by Rick Hautala
This is how it will end!
This is how it will all end!
Chapter Four
Scritch—scritch—scre-e-e-ch
Moonlight cast a silvery-blue glow on the windowsill and bedroom floor. Unable to sleep, Brian Fraser lay in bed. His throat was as dry as sand, his breath panting high and quick. The ghostly green illuminated numerals of the alarm clock on the bed stand told him that it was nearly eleven o’clock, but sleep wouldn’t come. His gaze was transfixed by the thin branch that was tapping on the windowpane with every fitful gust of wind.
Scritch—scritch—scre-e-e-ch.
The sound reminded Brian of fingernails raking down a chalkboard, but it also gave him other, more unsettling thoughts. He imagined long, thin hands reaching up out of the darkness outside, prying at the window edge, puffing away cracked putty and jagged chunks of wood. Clutching his blankets close to his chin, Brian barely dared blink his eyes as he watched the gray shadows jiggle and dance across the glass. He tried not to think about how, out of sight on the floor, those bony shadows might be stretching out, rippling over the old floorboards and throw rug, reaching up toward him from the foot of the bed.
Scritch—scritch—scree-e-e-ch.
He tried to fill his mind with brave and reassuring thoughts. This was, after all, his grandmother’s house, the house in which his father had been born and raised. He was in the same bedroom that had been his father’s until he grew up and went off to college. This was the very same bed—even the same bedspread—his father had used when he was Brian’s age.
So why was he so afraid? Why was he letting himself get so scared? Surely a windblown branch tapping against the window shouldn’t be enough to frighten him. Good Lord! He was eleven years old, going on twelve in November. He was being a total wuss to let himself get worked up like this! Scritch—scritch—scre-e-e-ch.
But it wasn’t just the wind and the branches; it was the house and the person who lived in it that was making him feel so nervous. A subtle tension had filled him since the moment he had arrived on Thursday afternoon. Brian knew Grammy Evelyn was trying her best to make him feel comfortable, but something about her—he hated even to think it—but something bothered him. Maybe it was the way she moved so slowly about the house, or how she spoke so seldom; and even when she did speak, it was always with a leathery, whispering voice, so low Brian could barely make out what she said. And the way she looked—so thin and weak; it was frightening.
But whatever it was, there was something definitely creepy about her or her old house … maybe both. And whatever that something was, Brian didn’t dare think about it. He couldn’t stop the flood of scary images—especially at night.
He had to remind himself—continually—that his grandmother was an old woman, almost eighty years old. Didn’t people usually die before that? Soon after his father and mother had gotten divorced, back when he was four years old, his mother had moved with him to Arizona. Other than one or two weeks a year, he had never spent much time with his father, much less his grandmother. He couldn’t expect her to know or understand him any better than he could know and understand her.
But she scared the living crap out of him! He knew that much.
The only glimmer of hope in this entire situation was that he was only here for the weekend while his father and his new wife, Dianne, were off to New Hampshire for their honeymoon. They’d be back on Monday, so from then on, for the rest of the summer, he’d be staying at his father’s house. He wasn’t completely sold on the idea of spending the whole summer in Maine, away from all his friends in Arizona, but this weekend was the worse.
Of course, relating to Dianne, his new stepmother, was a whole ’nother story. He hardly knew his father, so he had no idea what to make of his new stepmother. It wasn’t like she was ugly or mean to him. If anything, she seemed to be trying too hard to get to know him, almost as if she was just as nervous about having him around as he was to be around. As soon as he had arrived in Maine, she started in, asking if he wanted anything or if she could do anything for him. It reminded him of the way his mother had gone overboard, spoiling him after he’d had his tonsils out three years ago, and it made him apprehensive about the coming summer.
But for right now.
Scritch—scritch—scre-e-e-ch.
… Right now, he just wanted to forget all about his aging grandmother, this creaky old house, the branch scratching against his window, and the faint whisperings in the dark which he knew had to be his grandmother, muttering to herself in her bedroom. He was nervous without his father here, and all he wanted to do now was sleep and forget—at least for a while—all about how nervous this house made him feel. But still, there was.
Scritch—scritch—scre-e-e-ch.
The telephone rang with a sudden, loud jangle that split the night.
Brian was instantly ripped out of his thin sleep. Sweat broke out on his forehead as he raised himself onto his elbows and listened while staring blankly into the surrounding darkness.
After the second ring, he was fully awake and sitting up on the edge of the bed. His wide eyes were focused on the clock beside his bed. It was almost one o’clock. Calls this late could mean only one thing.
Trouble!
His gaze shifted over to the window where darkness stained the glass like a thin wash of ink.
“Who’d be calling at this hour?” he whispered.
A numbing ripple of cold radiating from his stomach ran down his arms and legs.
Please let it be a wrong number! But what if something’s happened to Dad?
He struggled to push aside the thought and the tears it brought.
What if they were driving late at night, and he … and he—he …
Brian couldn’t finish the thought. He shifted uneasily, resisting the impulse to bolt out of bed and start running or screaming or doing something to release the tension inside him. He waited to hear the sound of his grandmother’s voice as she answered the phone, but the phone rang a third time, seeming longer and louder.
Why doesn’t she answer it? What if she can’t hear it? … Or what if she’s—
Again, he wouldn’t let himself complete the thought.
His ears tingled as he waited … waited for the phone to ring a fourth time. He wondered if he should get up and answer it himself, but he knew the only phone upstairs was in his grandmother’s room. What if he went in there? What if she was lying in bed, staring sightlessly up at the ceiling … stone-cold dead?
At last, on the fifth ring, the sound cut off mid-ring. Either his grandmother had answered it, or else whoever was calling had finally given up. He strained to hear, and then, through the walls that separated their bedrooms, he heard the sleepy buzz of his grandmother’s voice. The sound made him think of a fly, trapped between two windows. He let his breath out in a long, slow whistle and eased his head back onto his pillow. His ears prickled as he tried to make out what she was saying. At first he couldn’t, but then in a loud voice she said, “Oh, my Lord, no! … My word, no! That—that’s terrible!”
Brian’s stomach twisted with a cold, sour tightness. Tears filled his eyes, and his breath felt like a hard knot in his chest.
Oh, no! Something’s happened to Dad … something really bad!
“Are you sure that’s what you want to do?” his grandmother said. Her voice was softer now but still audible—a dull, vibrating presence in the dark. “Yes—if you’d like, I can wait until you get home.”
Get home! Brian thought. She said “get home” as if—Please, God/—as if she’s talking to … Dad!
“All right then. Certainly. I—I’ll see if he’s awake now. Yes, I’ll tell him right now. No, no, I can do it. But are you—are you sure you’re all right?”
Her voice dropped low again, too low for Brian to hear. The conversation in the other room ended shortly thereafter.
Brian considered faking sleep when he heard the creaking springs of his grandmother’s bed as she shifted out of bed. T
hen came the soft scuff-scuff of her slippers in the hall as she approached his closed door. Brian’s eyes were riveted to the window, where the slanting rays of moonlight still cast long, gnarled shadows across the glass. A corner of the moonlight now reached to the foot of his bed. A single, black shadow line cut across his bedspread like a jagged scar. A tightening sense of dread, of impending doom wound up inside him until he thought he was going to scream before his grandmother opened his door.
What if Dad’s been hurt or … or is … dead?
A light, rapid knocking sounded on his door. Licking his lips, he swung his feet back onto the bed, pulled the covers over him, and called out, “Uhh … yeah?”
“Brian …?”
His grandmother’s voice was like the soft touch of a feather in the dark as she opened the door a crack. A sliver of light from the hallway angled like a razor blade across the floor. Brian’s eyes darted to the window, where the thin, gray shadows still jiggled like bony hands against the window pane. The light from the hall made them fainter, but they were still there.
“Uhh, yeah—” His voice was tight with tension. “I’m—umm, awake.”
His grandmother entered the room and eased the door shut behind her, then came over to the bed and sat down on the edge. She fumbled in the dark to find his hand and give it a gentle squeeze. Her grip was dry and soft; her hand trembled with hardly any strength at all.
“I just got a—”
“I heard the phone ring,” Brian said in a voice at least an octave higher than normal. “Is—is everything okay?”
His grandmother took a trembling breath and, squeezing his hand harder, said, “No—everything isn’t okay. That was your father on the phone. Dianne’s been in an accident … a terrible accident—”
Her voice caught in her throat with a loud click, and for a moment she couldn’t continue as she took a deep, wheezing breath. Brian saw her other hand—nothing more than a gray blur in the darkness—move up to her chest, grasping at the collar of her bathrobe.
“But my dad—! Is my dad okay?” Brian said, more demand than question.
“Yes, yes. He’s fine, and—and he says that, although Dianne’s injuries are quite serious, the doctors are extremely optimistic that she’ll be just fine. She—she fell off a cliff and, from what he told me, has a quite serious head injury, but there’s—there’s every reason to—”
Again, her voice cut off. It sounded almost as if someone had wrapped their hands tightly around her throat and started squeezing. Brian waited expectantly, caught between the immense relief of knowing that his father wasn’t dead and an enclosing sensation that—still—something was seriously wrong.
“We’ll have to … to wait and see how she is, but there’s something else I … I want to tell you.” His grandmother spoke haltingly, with increasing effort. Her breathing shuddered in broken snatches. Brian could hear the short, high grasps she made as she tried to catch her breath.
“Grammy, are you—?”
“There’s something—I—I have to tell you … well, actually, I was going to tell Dianne, now that she and your father are married. But there’s something she should know, and I—I …”
Strong, hot currents of fear swelled inside Brian as he listened to his grandmother’s halting voice.
What’s wrong with her? he thought. She’s acting like she’s really sick or crazy or something!
“You know, over the years I’ve tried. Honestly, I’ve tried to do it myself, but—but the past few years have been so—have been so difficult for me. I didn’t get out there as often as I should have. I know that, and I feel … feel really bad about it … responsible.”
“No, Grammy, I—I don’t understand. What are you—” Brian couldn’t even finish his question as the black fear twisting inside him rose steadily higher. She’s crazy! She’s freaking out about that phone call, and she’s losing her mind!
“I just figured that Dianne would eventually take over for me,” his grandmother said. “She—because she’s a woman, she has a gentler touch, a kinder understanding, and I think she’s open to these kinds of things. I’d hoped to tell her. I thought that she would understand. She’s not in the direct bloodline, but now that she’s married to your father, I’d hoped that she would—would—”
A raw gasp made her double over. Her free hand pressed hard against her chest.
“Now if she—if Dianne’s been injured … If she might die—”
“But you told me the doctors said she was going to be all right,” Brian said. His hand was getting sweaty in her tightening grip, so he tried to pull it away.
“You can never tell for sure,” his grandmother went on, struggling to speak but clutching his hand all the harder. “You never know, but because I haven’t been out there for so long, I—I’ve—” She made a high, funny-sounding noise in the back of her throat.
“Out where—?” Brian asked, shaking his head. “What are you talking about?”
She finally let go of his hand. Inhaling deeply, she leaned forward and pressed both hands against her chest. Brian wanted to get out of bed and turn on the light as fast as he could, but his knee joints were locked. The dark room filled with the sounds of her labored breathing.
“Out … there,” she said, little more than a gasp as she twitched her head in the direction of the moonlit bedroom window. Brian didn’t dare look that way. He knew those branches that looked like skeleton hands were still out there.
Scritch—scritch—scre-e-e-ch.
“I know they’re getting … restless,” she said. “I can feel it, as if they’re gaining strength and they’re … they’re not satisfied … angry again.”
“Please, Grandma. Stop it … You’re scaring me!”
“I don’t mean to, dear. Honestly, I don’t.”
Again, for just a moment, her hand touched him in the dark. It felt as light as a butterfly settling on his hand.
“Bad things, bad things have happened out there, and I—and someone has to—has to know about them. You should—find out—and—”
Before she could say more, she grunted loudly and almost fell onto the floor as she doubled up with both arms crossed over her chest.
“Grandma! Please, tell me! What’s the matter?” Brian felt like crying as he watched her rock back and forth as though in a great deal of pain. “Is there something I can do for you?” Choking back his fear, he wheeled out of bed, ran to the light switch, and slapped it on. The sudden blast of light stung his eyes like salt water, but he barely noticed the pain as he ran back to the bed where his grandmother—a seventy-nine-year-old woman he hardly even knew—was hunched over in pain. Her thin gray hair hung in a loose tangle over her eyes as she looked up at him and gasped, “It’s my—my heart.”
“Can I—”
“There’s a little brown—a brown bottle on the nightstand—next to my bed. Bring it to me. Quick!”
Brian didn’t think his legs would support him as he ran down the hallway to her bedroom. He was nearly blind with panic, wondering what he should do—who he should call if she was really sick or if she died? He had no idea where his father was or what hospital he had called from.
“Nine-one-one—That’s it, I can always call Nine-one-one if I have to.”
He snatched the brown bottle off the bed stand and hurried back to his room where his grandmother was still doubled over, clutching her chest. In the glaring light, her skin looked papery thin and as gray as her hair. Her pale, veiny hands shook wildly as she reached for the bottle when he held it out to her.
“Is this the right one?”
She nodded. “This will—this is all I need,” she said as she fumbled to open the safety cap. Brian expected her to spill the entire contents onto the floor, but she shook one small, beige-colored pill into the cup of her hand. Still trembling wildly, she slipped the pill under her tongue.
“Should I call for an ambulance or something?” he asked, feeling a slight stirring of pride that his voice didn’t break
as much as he thought it might.
His grandmother looked at him, her eyes glistening with repressed pain, but she shook her head. “No … no, just—just help me get back to my bed. Sleep is all I need right now. Just sleep.”
Cringing inwardly at her touch, Brian slipped one arm around her side and eased her onto her feet, shocked at how feathery light she felt—as if there was nothing more than fragile bones inside her bathrobe. Step by careful step, he guided her down the hallway back to her bedroom. Once there, he eased her onto her bed and pulled the covers up over her. Before she settled down, she made a single, strangled moan in the back of her throat; then, gradually, as the pill dissolved and started to take effect, her body relaxed. She slipped into light sleep, still muttering things that Brian couldn’t quite catch. Her breathing was reedy and high, but Brian assured himself that it was steady and deep enough before saying good night, turning off the light, and backing out of the room.
But he didn’t dare go back to his own room just yet. His heart was pounding fast and hard in his chest. His entire body was slick with sweat. The muscles in the back of his legs were trembling, threatening to fold up on him. After a trip to the bathroom, where he got a drink and splashed his face with cold water, he did a quick check to make sure the old woman was still breathing, then went back to his own room, turned out the light, and snuggled under his covers.
He tried his damndest to shut off his mind but wasn’t able to. He couldn’t ignore the questions that churned inside him like an angry sea.
Dad’s all right, but what’s happened to Dianne? How bad off is she really? Is she going to die?
And what the hell’s wrong with Grammy? How sick is she? Is she going to die tonight once I fall asleep?
Like steel to a magnet, his gaze slid back to the moonlit window.
