The boy was dizzy and all alone. His head hurt. But something else was different. His sense of smell. He could smell things that weren’t even near him. The pot cooking in the kitchen back at the house. A car’s exhaust as it motored past, out on the road. Cow shit out in the fields. Shit inside a hole in the ground under the outhouse. And something else.
He smelled the old man.
Smelled his sweat, his filth, his sour booze-soaked breath. He smelled the old man’s bitterness and anger. The old man . . . he was coming for him. When he would arrive, he would be wearing a mask. The mask would be made of real skin. The pig’s face covering his father’s face. The old man would slowly approach the boy, snorting like a pig, laughing like a drunk. An evil drunk wearing the skinned face of a pig.
The intense sense of smell only improved with age. So did other gifts. Physical gifts. The older he got, the quicker he became. His body changed dramatically, shedding its fat until he became nothing but lean meat and bone. His strength seemed to know no bounds. Even closing in on his seventieth year, he is as strong as a gorilla and as fast as a gazelle. His hunger hasn’t decreased but increased. His need for raw meat, for blood. His need for the hunt. His lust for skin.
He’d researched the changes, found out that many so-called geniuses didn’t take on genius-like attributes until after having taken a serious blow to the head. A man falls down the stairs, lands on his head, enters a coma. When he wakes, he sees the world, not in terms of objects, both natural and man-made, but instead as complex math equations which he can now solve in seconds flat.
A woman is run down by a bus, barely survives. When she leaves the hospital weeks later, she goes to a musical instruments store, heads straight for a piano, and belts out Beethoven’s 5th like she composed it herself.
A teenager spills his motorcycle doing seventy MPH, dies on the way to the hospital, but is revived. When he’s strong enough to leave his bed, he feels the urge not to walk, but to sprint. He sets a world record for the fifty-yard dash.
Skinner’s father was an evil bastard. But he also gave Skinner a gift before he died of a pickled liver. He gave the boy the gift of the superman.
This afternoon, the two children laughed and chatted with a ghost of a man. Skinner listened to them from down inside his concrete basement. He couldn’t resist the urge to climb out of his hole, to make his way on all fours to the edge of the corn where he remained somewhat hidden behind the stalks, but not entirely invisible either.
At first, the girl, little Molly, feared him. She started to cry. She called him the Boogeyman and she begged to go home. But the boy, the one they call Mike Jr., he urged her to stay. That the man in the corn . . . the one he called Mr. Skinner . . . was their friend.
“I’ll protect you, Mol,” Michael, Jr. said. “Me and my dad. We won’t let anything happen to you.”
That was Skinner’s chance to test the children. To see if they would obey. To see if he could build some trust.
He asked them to enter into the corn and to seek out what lie on the other side of it in the woods. They would find the remains of a house there. A basement with a long staircase that led down inside. There, they would discover many wonderful things. But they would have to keep those things a secret.
“But we’re not allowed to go beyond the backyard,” Mike said. “We’re not allowed to go into the corn.”
“It will be all right,” Skinner said. “Your mommies are waiting for you on the other side of the corn. They’re in the woods. They want to see you. So, go now. Enter into the corn.”
How could a child resist such an adventure?
That was one hour ago. Now, Skinner smells Rebecca. It’s a sweet smell that brings tears to his eyes. He smells her shampoo, her body wash. He smells her pussy. He wants her to come to him.
He wants her to be his lover. He wants to wear her face, deep down inside the bowels of the earth. Under the cornfield.
I spot them out of the corner of my eye when they emerge from the woods.
Mike Jr. and little Molly.
I run to them, grab hold of them, press them tightly against me.
“Sam!” I shout, through the tears. “I’ve got them!”
I hear him running up on us from behind.
“Thank God,” he says. “Thank God they’re all right.”
I’m filled with an explosive mix of emotions. Love and relief are suddenly replaced with rage. I stand tall, take a step back.
“What on earth compelled you two to disobey me? What possibly could have gone through those little brains of yours?” I ask them gruffly.
Molly’s eyes fill up. Her thick, blonde hair is tied up in pigtails. Her dress has ketchup stains on it. Her cheeks are blushing red, and a single tear falls from her blue eye. The tear is enough to break my heart.
Mike’s eyes are filled too. But if I know him like I think I do, he would never dare cry in front of Molly. Like tough-guy-father, like tough-guy son. His dad might be gone, but the apple doesn’t fall very far from the tree.
Sam, clears his throat, runs his hand over his shaved scalp, says, “Maybe it’s a good idea to get them back to the house before we start asking questions, Bec.”
I have to admit, if he were anyone else offering up advice about my kids, I might belt him in the stomach . . . or worse. But somehow, hearing the words from Sam’s mouth makes me feel good. Makes me feel that he is genuinely concerned about the little rug-rats and their adventure outside the house. Plus, he’s absolutely right. Let’s get them back to the house, get some water in them, check for deer ticks, and only then can I get to the bottom of why, for the first time in their lives, they so openly disobeyed me. Why they put their little lives at risk inside the deep dark woods.
Because of the unusually warm winter, the deer ticks are a real problem this year which means Robyn and I perform a full-body, clothes-off-naked search on both kids in the bathroom off the kitchen. When we’re satisfied both of them are tick free, we get them redressed and make them sit down at the kitchen table while Sam pours us all glasses of fresh lemonade.
“Okay,” I say, shooting Robyn a look, “who wants to go first?”
Sam also puts out some chocolate chip cookies that we made from scratch the night before. Molly goes for one, but Robyn puts her hand out, blocks the attempt.
“Un uh, Mol,” she says. “Not until you tell us why you went into that cornfield when you understand full well the farmhouse rules.”
Molly slowly retreats her hand. She gazes at Mike like she’s looking for his guidance or approval. Or both. It tells me their little walk can be chalked up to a team effort. It also tells me they’ve got one another’s back.
“Okay,” I say, “I’ll help you out. Michael Junior, what’s the rule about staying put in the backyard?”
He sips some lemonade, not like he’s thirsty, but like it helps him think of the right words. Or, at the very least, delay what I assume will be an artfully crafted response.
“Ummm, stay in the backyard,” he says. “Or get burned.”
“Burned by whom?”
“Big Mama,” he says, not without a grin. Nice. He’s having fun and learning something at the same time.
“Very good,” I say. “Little Mol, what’s the rule?”
“Mikey just told you,” she giggles.
“Molly Rebecca,” Robyn scolds, using the child’s middle name which is always cause for alarm. “Be respectful, young lady.”
A flush of red passes through Molly’s smooth round cheeks.
“What Mikey said, Rebecca,” she says.
Now I shoot a glance at Sam, who’s sitting at the head of the table, and starting on his second cookie. He issues me a sly little grin like he approves of my parenting abilities.
“Way to go Under Hill,” he says with his eyes.
“Thanks so much, Good Man,” I say with mine.
I go on, “So then, Boo, if you know you’re not supposed to leave the yard, why did you do it?”
&
nbsp; He puts the lemonade down, looks me in the eye. “It’s not like you think, Mom. I didn’t want us to get in trouble. I just wanted to introduce Molly to Dad. That’s all.”
The cramping immediately returns to my stomach.
“Your dad?” Robyn speaks up. She sits back in her chair, crosses her arms over her chest. “Mikey, your dad passed away before you were born, honey.”
“I know he did,” he says. “But I see him. I talk to him. Sometimes more than once a day.”
Sam straightens up, swallows the last of his cookie. “And he meets you out by the cornfield?”
“Behind the barn,” Mike adds.
Sam and I lock eyes again. This time the eyes say, “Dealing with kids who see ghosts is above my pay grade.”
“So, Mike,” I say, “did you see your dad this afternoon?”
“Mikey saw him,” Molly says. “I didn’t. But I saw somebody else.”
“Who?” I ask.
“The creepy Boogeyman.”
“Molly,” Robyn says, her eyes wide, forehead scrunched. “There’s no such thing.”
“Molly’s right,” Mike says. “She’s talking about Mr. Skinner.”
“We’re back to Skinner again,” I say.
“He lives in the corn,” my son adds.
“I’m afraid of him,” Molly says. “He made us go into the corn. And then into the woods. He wanted us to find a house in the woods. He said our moms would be there waiting for us.”
The images flash through my brain like painful electrical pulses. The bald-headed Joseph Whalen pulling me down the wood stairs into the cellar, my body pounding against the treads. His nasal voice singing, “cry, cry, cry, you little kittens” the entire time. Lying on my back on the cold, dirt floor, going in and out of consciousness, focusing my eyes on my twin sister, Molly, while Whalen kneels over her, touches her, her words coming to me softly, but loud at the same. “Don’t resist him, Rebecca. Don’t fight it.”
I feel the wood floor shifting out from under my feet. I take a step backward, but the action is entirely involuntary.
Robyn stands up fast. Mike does the same.
“Bec,” Robyn says. “What’s happening here?”
“I don’t know,” I say, sliding out a chair, sitting myself down, feeling the dizziness . . . nausea . . . invade my stomach. “No one knows about that house in the woods but you and me.”
“What house in the woods, Rebecca?” Sam asks. “What happened in those woods behind the corn?”
The dizziness and the cramps grow worse. Pushing out my chair, I run to the bathroom, slam the door closed behind me. Falling to my knees over the toilet, I heave up a sickening hot soup of vile memories.
Maybe I should just tell Robyn to pack her things. Her’s and Molly’s. Maybe I should do the same. Pack Mike’s stuff, pack what we need from the house, get the hell out. Leave what we don’t need behind. But Joseph William Whalen is dead. It is the one constant in this situation that I know for certain to be true. Also, I’m still dealing with the overactive imaginations of children. Of course, my own imagination can be just as overactive. Take it from someone who still talks to her dead ex-husband and dead twin sister. Best to take a breath and try to figure this out rationally.
Robyn escorts the kids out to the art barn to work on some art projects. Although she doesn’t say anything about it, I know Robyn well enough at this point to know what she’s really doing is trying to divert their attention away from the Boogeyman. Away from all the ghosts that occupy the cornfield.
I sit at the kitchen table with Sam, my stomach feeling somewhat better now that I got rid of my lunch.
“There’s still a lot you don’t know about me, Sam,” I say, staring into a cup of hot tea. “About my past. About my twin sister’s past.”
“Try me,” he says, the afternoon sun shining through the kitchen window on his rich ebony skinned face. “I’m a good listener. I want to know everything, Bec. I care about you. I want to be in your life. I want to help.”
So many wants from a man who doesn’t understand the entire picture of Rebecca Underhill. Running my hands through my hair, I exhale, my eyes glued to the tea and the steam rising from it.
“All right,” I say, looking up into his sweet dark eyes. “I’ll tell you everything. But something tells me you’re going to need something a lot stronger than lemonade.”
***
Half an hour later, I’ve just gotten through telling Sam all about what amounts to a thirty-year ordeal. I start with the first time Joseph William Whalen kidnapped my sister and me when he caught us playing inside the abandoned house in the back woods near Mount Desolation, and finish with the second time Whalen kidnapped me after his having been paroled just eight years ago. How the entire ordeal killed my ex-husband, Michael, along with my art student and friend, Francis Scaramuzzi, and nearly killed me.
He sits back, pours himself a shot of whiskey. His third since I started telling him the story.
“Whalen’s dead,” he says. “We know that to be true.”
“That’s a start. But it’s hard enough to believe that someone, or something, could be living in the corn, but now I have to swallow the fact that whatever the hell he or it is knows all about that horrible house in the woods.”
“You know what I think, Bec?” Sam says, standing. “I think it’s possible that Mike is still relying on his imagination.”
“You don’t make up something like that house. It’s there, believe me. It’s real.”
“I’m not dismissing that. What I’m saying is this: perhaps he somehow overheard you and Robyn discussing it.”
“We don’t talk about it.”
“Never?”
I lean my head over my shoulder, bite down on my bottom lip. “Maybe not ever.”
“Okay, so then it is possible, in theory at least, that some kind of reality is fueling Mikey’s imagination.” It’s a question.
Reaching across the table with both hands, I grab hold of the whiskey bottle and his glass. I pour a shot. A double. Down it in one swift pull.
Sam can’t help but smile. “Remind me not to engage in any drinking games with you.”
The whiskey immediately calms me down. It also has a welcome settling effect on my stomach.
“Sam,” I begin. “For the first time in a long time, I’m not sure what to do. Part of me wants to pack the kids up, move them back to the city. Another part of me wants to chalk this whole thing up to one big ridiculous childhood imagination game.” I go to the counter by the sink, find Robyn’s cigarettes, pull one out of the pack. Light it. “Am I being paranoid?”
Sam comes to me, places his big hands gently on my arms. When he’s close like this, I can smell his scent. It’s a combination of musk and his own natural perspiration that is entirely intoxicating. I despise myself for ever having snapped at him.
“You’ve been through a lot, babe,” he says. “Anybody who’s gone through what you just told me has every right to be paranoid.” He kisses my cheek, steps back. “Tell you what,” he adds, looking at his watch. “There’re still a couple hours left of daylight. I’m going to take another walk in the corn and in the woods, just to see what I can see. My guess is there will be nothing but corn stalks and trees and birds and insects. But would that make you feel just a little more secure?”
I nod, smoke.
“Sure,” I say.
“Mind if I borrow your Jeep?” he asks.
“Why?” I say. “I’ll drive you home later.”
He clears his throat, stuffs his hands into his jean pockets. “I’d like to go get my gun.”
I’m not sure why news of a gun would perk my pulse up, but it does. I never pegged Sam for a gun kind of guy. But then, we are living in the country, and my dad owned maybe a dozen guns, both short and long barreled. Even I know how to shoot, so I’m no stranger to firearms. I guess I just didn’t expect a city boy like Sam to be packing.
I dig my hand into my pocket, come back out with the
keyring, toss it to him.
He turns for the screen door, opens it.
“Sam,” I call to him.
He looks at me over his shoulder. “What is it?”
“Promise me something.”
“Anything.”
“If you see the Boogeyman,” I say, “shoot him dead.”
Sam leaves, the door slapping the old wood frame behind him.
The tunnels are dark and damp. Ground water seeps in through the packed dirt and old concrete, and the drip, drip, drip is as constant as the beating of The Skinner’s heart. As constant as the urge he feels to dig his teeth into Rebecca’s skin.
The big black one who wishes to fuck his little kitten will soon enter into the corn to track him down. But before that, The Skinner will leave his hole in the ground and find a way to touch his kitten. It will take only moments to accomplish, but the sensation he will derive from the touching will last him hours and hours.
He about-faces, walks swiftly through the wet, cave-like tunnel and back into his basement home. There, on the far wall, behind the steel vats of formaldehyde, methanol, glutaraldehyde, phenol, cell conditioner, and humectant moisturizers, is a rack of faces. He chooses one like he’s choosing a hat off a hat rack. He slips the face on, presses the creases around the eyes, nostrils, and mouth tight and smooth. Then, like a rat, slithers back through the tunnel to an opening bathed in daylight.
A sudden wave of exhaustion washes over me. Something that happens to me as of late when I’m overly stressed or when my stomach is giving me fits. It’s as if some invisible being were wrapped around my shoulders, and I’m made to bear his or her entire weight.
All I can think about is clearing my brain, getting myself to the couch, and stealing a quick five-minute nap while I have a moment to myself . . . while the kids are safely occupied with Robyn out in the barn. I’m heading in that direction when the doorbell rings. A start in my heart. Pulse perks up. Mouth goes slightly dry. The doorbell is not something we hear all that often out here in the country. On occasion, an art student might come to the front door having ignored the sign out front that tells them explicitly to go directly around back to the barn. Or maybe a pizza or Fed Ex delivery. But these aren’t the burbs, and it’s always quiet. Maybe too quiet.
The Ashes (The Rebecca Underhill Trilogy Book 2) Page 5
