House of Skin

by Jonathan Janz

  “He dead?” Barlow asked.

  The guy who was kneeling over the Goat Man shook his head, said, “He’s alright.”

  Barlow looked at the little guy lying face down in a puddle of blood and beer. “Sayler start this?” he asked the bartender.

  “All three of them did,” the bartender answered, though he was looking at Paul with something like fear. “Jimmy here threw the first punch.” Nodding at the Goat Man.

  Paul heard someone crying and from the sound of it he thought it was some old woman who’d been struck by a piece of glass. Looking down he saw it was Snowburger, doubled-up, too ashamed to make eye contact with anyone.

  “What’d you see, John?” the sheriff was asking one of the men who’d been at the next booth over, a guy in a red seed store cap.

  “Same thing he saw,” John said, nodding at the bartender. “These two were just sitting here when Kenny Sayler and the Snowburgers attacked them.”

  Barlow looked at the middle-aged couple standing behind Julia. The man and the woman both nodded, though they kept a safe distance.

  The sheriff sighed, removed his hat and passed a weary hand through his hair. A deputy had moved up next to Barlow. Looking at Paul, the deputy said, “Everyone’s saying the same thing. That these two,” nodding at Paul and Julia, “didn’t do anything until these dumbasses started it.”

  “Alright, Doug,” Barlow said. The sheriff surveyed the scene disgustedly, put his hat back on. “Cuff these idiots and get them into the cruiser.”

  Barlow glared at Paul.

  “Go home,” he said.

  As soon as they pulled out of Redman’s parking lot, she was on him. With one hand she grasped his penis, with the other, the back of his neck. She licked his throat, his ear. Feverishly, Julia pushed up his shirt and bit the skin below. Straining to focus on the road he slid his free hand under the top of her shorts. His fingers moved along the crack of her ass, then delved lower. He rubbed her as she undid his shorts, then her own. He gasped as she took him into her mouth.

  Paul stomped on the gas, sped down Gordon Road.

  She pushed off her shorts, her underwear, but his angle was all wrong, and he couldn’t touch her the way he wanted. Frustrated at the Civic, he veered onto the lane to Watermere and skidded sideways. Throwing it into park even before the skid was done, he grabbed her and tried to kiss her. But she pushed away, threw open her door and climbed out. Paul watched her beautiful, perfect ass flex in the moonlight. Then he followed.

  Backpedaling, she pulled her top over her head, let fall her brassiere. Paul tossed his own shirt into the underbrush and pushed his boxer briefs and shorts the rest of the way off. She grinned at him, eyes glimmering, as she backed into the forest.

  She turned to run, but he was already on her heels. He allowed her a small lead, relishing the way her tawny skin reflected the pale light filtering down through the overhanging boughs. Sweat poured from her as her strong legs pumped. She curled around a stand of evergreens and went off the path. Paul raced after her, his erection growing. Ahead, near the brook, he spotted the glowing bower of bluegrass beside the little path. That was where he’d take her, he decided.

  She threw an exhilarated glance over her shoulder, tried to elude him. But with a cry he bounded forward, fell on her. They landed in the grass. She pushed up to one knee, but he toppled forward onto her, pinned her on her stomach in the bluegrass. Shoving into her immediately, he squeezed her breasts, kneading them savagely, and pumped his hips into her. She spread her legs wider and moaned into her forearm. Soon Paul was moaning too.

  When it ended he sat back on the grass, the brook trickling a few feet behind him. Closing his eyes, he let the sound of it soothe his painfully throbbing penis.

  He gasped as daggers jabbed his inner legs. He looked up just as she landed on him. She slipped him inside her, cried out as she pumped her hips. Fiery pain bloomed as she dug sharp nails across his chest. He raised his head to see her face, but the darkness shadowed it. He imagined it was Annabel riding him, and as the shadows shifted she seemed to sense his thought. She pumped her hips in a frenzy, leaned back. He stared at her full, beautiful breasts in the moonglow as they moved to the rhythm of her hips, and she screamed, teeth bared.

  She slumped on him, breathed into his shoulder. He told her he loved her, but she only laughed.

  Chapter Twenty

  The sheriff was waiting at the house.

  They strode through the lawn, Julia making no effort to cover herself as they emerged from the darkness. Barlow studied the ground in front of him, said he’d wait for them to get some clothes on.

  When they got to the master suite, Barlow waiting for them in the ballroom below, Julia said she had nothing to wear. Paul glanced about the room, as if women’s clothes would be draped over the furniture.

  “I’m sure Annabel had something you can wear,” Paul said.

  They both stopped. Paul felt his chest constrict. It was the first time he’d said her name aloud.

  “I think Myles got rid of all her stuff,” she said.

  “All except that painting,” he said.

  “I can’t wear that, can I?”

  Paul rummaged through the bureau, came out with a tee shirt and a pair of jeans. “These do?”

  She put them on.

  When they came back down Barlow was sitting at the bar nursing a drink.

  Paul sat down on one of the red velvet couches. Julia sat beside him.

  Without turning Barlow said, “You two need to stop this.”

  Paul laughed once, harshly.

  “I mean it.”

  “What’s wrong, Sheriff Barlow?” Julia said. Her eyes were coy as she stared at him, played with Paul’s hair.

  Barlow faced them. “What’s gotten into you?”

  She rested a hand on Paul’s crotch.

  “Jesus,” Barlow said and turned away.

  “Are we in some kind of trouble?” Paul asked.

  The sheriff sipped his dark amber glass. “More than you know.”

  “You heard the witnesses,” Paul said. “Those three morons started the trouble, not us.”

  “This isn’t about that,” Barlow said.

  “Then what is it about?” Julia asked.

  “When’s the last time you saw Daryl Applegate?” Barlow asked her.

  “Your deputy? The time you two were at my house.”

  Barlow watched Julia a long moment, then said to Paul. “You and I need to talk. Alone.”

  Julia stood. “That’s fine. I have something I need to take care of anyway.”

  Paul followed her, but she stopped him with a hand on his chest.

  “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  “You don’t have to go,” Paul said.

  She kissed him, long and deep. Winking at the sheriff she said, “Have fun, Sam.”

  Barlow watched after her, said to Paul, “What’s gotten into her?”

  “I don’t know, but she’s taking my car.” They listened to the Civic pull away.

  Barlow went back to the bar, sat on his stool.

  Paul moved around the edge and stood before the long mirror. Pouring himself a whiskey and ice, he asked, “What was that business with your deputy?”

  “You ever meet him?” Barlow asked.

  “Applejack?”

  “Applegate. And you might not want to joke about him. He’s been missing for a month.” Barlow sipped his drink. “Haven’t you heard?”

  Paul stirred his own drink. “I don’t really hear much out here. I like it that way.”

  “What about Emily Henderson?” Barlow asked.

  “What about her?”

  “Have you heard from her?”

  Paul paused, staring at the ice cubes bobbing in the amber liquid.

  “No,” he said, “I haven’t.”

  “You’re lying.”

  Paul returned the sheriff’s gaze. “How’s that?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Why do you t
hink I’m lying?”

  “Because it’s the first time you have. Up until now you’ve told me the truth. I can tell when I’ve been lied to.”

  Paul set his glass on the bar, eyes narrowing. “Why are you asking me about Emily?”

  “Because,” the sheriff said, “she’s disappeared too.”

  It stopped him.

  “Disappeared,” he repeated.

  “Her parents think she might’ve come to see you. She’d been talking about you a lot lately. They think she might have tried to reconnect.”

  Paul frowned, pretended to think. “Well I haven’t seen her. I’m worried about her, though. It’s not like her to run off and not tell where she’s going.”

  Barlow nodded. “That’s what her father said. He said she only acted like that where you were concerned. That’s why he contacted me.”

  “I told you I haven’t seen her.”

  “Yeah, you told me that.”

  “You don’t believe me.”

  “No. I don’t.”

  “Then I’d like you to leave.”

  Barlow grinned. “I’m not going to.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” Paul edged around the bar. “You need a warrant to come in here.”

  “You invited me in.”

  “And now I’m inviting you out.”

  “It doesn’t work like that.”

  “You son of a bitch.” Paul crowded Barlow where he sat.

  Barlow downed the rest of his drink, said, “Because I don’t think you’re all bad, I’m going to forgive that.” The sheriff stood, his girth dwarfing Paul’s. “But that’s the only one you’ll get.”

  Barlow moved close, inches from Paul’s face. “I’m going to tell you something, and then I’m going home to get some sleep. We’ve had three disappearances in four months.”

  “I told you Emily was never here.”

  “I know you told me that, and you know I don’t believe a word of it. People have a way of coming here and not being seen again.”

  Paul opened his mouth but Barlow overrode him. “I don’t know if you’re the cause or not, but I’m going to put a stop to it one way or another.” The sheriff turned, made for the hallway, but stopped before he got there. “And one more thing. I don’t like you and Julia together. It’s bad for both of you. The girl I know wouldn’t act the way she’s acting without someone else’s influence. I’ve seen what a bad man can do to a good woman and you’re not going to do it again.”

  “What the hell,” Paul said. “You think I’m gonna kill her or something?”

  “What I’m talkin’ about is worse than death.”

  Paul laughed. “Jesus you’ve got a vivid imagination.”

  Barlow’s teeth showed. “That’s not what I’m talkin’ about.”

  “I have no idea wh—”

  “Damnation,” Barlow said, “is where you two are headed, and that’s a whole lot worse than dying.”

  The sheriff turned to leave.

  “You know, she’s not her mother,” Paul said to Barlow’s back.

  The sheriff stopped. “How’s that?”

  “She’s Julia, not Barbara Merrow. Just because a girl broke your heart and a relative of mine happened to be involved doesn’t mean I have to take the blame.”

  Barlow’s voice was hollow. “How did you know about that? Who told you those things?”

  Paul laughed, loving the ashen hue of Barlow’s face. “What’s it matter, Sam? That’s all this is really about, right? Your inability to let go of the past.”

  Quicker than Paul would have thought possible Barlow crossed the room and seized him by the collar.

  He glanced at Barlow’s hands. “I don’t think you’re supposed to do that.”

  Barlow’s voice went thin. “Tell me how you know all this.”

  Paul was about to tell him about the graveyard, about the two manuscripts, everything, when they heard Julia come through the front door carrying a black athletic bag.

  “Did I interrupt something?” she asked. Without waiting for an answer, she disappeared up the stairs.

  Barlow watched her go, then returned his stony gaze to Paul.

  “Your time’s almost up. I find anything to tie you to Brand, Applegate, your ex-girlfriend, you’re done.”

  “Thank you, Sheriff,” he said.

  The door slammed shut. A moment later, the cruiser rumbled and drove away.

  Paul went to the bar and got his drink. Then, he went upstairs to search for Julia. She wasn’t in the library. Nor was she in the master suite. Then he saw the shut door of the master bath, the tiny sliver of light shining beneath the door.

  Sipping his drink, he waited for her. To pass the time he counted the seconds as they ticked off the grandfather clock in the hallway. He was glad he’d wound it. It enhanced the ambience of the old house.

  When the clock struck three in the morning he realized he’d been asleep. He heard the latch click on the bathroom door.

  Julia stepped into the room.

  Paul sat straight up in bed, his drink spilling.

  “How do you like it?” Julia said.

  Paul tried to answer but could not. The light blue dress—the same dress Annabel wore in the painting—was too tight for Julia, but he knew the sight of her cleavage bulging over the top of it should have turned him on. It would have, too, if not for the smell that still attended the dress. And though he knew the fragrance couldn’t be familiar, it was just the same: Annabel’s perfume.

  The dress slithering over her skin, Julia stepped toward him with a voracious look in her green eyes. “Now rip it off me,” she said.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  July, 1996

  Myles slid out the drawer and bent to see inside. Newspaper clippings and faded photographs. The moonlight was too dim to see them by, but he dare not risk turning on the light. Annabel was beyond hurting him in her weakened state, but he’d still rather her not know of his snooping.

  He watched her motionless form on the bed. Her body was bent and sunken with the disease, her limbs little more than flesh-covered sticks. How she’d lived so long he’d never know. She hadn’t been out of bed without a wheelchair in over a year.

  Yet she still frightened him.

  Myles gathered what he’d found and stole out of the room.

  Inside the office he shut the door and listened. Satisfied he’d not been discovered, he flipped on the desk lamp and studied what he’d taken.

  The pictures were all of Annabel. Seldom was anyone else featured. He or David popped up here and there, as did other men she’d bedded, but most of them were Annabel by herself. She stared at the camera, through time, straight at him.

  Something rustled.

  He whirled, standing, and stared at the closed door. Was Annabel on the other side watching him through the keyhole?

  His heart pounding, Myles reached out, twisted the knob.

  Darkness.

  Peering left and right down the shadow-filled corridor he could see nothing save empty space. He shut the door and cursed himself for being so skittish. Seventy years old and acting like a frightened child.

  A stack of papers, clipped together and brown with age, drew his attention. He riffled through them and saw they were the obituaries of the dead children, the children his brother had murdered. Murdered for Annabel.

  Under the child obits were others—Maria Ustane, Jane Trask, Barbara Merrow, others he’d forgotten. He set the clippings aside and studied the pictures. They went back to Annabel’s teenage years, apparently. In them she gazed at the camera, that strange knowing look in her eyes.

  The rustling came again.

  As he turned it got louder, and instead of reminding him of autumn leaves scraping together in a pile, this time he thought of thick little claws clicking on plaster, black rodents teeming inside the walls, pink tails trailing heavily behind them.

  What the hell?

  One didn’t go from a pest-free house to complete infestation over th
e course of a few minutes. But that was exactly how it sounded, the walls around him alive with black wiry hair and sharp fangs.

  Repulsed, Myles started to leave. He was out the door before he remembered he’d forgotten the desk light. As he reached out to extinguish the lamp, the chorus of rats grew louder, their noxious symphony swelling.

  Then, something caught his eye.

  Another, thinner stack of clippings sat untouched on the desk. More obituaries. These names, though, were unfamiliar to him. What was more, the dates on them were over a century old. Why on earth had she collected these, and why throw them in with things relating to her?

  Then he saw it.

  A picture of Annabel in the newspaper. Atop a large yacht, she stood next to a man, her slender body leaning out over the water, his large hands supporting her. The caption read Robert and Annabel Wilson at the Wintergem Yacht Club. In the upper corner of the clipping, the date:

  May Fifteenth, 1889.

  Myles turned.

  Annabel stood in the doorway.

  He cried out, attempted to hide the clipping.

  She smiled.

  Myles struggled to control his breathing, to play off being caught, but her smile burned into him.

  He forced himself to return her gaze. “What are you doing out of bed?”

  She watched him.

  He fought the urge to bolt past her into the hall, down the stairs and out the door.

  He said, “You should be in bed.”

  “I’m in bed all day. I want to spend the night with my husband.”

  Myles stared at the scarlet moons under her eyes where the flesh was paper thin, felt his skin prickle.

  He cleared his throat. “I’ll take you back to your bed.”

  He led her into the hall, forcing himself to touch her back. The ribs there stuck out like kite frames, her vertebrae so pronounced they raised her yellowed nightdress like children’s blocks beneath a blanket.

  He got her into bed and was about to leave when she said, “Stay with me, Myles.”

  He opened his mouth to protest.