by Remy Wilkins
It was like he was addressing unseen spirits, but it was always with an insult. Scoundrel, varmint, sucka, occasionally he’d let fly a nerd or potlicker whenever he stumbled or entered a room. Rodney would laugh, his mom would roll her eyes, but his father would grit his teeth. These outbursts confirmed all manner of mental problems in his father’s eyes. More and more, they convinced Rodney, as well.
He spent the rest of the day wandering around the grounds, fighting the urge to play video games. His mom had counseled him to resist that activity as much as possible, but after walking around the workshop, examining the odd scraps of wood in the junk pile, and watching the rabbits hop around in their pen behind the house, Rodney gave in to the temptation.
He grabbed an apple on his way and clomped upstairs to his room. He took out his handheld console and turned it on. The screen flickered bright and soon the bleats and whoops of his game nailed his ears shut. He played with his leg kicked up against the wall and his eyes stuck to the screen.
The game was Wombatter, the last thing given to him from his dad. You were a character that knocked out monster wombats with your handy bat. If you hit a wombat enough it would explode, destroying the town and revealing treasure and secrets. Some were so big you’d have to knock other exploding wombats into them before they themselves exploded.
Rodney knocked wombats and blasted the city flat, earning gold and increasing the power of his weapon. He went on a rampage with a flaming bat, sending the screen into bright convulsions of explosions and stars. The level was almost clear when the screen went dark, and the lights above him snapped off.
Weird. Rodney sat up, bringing his leg down from the wall. It tingled as blood rushed back into the forgotten limb. He rubbed it and stood. “Uncle Ray?” he called. “I think the power’s out.” He paused, listening.
There were footsteps out in the stairwell. Rodney hobbled to his door limping from a sleeping leg. He opened the door to the darkness. The sunlight from his west facing window was added to the room, which only caused the shadows to leap and lean. He heard a rapid patter down the stairs.
“Ray?” He went out into the hall, reaching for the rail to guide him down. “Ray?” he called again. The floor squeaked as someone moved away from him. He reached the bottom level, listening to the ticking of the clock. His heart kickstarted and roared in his chest. His face grew hot with adrenaline.
The door to the library was shut, but the red light of the setting sun gleamed underneath. He tiptoed toward it with his hands out. He felt the wood of the sliding door and drew it back.
The chair was empty. Ray was gone. Out the window he could see the declining light of the sun as if it had been captured and dragged down by the black forest behind the house. He spun back around at a clatter in the kitchen—some pots jostled. The urge to run was strong, but he forced himself to take steps toward the noise.
“Ray?” he couldn’t help the panic that crept into his voice. His face was beaded with sweat, and his shirt stuck to him. The a/c must be off, too. He shivered despite the hot and put his hands to the swinging door of the kitchen.
The curtains were drawn, sealing the room in blackness. Rodney began to enter when the eerie touch of spiderwebs across his face caused him to sputter and back away, slashing the air in front of him with his hands.
The heel of his foot caught the edge of something, and he fell back. The noise from hitting the wood floor sounded like an alarm; the whole house rang with his fall. He caught up his breath and listened for any movement. Nothing.
Rising, Rodney felt a breath at his ear though only the clock was behind him. He spooked and ran back into the library, to the window. His fingers clawed at the bottom, trying to raise it up. There was a sound, a gurgle, a voice. Rodney searched the darkness behind him, but felt the window give and lift.
He pulled it up and put his foot to the sill. He ducked under to get his head out and launched himself away from the house. He misjudged the ground, falling farther than he expected, and landed badly. His body registered injuries as he rose, but he ran before the ache of his hands, the pain of his knee, and the sting of his ankles swarmed him.
He ran and looked back at the house. Nothing pursued. He turned back his head in time to see the low wood fence before him. He collided with it full speed. The slats cracked, but the crossbeam held and Rodney was thrown to the ground.
He groaned and coughed. In the darkness before him he saw a figure leap. He stumbled back. The figure jumped again, this time landing on his chest. It was small and furry and he felt claws dig into his shirt. He screamed and rolled, the creature jumped free, and Rodney hobbled away, limping from a banged knee on one leg and a turned ankle on the other.
He spun to defend himself, but noticed only a golden rabbit, fat for a rabbit, staring at him with its ears erect. Rodney flushed with embarrassment and relief: Ray’s rabbits. He couldn’t remember the name of the fuzzy sun hopping away from him, Trumpet-something. Rodney huffed and felt the urge to cry.
Freaked myself out, he thought as he walked back to the house. He went up to the back door of the kitchen, but it was locked. He walked around to the front; the shadows were already cooling the day.
Rodney noticed Ray’s car was still there, next to his workshop. He hobbled up to the front steps, lifting his head. His throat seized up. Before him stood a black figure just over two feet tall. His eyes were a deep black, blacker than the black around him.
The creature opened his mouth, showing a glinting of teeth. A smell of sweet rot filled Rodney’s nose. His insides churned and clenched. The figure lunged at him with a shriek, striking his head. Rodney fell.
The creature disappeared into the darkness, somewhere into the woods. Rodney shifted to his elbows and vomited. His shoulders rolled as he expelled the contents of his stomach. He emptied, but his stomach still struggled to eject the void inside him. He lay on the ground, panting before the pool of his throw-up.
The door behind him opened and Ray came out. “Rodney?” He saw him, bowed down and quivering. “Whoa, you okay?”
“I got sick,” he managed.
“Those snakes speaking to you too, huh?”
“What?” Rodney looked up at him, wiping back his wet mop of hair.
“Those snake sandwiches. Hot dogs. Had a few words with them myself over the porcelain pit.”
Rodney stood. His knees felt wobbly. “What are you talking about?”
“The toilet, man. I was puking my guts out, too. Come on, why don’t you relax a tad?”
Rodney followed him in. The lights were back on, but Rodney was too tired to ask about it or mention his weird encounter, if it was an encounter. Maybe he was feverish.
He stopped in the kitchen for a swig of water and then went into the library to flop down on the couch across from Ray’s reading chair. The window was still open. He wondered whether the thing he had seen was what Ray was always talking to, rapscallion or scalawag or any of the innumerable names he blurted out every day.
The air was cool, and he shivered. Rodney rose to shut the window. He placed his hand at the top and pulled down. As the frame met the sill, the phone rang from the stair room.
It was a rare thing for the phone to ring. Ray joked that he spent more time talking to the phone than into it. “I got it,” Rodney called out as he jogged to it.
He checked the time on the clock above where the phone rested. He ignored the symbols of the clock and focused on the position of the hands. It was nearly 8:30.
Rodney lifted the phone, “Hello?”
“Hey, sweetie.”
“Hi, Mom.” A cloud gathered at the back of his skull and he felt the sting of being left behind again.
“How are you?”
“Okay. I threw up.”
“I’m sorry. Are you sick? Was it something you ate?”
“I just want to leave.” He bent forward to
rest his head against the wall as if onto his mother’s shoulder. The ticking of the clock was like a heartbeat. He closed his eyes and imagined she was brushing his hair back, trying to tame its unruliness.
“I know, but the summer will go quickly and I’ll come get you then.” She went on describing the town, the school he’d attend in the fall, and their housing options. He let her drone on without interruption and offered nothing when she asked if there were anything else. He barely grunted when she said, “I love you, bye.”
He held the receiver to his face for a second longer before setting it back on its cradle. He watched the second hand cycle over the strange clock. His face was like the face of the clock, full of strange things, symbols, mysteries, but he let the hand wipe them free and clear of his mind.
His shoulders sagged and he felt the pull of his bed. He lumbered up the stairs to his scarab-cluttered bedroom. His fingers trailed along the wall, feeling the scrolls and curls of Ray’s symbols. In the stair room there weren’t any creatures, only waves and strange squiggles like words. He imagined being able to decipher them through his touch.
At the top of the stairs he let his eyes follow the central beam as it continued up to the third floor. He slid his hand on the railing, passing his room, the other guest room, and Ray’s room until he arrived at the small spiral staircase that went to the observatory.
When he was younger, he had been afraid to climb those stairs. The gaps seemed child-sized, the ascent was too steep, and it just led to the ceiling. Pushing through the trapdoor to enter the observatory seemed like great fun until you were pressed against it, straining against its weight in the heat of the house, standing perilously on a thin step at the top of a great fall.
Ray seemed to think that it was interesting or important to gaze at the stars. Rodney had spent more time gazing at the stairs than the stars.
He was about to turn to his bed when the floor above him shifted. He looked up and listened. He heard Ray speaking, indistinctly. He took two steps to see if he could make out any words.
Ray’s voice got louder and he heard: “I brought him into this world. I can take him out.” Ray sounded angry, but he paused as if waiting for a reply. If there was one, Rodney couldn’t hear it. Then Ray broke in again. “You do your job, and I’ll do mine. We’ll bring this whole thing down on his head.”
Rodney’s mind swirled with confusion and anxiety. Ray’s voice had calmed and become quiet. All he could hear was a low murmuring until the floor shifted again as Ray moved across it. The trapdoor swung open. Rodney slipped back to his room as Ray descended. He shut the door, but leaned against it and listened. He heard the slam of Ray’s door and then silence.
Rodney cracked open his door. After a minute of silence there was a sob, a gasp of sorrow that came from Ray’s room. Or so he thought. Perhaps it was just a trick of the wind. He listened longer, but heard nothing.
He quietly got ready for bed and eased himself into the sheets, flicking off his hat into the dark. Something was wrong with Ray. Either Ray was crazy, like his dad thought, or something more, like Otis thought. His uncle was planning something. He decided to find out what that was.
Rodney fell asleep to the sound of the creaking wood as the heat of the day was lost into the cool evening air and the night wind moved.
Chapter Four
ONE LITTLE WORD
Rodney lurched into the morning light with a gasp. He kicked the sheets off his sweaty legs. His head was heavy and his tingling arms felt dense. He must’ve slept on them. He dressed quickly and tiptoed downstairs.
He took a quick peek at the stair room clock embedded in the wall. It was half past the circle with horns, which made it nine thirty. He’d slept late again.
He found a note from Ray in the kitchen, mentioning that he had knocked three times to wake Rodney, but had given up and gone into town. There was cereal in the cabinet. He’d be back in time for lunch. Rodney thought it would be a good day to speak to Otis. The events of yesterday had made his mysterious warning seem more real. He could chat with him and be back before Ray came home.
He ate, grabbed his hat and slingshot (a likely alibi if Ray beat him home), and jumped on his bike. He stood as he pumped down the gravel road to the highway. Sweat streamed down his face and his shirt stuck to his back, but he didn’t sit on the seat till he reached the bridge midway to the mailbox.
Once he had exited the low-grown forest and was on pavement, his trip went faster. He could see Otis’s house easily. It couldn’t be much more than a quarter mile away. He kept a slow pace since he didn’t want to arrive huffing and drenched in sweat.
He turned up the gravel driveway and was halfway to the house when a white car, colored dirty, bounced past him. Otis parked in front of his house and stood waiting until he pulled up.
“Glad you came,” Otis said. Otis wore a white short-sleeved shirt and black tie. “Go to church this morning?” He squinted at Rodney in the bright sunlight.
“No,” he answered sheepishly. “I slept in. Ray tried to wake me.”
“You should go to church. It’s good for young people. You shouldn’t miss it.”
“Is that where you were?”
“For a little bit, yes. I find it calming to sit in a church. I take in some of the early service at Sacred Heart. Then I meet some friends for coffee. I’m old, talking about the world is my church.” They stood before each other, staring at their shoes, pushing the dirt with their toes. Otis cleared his throat and said, “Come in and let me get you a drink.”
Soon Rodney was sitting under a wobbly fan that made the ceiling creak as it rotated. He held a glass of ice tea so cold it stung his hand. Rodney took a sip. It wasn’t as sweet as his mom’s.
“What’s your name again?”
“Rodney.”
“Rodney, right, right.” Otis sat in a chair across from the couch where Rodney sat. He leaned forward like he wanted to sell something quickly and quietly. “So I suppose you’ve noticed your uncle’s weird.”
It wasn’t a question, but Rodney nodded anyway.
“This is going to sound strange to you, I know.” He wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist. “Where to start, hm . . . I suppose you heard what happened a few years back? How he went crazy? Talking to himself and the like?”
“I thought he was being funny, but mom thinks it’s ’cause he’s lonely.”
“It happened suddenly. I used to go to that church, White Pine Baptist. Your grandpa built it with Raymond’s help way back when. It was a fine place for church until Raymond got it in his head that the building was all wrong. He went and ruined it. That was the beginning.”
“Ruined it? How?”
Otis smiled and squinted. “Go look at it sometime and you’ll see why. But that’s not all. Raymond’s preaching started getting darker. Scary stuff on demons. Temptations, powers, dominions.”
“I didn’t know Uncle Ray was a preacher.”
Otis put a hand to his scruffy chin. “Yeah? Oh, he used to be a preacher. Good one too. At least until he went nuts. Scared people with his rantings of the unseen world.” He wiggled his fingers as he said this.
“I’m full up of church,” Otis continued. “But I believe, I still believe, ’specially in the spirits. I just don’t think you court them. That’s not our place. Leave the spirit world be, but Raymond, no, he had to stir ’em up. He’d call ’em out in church, by name!” He raised his hands beseechingly and looked to the ceiling.
“By name? You mean, demons? He knew demon names?”
Otis leaned back and crossed his legs. “That’s right. You wanna know what I call someone who talks to demons?”
Rodney dropped his jaw, signaling “yes.”
“Demonic.”
Rodney’s mind struggled back against this new picture of Ray, silly Uncle Ray. He searched his memory for confirmation to these accu
sations. Suddenly his father’s words came into this new light. His father called Ray a “fanatic,” someone who believed in “hooey” and “bugaboo.”
He recalled the face of his mother at these expressions and saw not humorous denial, but quiet agreement. His mother, his father, and now Otis all saw Ray as some crazy person. His mother thought it was harmless, but his father’s view was worse, and Otis’s worst of all.
Rodney emitted a single response, “Whoa.”
Otis glanced at the walls like he expected them to burst open. “He started letting his beard get wild and wearing all that tie-dye. Called himself a rainbow warrior. I didn’t understand it, but I didn’t like it.”
“I don’t like the tie-dye stuff, either.”
Otis smiled at that and continued. “I left soon after all that started.” He leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. “Quite a preacher, too. I’ve heard plenty shake the pulpit and rattle the rafters, but no one could send a shiver up my spine like Raymond. And with just a single word.”
Rodney tried to imagine Ray acting like the preachers on television, microphone in one hand, waving the other. All he could imagine at the moment was Ray singing along to Iron Maiden.
“One of the last times I heard him preach, it was on the Temptations a’ Jesus, and Raymond was hollerin’ about the devil when all of a sudden he stopped talking and his eyes got real big.” Otis spread his rough hands beside his face to give an idea of the size. “He was silent for a long while. I just thought he forgot what he was saying. I think I always had my suspicions of Raymond. He just wasn’t right. Too many long walks in the woods, bad with people. I never thought he was called to speak the Word. He just stood there looking around, not at anyone particular, but just to the side of us or right above our heads. Then he looked right at me, well not at me, but a little through me, I can’t explain it, and he said . . . ‘Rotsnogger.’”
