Adam's Woods

by Greg Walker

  He smiled and knelt down next to the boy, who gazed at him in wonder, not considering that he perhaps should be afraid.

  “Edwin Ramses, First Sergeant, United States “Special Dark” Forces,” he said and put out a hand that for a moment appeared as a large paw. The boy felt as though Wolverine had stepped out of the pages of an X-men comic book. He pulled his small clammy hand from underneath the blanket and the man took it in a solemn shake.

  “I’m sorry to come in like that, but I was afraid I wouldn’t make it in time. By the looks of things I made the right choice. You’ll be safe now, kid. But I’ll keep an eye on you anyway, just in case.”

  The boy, ignorant of protocol, suddenly sat up and grabbed Ramses in a fierce hug. The man stiffened slightly, then relaxed and put his arms around him. The boy felt the strength there and knew that he would be able to draw from its memory anytime he felt afraid.

  Eric grinned as he read the last two pages to himself. He couldn’t resist putting Ramses into the new book just for fun. He needed something to lighten his mood. And it didn’t hurt to pretend that Superman could conquer all, or rather his lycanthrope counterpart.

  He’d come back to the motel from the lake, and instead of sleeping took his laptop out of the case and began to write. After allowing the memories to run their course and the resultant purging, he felt more determined than ever to finish this tale, to come to grips with the past, to emerge as whatever sort of man he would be in its aftermath.

  But the story would need to be grim at least until the end, which as of now he had no idea how it turned out, and he saved the document featuring Sergeant Ramses for himself then deleted it from the draft and began to write again:

  He closed his eyes and waited. The man shuffled into his bedroom, sniffing for the tang of his terror, then breathed deeply when scented, sighing in approval of its vintage.

  Still there was no sudden sharp pain, no overpowering stench, nothing that signaled the beginning of the end of him. He heard footsteps again, but not towards his bed but away, and confused the boy opened his eyes.

  The man paused at the doorway, and he felt the terrible weight of the smile, and then he disappeared in the direction of his parents’ bedroom. The boy tried to scream again, but only managed a croak but found he could move and threw off the blanket and sheet, already running towards the door.

  He flung himself into the short hallway and there through the open doorway of his parents’ room he saw the knife rise and fall in a frenzy of murder, saw one hand rise from under the cover in a pathetic defense to fall limp onto sheets spreading with darkness.

  The man turned to look at him; whatever direction he faced, no matter where the light source, he could sense but not see any features. But before he could register any definite impressions, the boy slid to the floor in a dead faint.

  The man watched him fall, and then turned back to his work, inspecting it for quality. Satisfied, he turned and stepped into the hallway to regard the boy sprawled on the floor. He reached down and gently stroked his cheek, then straightened and made his way past the top of the stairs to the other short hallway where his brother slept.

  To finish his work.

  Eric saved this version into the draft and shut down the computer. He loved having the laptop that allowed him to write virtually anywhere. He’d never followed a strict routine, but wrote wherever and whenever the mood struck. He and a fellow author had tried it once for kicks in a graveyard at night while writing ghost stories, and maybe he’d channeled a spirit or two onto the page. He doubted it, but it made a great anecdote and speculation when doing speaking engagements.

  He stood and picked up his phone, intending to call Harry, but instead paused and then slowly dialed the number he’d seen on the sign outside of his boyhood home. He let it ring four times and planned to hang up after the fifth when a woman answered.

  “Collins Realty, this is Mary, can I help you?”

  He almost dropped the phone, nearly pushed the end button, but instead brought it back up to his ear.

  “Hello? Is anyone there?” Mary asked.

  “Yes, I’m sorry. Is this Mary Collins from Lincoln Corners?” His voice sounded strange in his ears. A vision of a small, thin girl with raven black hair and large glasses emerged from his store of memories. This time the pause came from the other end of the phone. When she spoke, the words came with a hint of wariness.

  “I used to live there. My office is in Drake City. Who is this?”

  Realizing his last chance to back out, he paused one more time, took a deep breath, and said, “It’s Eric Kane, Mary. How are you?”

  “Eric...oh my goodness. It’s been so...long.” He knew at that moment she’d thought of Adam, knew there was no way she couldn’t think of Adam and those dark years. He waited for the silence of a dead line and if so, he would not call back and go home to Pittsburgh. But she spoke again, her voice stronger, friendly, and he felt like crying again but in gratitude.

  “Eric, how are you? I can’t believe this. I’ve followed your career, read your novels even though I usually don’t do horror. I’ve always wondered how you were, thought of trying to get a hold of you, but I never...I just...”

  “It’s okay Mary. I understand. But to be honest, I didn’t just call to talk. I mean not that I don’t want to talk, but I wasn’t aware I was calling you. I was in Lincoln Corners and saw that my old house was for sale, and believe it or not, I might be interested.”

  “Wow. I know it’s not my place to say, but...do you think that’s a good idea? Oh, I’m sorry Eric. I haven’t seen you for twenty years and I’m presuming I know what’s best for you. I just don’t know if I could...I mean if it was me...please, say something before I get in any deeper.”

  He laughed, and it felt good. Talking to Mary always had. Even as children he could confide in her the things that he could never tell the guys. “I know exactly what you’re saying, Mary, so no problem. And no, I don’t know if it’s a good idea, but even so I’d like to see the house.”

  “Well, sure. Let me see...” He heard the shuffling of papers and then a pause. “How about tomorrow morning at ten? And if you like, we could go to lunch back here in Drake City afterwards. It’d be great to catch up.”

  “Yes, that would be fine. One nice thing about being an author, I can set my own hours, so if that’s not the best time for you we can do it whenever.” He hoped it wasn’t a bad time, though. He really wanted to see the house now that he’d crossed the line with the phone call, and he really wanted to see and talk to Mary. He tried to imagine what she might look like now, but the large glasses and skinny legs kept getting in the way.

  “No, that’s fine. It’s been kind of slow lately, and anyway it’s not often that I get such a blast from the past...”

  A fade in her voice. Adam again, he thought.

  “But...okay!” she said, too brightly, “Ten it is. How about we meet there and I’ll give you the tour. Or maybe it's the other way around.”

  “Sounds great. I’m really looking forward to seeing you again.”

  “Me too, Eric. Tomorrow then.”

  He said goodbye and hung up, and caught his reflection in the mirror above the sink outside the bathroom. He was smiling, an expression he hadn’t found on his own face very often for some time. It was like meeting another familiar stranger from somewhere in his past. Eric went to the front desk to pay for one more night, then back in his room dialed up Harry before he called up the National Guard to look for him.

  Chapter 5

  Eric pulled into the driveway of the house the next morning behind a late model pick-up truck with big magnets stuck to the doors advertising Collins Realty. He got out and looked around, at the Rices’ old house on the left, and the Carolls’ on the right. They both looked pretty much the same as he remembered, and the effect was eerie, that he’d not only come back to Lincoln Corners but had also gone back in time as well. Didn’t anything around here ever change, he wondered?

&n
bsp; A woman came out of the house and through the porch, the storm windows installed over the screens, and walked down the front steps.

  Oh yes. Some things did change.

  The thin girl had morphed into a lovely woman. Not a knockout, but certainly not the girl that didn’t get asked to dance. Her straight black hair flowed to the middle of her back unimpeded, and she still wore glasses but ones that fit her face and heightened the intelligence in her eyes. She was a little on the plus side, a far cry from the stick figure girl of memory, but she carried it well, even in the simple jeans and t-shirt she wore. Very well, he thought. She was almost as tall as him, but in possession of a lot more curves. Eric realized he was checking her out, and he cleared his throat in embarrassment. He thought he detected the flicker of a smile in response, but it was drowned by her grin on approach. Any other time and place, he might have been smitten.

  “Hello, Mary,” he said, not sure if they should shake hands or slap a high five like when they were kids.

  “Eric, so good to see you,” she answered, and hugged him without hesitation. He tried not to feel the softness, tried to disregard how good her perfume smelled, but failed miserably and wondered how much longer he could keep his vow of celibacy. It wasn’t as if he had a good reason for it.

  “It’s ready for inspection. That is if you are.”

  “Yep, let’s go,” he said, with more confidence than he felt. Being here, actually going inside, brought a tightness to his chest and he hoped the faint tremor of his hands wasn't noticeable. If not for the cathartic experience of remembering Adam’s death before this, he doubted he could walk into the house without breaking down.

  “We don’t have to do this now, Eric.”

  He started at her words, heard the concern, wondered how she knew when he thought he was covering his real feelings respectably. Maybe it was a female thing but he suspected something more: perhaps childhood friends could always see through each other, that they’d gotten in on the ground floor before the custom installation of defense mechanisms, a poker face, and flat out bullshit necessary for admittance into adulthood. Because despite her confident smile and self-possession, obviously a woman with internal strength, he could catch glimpses of the small girl peeking out through the wire-rimmed frames. He could tell she was nervous, too. Whether it was because of him, or because of the house and its ghosts, he didn’t know.

  “Now’s as good a time as any. Let’s do it.”

  He followed her onto the porch, hearing the creak of the swing that had hung from two large eye bolts from which the ceiling still bore scars, past an old lawn mower to the right where the bikes used to be, and was struck with the stifling heat emanating from the door that opened into the living room. August again. It had been warm but tolerable outside, but the house was an oven in comparison.

  “I’m sorry about the heat,” she said.“I got here a little early to open the windows, but it doesn’t seem to have helped.”

  As he stepped into the room, he forgot about the temperature, was enveloped by remembered sights and smells and sounds that came in a rush, as though the house itself greeted him, saying, Eric! Remember this?And what about the time you...

  There was sadness too, because so many of the memories came with Adam attached. But he found a new ability to separate them from his death and enjoy them for their content alone. He now realized that in fixing Adam's entire existence on that one point, he had also denied any celebration of Adam’s life.

  “Eric? Do you want me to leave you alone for a while? I could sit out in the truck if you like. There’s air conditioning in there, so you wouldn’t have to twist my arm.”

  She grinned with the comment, and he smiled back, so glad that it was Mary here with him and not a stranger who couldn’t understand the root of his peculiar reactions. With exceptions of course. If JT...or John Thomas had answered the phone, he probably would have been back in Pittsburgh by now reconsidering not only his position on celibacy but on getting sloppy drunk.

  “No, Mary, I’d like you to stay. If you want to go out, that’s fine, but don’t go on my account.”

  “Okay, but I sort of feel useless here, because you know this house better than me. The paint job is fairly new, the carpet isn’t, and the furniture comes with it, if you want it. I put most of this stuff in here, I admit, and I know it’s not much but to be honest this house has been on the market for almost two years and I’d despaired of ever selling it, so anything to sweeten the deal, right? If the couch and end tables look like they came from yard sales, it’s because they did. The easy chair came from my house. I threw out the husband but kept his chair, but I didn’t really want it. It’s not that old and you’re welcome to it. If you would decide to buy the house, I mean.”

  “So you were married? I guess with the sign saying Collins, I assumed...”

  “Yes, I was married, for almost five years. Until I caught the bastard with his co-worker in a motel working a little overtime. No children, thank goodness, and I took back my maiden name as soon as I changed the bed sheets. How about you? Any past, present, or future Mrs. Kane?”

  Did he see interest there, beyond polite conversation, or was it the novelists’ imagination trying to direct the plot? Because, if being honest with himself, even at this time and in this place, he was feeling a wee bit smitten.

  “No. I never even got close. Not to say that I wouldn’t, but I’m pretty okay with my career right now, and don’t want to have someone there just to have them, you know?”

  “Yeah, I know. Experience is a tough teacher.” She smiled wanly, and for a moment he got a glimpse of the damage done to her heart, the glib comments like spackle that could fill the cracks but never heal them entire. And he reasoned that the tough girl persona was a more or less recent addition.

  The house was in decent condition, certainly livable, and the furniture a bonus. He’d begun to think about occupation, and decided he wouldn’t live here year round, would keep his apartment in Pittsburgh and maybe do summers. At least until he had gotten what he came for, or found there was nothing more to be had. It occurred to him that he had made a decision to buy.

  “Do you want to go upstairs?” Mary asked.

  “Sure,” he answered, though it wasn’t really necessary.

  He followed Mary up the steps, the stairs creaking under his feet, and being the creator of the dread sound instead of the victim under the blankets fascinated him. He imagined himself the murderer, tried to understand his motive and purpose for the sake of the story. He visualized a terrified little boy up in his room, but then without meaning to visualized another boy standing by the swamp and peering down at a bullfrog that thought itself well hid under some duckweed, imagined the heft and balance of the blade in his hand on the approach. He began to feel sick and stopped the exercise, not only because it was too real, but because he simply couldn’t come up with any motive that made sense. He could make something up for his tale, had already been doing that, but had never understood why someone would kill Adam.

  Killing was nothing new, Cain slaying Abel and rolling on from there, but at least there were generally understandable catalysts, even normal ambitions and emotions extrapolated and taken to the extreme; possession of a woman, power, money, jealousy, hatred, even love. And then there was war, the grandest murderer of them all, started usually over a piece of land that in a hundred years anyone who fought for the right to plant their flag there would be fertilizing its soil, if not already. But killing children, aside from perhaps a severe mental illness, didn’t make sense to Eric at all; simply terrible business, abhorrent to anyone with even the most rudimentary moral compass.

  Sometimes he feared that there was a hell waiting for him. But other times he prayed it was so - his own soul be damned - to ensure the infinite roasting of the vilest humans that walked the earth, with the child-killers front and center. In these moment’s he hoped Adam’s murderer dead from a method as painful as possible, and now spinning slowly on an eternal
spit over eternal flames.

  “Oh, I forgot to mention this, Eric. The bed in your old bedroom is actually your old bed. I guess it’s just been left here through the successive owners...not that there were that many.” He heard Mary’s voice and it took a moment to place it.

  “Eric?”

  He rounded the corner at the top of the stairs and stepped into his old bedroom, and sure enough the bed sat just where it did in the corner, the only piece of furniture, the only piece of anything, in the room. His father, a furniture maker, had left it and other items he could build, so that their flight would end in as new of a land as possible. But he had never expected to find it still here. It felt surreal, like it had been waiting for him. And with glee and foreboding he knew he would sleep there, probably with his feet dangling out over the end.