by Rick Hautala
But even now, as she sat on the back porch with the warm morning sunshine washing over her, she was unable to breathe in enough air. Her lungs felt like they were being compressed. Even in the bright light of day, she felt an undercurrent of panic building up inside her, just waiting to burst out.
By the time she had come downstairs, around nine o’clock that morning, Edward had already left for work.
She realized he must have gotten up early without disturbing her, fixed his own breakfast, cleaned up the kitchen, and left. There was a note on the kitchen table, letting her know that he planned to be home for lunch. He offered to make lunch for them if she wasn’t feeling quite up to it.
Some lunch, she thought bitterly, liquefied goop—morning, noon, and night!
And where was Brian?
She had no idea and couldn’t care less where Brian was. He might have gone off to help his father, or he might be upstairs, listening to music on headphones or still sound asleep in bed. She was so wound up with her own problems, she gave him zero consideration as she leaned back and looked up at the sky, wishing to God the warm sunshine would raise her spirits.
But it didn’t help!
Nothing seemed to help!
Already, she was tired of hearing herself try to talk through the restraint on her jaw, and she was longing for the taste and texture of real food in her mouth. The bandages squeezed against her face, puffing it inward with a prickly warmth, but—thankfully—they were coming off tomorrow. She wished to hell her face didn’t feel so numbed out, all puffy and … and just plain wrong. She had to fight the feeling that, during the operation, the doctors had peeled off her entire face and replaced it with someone else’s; that when the bandages were removed, she wouldn’t even recognize herself. That thought struck too close to the core of her worries—the idea that she was no longer the same person she had been before she had fallen off that cliff. And there was a deeper worry that she would never be that person again!
Maybe I should give that therapist a call, she thought as she sipped pureed scrambled eggs through a straw and swallowed noisily. There was almost no taste except for the metallic sting of blood clinging to the back of her throat. She forced herself to finish the drink and then quickly washed it down with a few sips of orange juice.
She had no definite plans for the day ahead. All she knew was, for at least the next week or two, she had no intentions of going shopping or of even leaving the house. Maybe she’d never leave the house again. That incident in the pharmacy parking lot on her way home from the hospital, like so many others over the past several weeks, was the last time she wanted to see or even to think that people were staring at her and wondering—What in the world ever happened to that woman’s face?
She finished her orange juice and, sucking in a deep breath, leaned back in her chair, letting the full strength of the sunlight hit her face. As soon as her skin underneath the bandages began to feel prickly from the heat, she took one of the lawn chairs and the book she was reading, and went out into the back yard under the shade of the trees. She settled down and tried to get involved with her reading, but her eyes hurt so badly she closed them, leaned back, and tried to fall asleep. The early morning chatter of birds and insects began to soothe her, but she didn’t stay relaxed for long. Behind her eyelids wove zigzags of light, bright reds and yellows that exploded like dandelion puffs and faded to black. After a while, through the twisting curtains of light, indistinct faces began to materialize, zooming straight at her from the center of darkness. With a quick intake of breath, she sat up in the chair and opened her eyes.
She heard rather than saw the motion off to her left. There was a hard pounding sound for only an instant, then the scratchy, rustling sound of shaken foliage. Grunting with surprise, Dianne sat up and looked. The brightness of the day stung her eyes, but she saw the branches of a large clump of bushes jiggle. She was no nature person, but she suspected that only a heavy body, not just a bird or squirrel, would account for that much motion.
“Oh, shit,” she whispered.
She stood up, not daring to take her eyes off the spot for an instant. The woods were a riot of greens and browns. The longer she stared at the spot, the more everything around her seemed to vibrate with light and shadow until it became a carousel of color. A strong wave of dizziness swept up inside her, blurring her vision. Her gaze kept drifting away from the spot where she had seen the movement, and she had to struggle to keep pulling it back.
“Who … who’s there?” She called out as loud as she could, but her voice sounded like a nervous whimper. Her fists clenched at her sides, and she took a few quick steps forward, thinking it was better to challenge than to retreat.
“I said, who’s there? Don’t try to hide on me! I saw you, so you might as well come out!”
The surrounding woods were hushed. Even the birds seemed to have stopped singing as Dianne took a few more steps closer. She peered into the woods, trying to see through the screen of foliage, and thought she could make out a dark shape, huddled on the ground behind the thick bush. It might be a person, but it very well could be only a shadow, too.
Dianne paused at the edge of the lawn, wondering what to do next.
That had to have been a person, but who in their right mind would be out here, spying on her like this? Probably it was a curious kid from town, come out to gawk at the “ugly woman.” But what if it wasn’t a kid? What if it was someone who might prove dangerous if trapped?
She wished she had something to use as a weapon, but she didn’t dare look away from the spot to find a branch or something she could use as she took her first, few tentative steps into the woods. Cool shadows wrapped their arms around her. Dried leaves and twigs crackled like a blazing fire underfoot. With every step, the shadow huddled underneath the bush resolved itself more clearly into human form. Dianne became absolutely convinced there was a person cowering there on the forest floor. She was just about to call out again when her foot caught on a hidden root. Crying out with surprise, she stumbled and had to look down to regain her footing. As soon as her head was turned, she heard another, louder rustling of leaves. Looking up quickly, she just caught sight of someone—a dark figure, crouching low as it dashed from the bush to a thick clump of trees deeper in the woods. She listened to the heavy sound of feet pounding the ground. The figure was gone before Dianne could even blink.
“Hey! Hold it right there!” she shouted, but the person—whoever it was—was masked behind the trees. She knew it would be futile to pursue, possibly dangerous; but anger and panic rose up within her as the thudding footsteps and thrashing of branches faded only to be replaced by the silent hush of the forest.
“I saw you, you know!” she shouted, horribly aware that her muffled voice wouldn’t carry far enough for the person to hear. Whoever it had been, he was long gone by now. Seething with frustration, Dianne turned and made her way out of the woods, casting worried glances over her shoulder with every other step.
She didn’t have to think too hard about who that might have been. She was sure word had spread all around town about her. She still stung when she thought about the intense horror she had seen on the face of that little boy in the LaVerdier’s parking lot. And her face still burned with embarrassment whenever she recalled that afternoon she had picked Brian up downtown and heard the exchange between those three boys he’d been talking to:
“—Jesus Christ! Did you see that? Holy shit! The Old Witch Lady’s back! Just like I told yah.”
No doubt she had become the talk of the town—the ugly, bandaged woman living out on Pond Road who had once been so pretty. No doubt this intruder had been some curious kid who thought he could sneak up on her and get a good view of her so he could brag to his friends that he had been out to the house, spying on the Old Witch Lady.
“Little bastards!” Dianne shouted, shaking her clenched fists one last time at the silent woods before going up the steps and into the house. She shut the door firmly behind her and
locked it for good measure.
When Edward came home for lunch that afternoon, she told him about the incident and asked him if there was anything they could do to keep anyone from coming around and bothering her. Edward didn’t offer much of a solution other than maybe to buy a dog that would bark if someone came around. He hugged her and told her simply not to worry, but that didn’t satisfy Dianne. All it meant to her was, if sitting in the back yard made her feel uncomfortable, it was just one more place she would have to avoid until her face was back to normal.
If it ever will be! she thought.
“Hey … You’re finally waking up.”
The voice came to Brian from far away, but it was something real, something almost tangible enough to hang onto, like a life raft.
“You know, I didn’t mean to hurt you there,” the voice continued in a low, soothing tone. “Honest. I’m sorry. I was just trying to surprise you a little.”
The voice was deep and masculine, but it teased and danced, flitting like a gentle breeze as it dragged Brian closer to consciousness. Rolling his head from side to side, he tried to peel open his eyelids, but a glaring white light stung his eyes, making him cry out in pain.
“Hey, hey—don’t rush things. Take a little time to let your eyes adjust.” There was a short snorting laugh. “That’s what I have to do all the time.”
Brian licked his lips and tried to say something, but the closer he came to consciousness, the stronger the cold, black fear growing inside him became. He tried to remember where he was and what had happened. When he reached out blindly with one hand and felt that he was lying on something cold and gritty and hard, something like a dirt floor, it all came back to him in a roaring rush—
The mill!
“The mill …” he gasped.
“Yeah, you’re in the mill, all right,” the voice said. It sounded deeper, almost threatening or defensive, but it also had a familiar ring to it … almost—but not quite—like his father’s voice.
“What am I—? How did—?”
Brian shook his head and shifted forward, feeling that the ground was firm but slightly yielding beneath his weight as he pushed himself up onto his elbows. Again, he tried to open his eyes, and this time, in spite of the harsh white glare that made everything blurry, he could make out a figure standing a few feet in front of him. Looking up from the ground, Brian thought the person looked incredibly huge as he stood there looking down at him with his hands on his hips. Like the voice, the silhouette looked vaguely familiar, like his father, but there was something … something different, too. Brian hiked himself up into a sitting position, rubbed his eyes, and shook his head harder, trying to clear away the last, few cobwebs clouding his mind.
“Welcome to my home, Brian,” the man said as he indicated the room with a wide sweep of his arm.
“How did—? … How do you know my name?”
Brian glanced down and saw that he was sitting on a worn-out mattress on the dirt floor. As he leaned forward, still trying to see what else was around him, a cloying, moldy smell wafted up into his nostrils, almost choking him. His fingertips brushed against the coarse texture of an old woolen blanket.
The light in the room was too bright, but second by second, his eyesight was adjusting. He could make out the crude wooden door on one wall. Against the wall right in front of him was a handmade table constructed out of two-by-fours and planks that had obviously been scavenged from upstairs. He guessed that’s what the door was made out of, too. There were piles of stuff on the table, but from this angle, Brian couldn’t make out what they were. He figured it must be the man’s food and clothes.
Hanging from a nail on one of the rafters was a Coleman lantern. It made a loud hissing noise as its core sent out a strong, white light that pushed back the shadows of the rafters, exposing every wood grain pattern and knot hole in sharp detail. The ceiling overhead was made of blackened timbers and charred planks. All in all, the room was maybe ten feet long and six feet wide. Brian guessed that he was in the small room at the back of the mill, probably directly beneath the part of the mill that had burned down.
“Who the … hell are you?” Brian said, looking again at the figure that stood in front Of him. With the light behind him, the man’s face was lost in shadow, but Brian could sense that he was smiling—maybe laughing at him.
“Who the hell am I?” the man said in a voice that quickly spiraled up the scale. “Who the hell am I? Why, for crying out loud, Brian, I’m your uncle … your Uncle Mike.”
“My—what?” Brian bolted forward, but the sudden motion sent a bolt of pain through his head.
“Oh, you probably don’t know a thing about me, do you?” the, man said, laughing in the back of his throat as he shook his head from side to side. “Oh, no, no, no, probably not. Eddie—your father—he’s my brother. He probably never even mentioned me to you, did he? But I sure as heck know who you are. Oh, yes indeed I do, I know plenty of things about you.”
“Is that a fact?” Brian said, forcing strength into his voice. He shifted forward, wondering if he was strong enough to fight or run if he had to. Deep inside his brain, a warning bell was sounding. He was still disoriented from passing out, and had no idea what was really going on here, but one thing was certain: this man, whether or not he was who he claimed to be, was without a doubt dangerously crazy!
“Oh, absolutely,” the man said. “I know a lot about you ’cause I’ve been watching you.”
He chortled and took one step to the side, letting the lantern light fall across his face. Brian couldn’t help but gasp with surprise. His doubts vanished in an instant, but not his fears. The man was wearing faded jeans that had a hole in one knee and a worn-out flannel shirt over a green T-shirt. His face, hands, clothes, and sneakers were smeared with dirt and twigs, but it was obvious he had the same build, the same hair color, the same color eyes, even the same tight, cockeyed smile as his father. The only major difference Brian could see was in the man’s eyes. Even in the bright light, they remained wide open and staring, and seemed not to blink very often as they danced crazily with reflected lantern light.
“Was that … was that you I saw, coming up the road a while ago?” Brian asked.
Michael smirked and nodded. “Could’ve been … could very well have been. I have no idea when you got here. Nobody told me. I didn’t even know you were down here until I heard you climbing around outside my door. ’Course, at the tune, I didn’t know it was you. Could have been anybody!” His eyes rolled upwards, scanning the ceiling as though he expected to see someone clinging up there. “I didn’t mean for you to—you know, to get so scared that you’d faint.”
“Umm,” Brian said, feeling slightly embarrassed. All the while he was studying the man, waiting to see if he would make a threatening move toward him. Finally, he sucked in a deep breath and started to stand up. When Michael suddenly moved forward, Brian cowered back, thinking he was going to attack him; but Michael grabbed his arm and helped him roughly to his feet.
“Thanks,” Brian said, bending over and brushing off the seat of his pants. He took another opportunity to look around the room but didn’t see much more. His hunch had been right—the makeshift table was covered with an assortment of food and drinks and a few odds and ends of tools—a saw, hammer, and what looked like bags of nails. Other than the table, the old blanket on the mattress, and a rolled-up paper bag on the floor, the room was empty except for the four blank, stone walls.
“You said that you—uh, do you actually live down here?” Brian asked, unable to hide the incredulous tone in his voice.
“That’s right,” Michael said with a curious twist of glee in his voice. “I started fixing this place up a long time ago.” His eyes suddenly went unfocused and he stared at the stone wall. Then he shook his head and continued as if he had never stopped talking. “It was gonna be my shelter—my bomb shelter, but I suppose, now that the Russians have left Cuba and the whole Soviet Union has collapsed, that’s not much of
a worry anymore, huh?”
“No, I—uh, I suppose not,” Brian said, shaking his head as he cast his uncle a curious glance. How could this really be his uncle? He never even knew he had one, but then again, he had spent so little time with his father he hardly knew him at all.
“But you can’t have—you haven’t been living out here all your life, have you?”
Michael burst out in a spray of snot and laughter. “Of course not! I’ve been away, living someplace else, but I came back. I had to come back’!”
His voice and facial expression suddenly shifted, lowering and deepening with menace. The lantern cast deep lines on his face, and the wild light left his eyes like candles that had been snuffed out. His mouth firmed up into a thin, bloodless line.
“I had to come back,” he said in a whisper, “because she … she might need me.”
Brian was about to ask who might need him, but then he thought that it might be better to direct Michael onto some other point of conversation, something that might not upset him as much.
“So … well, how long have you been here?” Brian asked.
Brian looked at the wooden door. As far as he could see, there was just this one entrance into the room. He took a single step toward it, wondering if he could get it open and get the hell out of here fast enough if he had to.
