for the movie to have ended and another one to have begun. He stretched and went into the kitchen for a glass of water. The light above the sink was on so he hit the switch, plunging the room into relative darkness. He drank the water and left the glass in the drainer. Out in the living room, he took a few moments to watch George C. Scott curiously, wondering what the film was. He could have used the remote control to access information about it, but his curiosity was not as powerful at the moment as his desire for the comfort of his bed and the warmth of Jillian beside him.

  Michael shut the TV off and double-checked that the front door was locked. Memories of the previous night remained, but they shared space now with those of the day, and of the contentment of his evening out. It was obvious to him from the episode on the sofa that he wasn't going to have trouble falling asleep tonight, and he took heart from that.

  At the top of the stairs he went left, toward the master bedroom.

  Something heavy and damp shifted in the darkness of the hall behind him. It sounded like the flap of a flag, or the rustle of a wet raincoat as it was removed.

  The urge to turn, to investigate, struck him even as he reached the open bedroom door. But he never did turn. He was frozen, instead, by the sight that greeted him.

  The bedroom was thick with shadows, alleviated only by the faint glow of the streetlight across the street, its illumination casting a hint of twilight across the Danskys' cherry sleigh bed.

  There were five of them in a circle around the bed. Bald, stooped figures in their long, shapeless coats. Yet for the first time he noticed the wisps of silver hair, the shape of their mouths, and he realized they were not male at all, but female. Their pale skin gleamed in the darkness, gleeful expressions gruesomely phosphorescent. Jillian lay on the bed, her eyes wide and her mouth open in a silent scream as one of them bent to kiss her, mouth open so wide it seemed almost as though it might try to swallow her. The others had their hands on her, but they were not holding her down. Their fingers massaged her flesh, and in the single moment when the tableau was etched upon Michael Dansky's soul, he saw that their fingers seemed to have burrowed into the flesh of her arms and her bare legs. There was no blood, and yet they worked their fingers into her skin as though she were made of potter's clay.

  Michael screamed.

  Icy fingers clutched his own arms from behind. A hand clamped over his mouth, sliding down to his throat. Sharp fingers punctured his neck.

  Stay away. The words felt like icy mercury injected into his vocal cords. They were spoken by his own lips, with his own mouth, but it was not his voice. They were not his words.

  You can not help her. She is ours. If you continue to search, you will not like what you find.

  The chilling grip on his arms sapped the strength from him, so that when he was set free, he collapsed instantly to his knees on the carpet. Like the withdrawal of a quartet of needles, the fingers retreating from his throat tugged at the flesh there. He coughed. The penetration had bruised the muscles there, but as he clapped a hand to his neck, he felt no wound. No blood.

  Wheezing, gri
tting his teeth against the sensation that something was still lodged in his throat, he grabbed the door jamb and struggled to stand. He glanced around, but there was no sign of them. Not a single trace of that phosphorescence, the unnatural moonlight of those terrible, expressionless faces.

  “Jilly,” he rasped.

  In the instant before he managed to focus upon their bed, he was suddenly sure she would be gone. The sight of her lying in the center of the bed with the spread drawn down, her chest rising and falling evenly, was enough to make his legs weaken beneath him. A rush of gratitude unlike anything he had ever felt filled him. He took several steps into the room and just stood over her, staring down at her, studying her to make sure there was no sign of any wound.

  Jillian was pale, but otherwise she seemed unharmed. Michael shook his head. He was grateful, but he knew they had done something to her. A tremor went through his gut and he took a step nearer. She seemed to be sleeping, and he wondered how much of what just happened she would remember, and if she would think it had been a dream. He would shake her, just to be sure she was all right.

  He listened to the darkness, glanced around the room for sign of any further intrusion. Already he was doubting himself. He had felt the fingers in his throat. Still felt the aftereffects of it. He had felt the words forced through his vocal cords, had been made to speak them. But he had read enough to know that it was possible that it was all still in his head. If so, well, then he was completely out of his mind.

  A shrill little laugh bubbled up from inside him.

  Jillian was the proof. If she had seen it. If she had felt it. If she remembered.

  Yet as he reached for her shoulder to wake her, he hesitated. If she had seen them, what then?