by Rick Hautala
“Oh, not long … not long,” Uncle Mike said, shrugging and slapping his thighs with his hands. “I came as soon as I heard what had happened, but I have to stay out of sight, you know. I can’t let them see me.”
“Can’t let who see you?” Brian asked as he inched another step closer to the door. His muscles were tensed as he coiled up, getting ready to make a run for it.
“Well my brother, for one—your father!” Michael shouted. His voice suddenly flared up, like a fire that had been doused with gasoline. His face went bright red, and his eyes bugged out of his head like someone in the grips of complete terror. “If he knew I was out here, why—he’d send me back to the hospital as quick as a wink. So I can’t let him find me. No sir-ee-bobcat! And there are others. You must realize that! Haven’t you seen or heard any of them?”
“Oh, yeah, absolutely,” Brian said, realizing that he’d been right about another thing: his Uncle Mike, or whoever this man was, was very close to—if not already over—the edge of insanity.
“No, he wouldn’t understand at all,” Michael went on, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t expect him to. When he called and told me about what had happened … to my mother, that she was … was—”
He wouldn’t say the word, but Brian thought it for him: Dead!
“He sounded so … so detached from it all, like it hadn’t affected him at all! But it got to me!” Michael slapped the flat of his hand against his forehead, making a wet, smacking sound. “Oh, yes-sir-ee! It got to me all right!”
As Brian watched the range of expressions shift across Michael’s face, from humor to anger to sadness, he couldn’t help but feel a stirring of sympathy for him. In some ways, he was almost envious that his obviously crazy uncle could let his emotions fly so freely. Ever since he was little, Brian was used to bottling up everything inside him until it finally exploded out, usually in anger. At the same time, he realized that Uncle Mike could easily turn his anger and remorse onto him, and that he wasn’t going to be safe until he was far away from here.
“But what about my dad? If he knew you were out here, I’m sure he’d want to help you.”
“Oh no he wouldn’t!” Michael said, waving his hands in front of Brian’s face. “He’d put me away again, just like they did back then. But you see, now that she’s gone, now that my mother’s—”
Again, he couldn’t bring himself to say the word dead.
“I just want to stay out here for a while,” he said, his voice edged with pleading. “I won’t cause anybody any trouble. Honest, I won’t.”
Tears filled his eyes, and he folded his hands to his chest as if he were praying. His whole body shook as he spoke.
“I wouldn’t hurt anyone, no matter what they say. I couldn’t! I gave you back your croquet ball, didn’t I? Well—” His voice lowered threateningly. “Didn’t I?”
Brian bit his lower lip and nodded slightly. He remembered the stark terror he had felt that day in the back yard, just knowing there was someone out there in the woods, watching him. Now he wished he had told his father everything that had happened that day. If he had, his father might have found his brother out here before now, and this wouldn’t be happening. Watching his uncle carefully, he took another step closer to the door.
“Well, you know, I really ought to be getting back to the house,” he said softly. He didn’t want to say or do anything that might set Uncle Mike off, but he knew it was a little like tap dancing on a land mine; there were no ground rules. The slightest pressure in the wrong direction could set him off, and he had no idea what the right or wrong direction was. “I—I don’t want my father to be worried about me.”
“Worried, oh, he should be worried, all right, but not about you—about me! I’m the one who’s had to live with it all my life, you know, and now she’s … gone, and they’re all telling me things aren’t going to be the same anymore.” He reached for Brian and grabbed him roughly by the shoulders. “You have to promise me one thing—okay?”
“Wha—what?” Brian said, cringing back, expecting to be hit in the face.
Michael let him go, took three steps backwards, and planted himself in front of the door, blocking it.
“I need your help out here,” he said in a ragged gasp. He hunched his shoulders and craned his head around as though listening for something. “Not for long. I won’t stay here much longer, now that I’ve seen where she … where she’s—” His voice choked off sharply, and tears formed in his eyes. “But I’ve been looking around and asking for someone to help me, you see. You can keep a secret, can’t you?”
Almost against his will, Brian nodded agreement. If he wanted to get out of this room alive, he knew he had to agree with anything Uncle Mike said right now; but he couldn’t deny the surge of sympathy he felt for him, either.
“That’s good, that’s real good,” Michael said, his voice softening a bit as his posture relaxed. “I need some more food and some warm clothes. And something to drink beside water. Some beer would be nice. Can you manage that? Maybe a sleeping bag or some more blankets, too. The nights have been pretty chilly out here, you know.”
“Why don’t you just—” Brian started to say but then stopped himself.
“I promise I won’t stay here more than another week or two,” Michael said, his voice whining like a kid who wanted something too expensive for Christmas. “A month at the most—honest! I just have to make sure that everything’s … everything’s all right around here, you understand? After that, I promise I’ll go.”
“Go where?” Brian asked.
Against his will, he felt his heart softening for this man. Even standing there in front of the door, looking like an immovable statue with his arms folded across his chest, he looked so lost and pitiful. The expression on his face was like a little boy’s who had lost his mother and didn’t quite understand how or why.
“I … don’t know,” Michael replied, shaking his head quickly. He looked at Brian with a distant glaze, like frost in his eyes. “I just know that I don’t want to go back … there—back where I was before.” His face and voice suddenly hardened. “I’m not crazy, you know.”
Brian gave him a noncommittal shrug as he considered what to do next.
“Yeah,” he said after a moment. “I suppose I could bring you some stuff.”
Even as he said it, he wasn’t quite sure if he truly meant it or if he was simply saying this to get out of here. Either way, it didn’t matter. His fear was that Uncle Mike wasn’t going to let him go unless or until he wanted to. He was obviously strong enough to do whatever he wanted to him.
“I don’t need a whole lot,” Michael said, his face brightening. “I’ve been walking into town, all the way to Biddeford to get stuff. No one recognizes me there, but still, I only go at night in case—you know, in case the police are looking for me.”
Brian wanted to ask if there was any particular reason the police might be looking for him but decided not to. “Can I … go now?” he asked with a tremor in his voice.
Without a word, Michael backed away from the door. Brian walked up to it, flipped the homemade latch, and pushed the door open. The edge scraped like sandpaper across the dirt floor. A draft of cool air washed over him, making him shiver.
“You won’t forget about me, now, will you?” Michael asked. Once again, his voice was edging up to a hysterical whine.
Brian looked at him and was struck again at how pitiful the man looked. He shook his head and said, “Don’t worry. I won’t.”
“And you promise you won’t tell your father that I’m out here, will you? You already promised me you wouldn’t.”
“I said don’t worry.” Brian said, making an X on his chest. “Cross my heart and hope to die—”
“Stick a needle in my eye,” Michael finished for him, and they both laughed out loud.
“I’m not sure when I can get back out here,” Brian said. “I’ve been helping my father work at the—”
“You think I don’t know
that?” Michael said simply.
Brian shrugged and said, “Look, I’ll do the best I can, all right? But you have to trust me. I’ll try to get out here tomorrow, but it’ll be the next day at the latest.” He started to leave, amazed that he was really going to be able to walk out of here this easily. At the door, he turned back and said, “I wish you’d come home with me, though.”
“Uh-uh! No way,” Michael said. His eyes glistened with tears in the lantern light. “Your father would pack me off back to the funny farm in a second.”
Brian took a deep breath and wished he could ignore the tortured, lonely expression on his uncle’s face. He knew, no matter what else, that he would probably dream about him tonight.
“It’s just that I feel so—” He sighed and shook his head. “It’s just that it must get awfully lonely for you out here.”
“Oh, no. Don’t worry,” Michael replied, sniffing with laughter, “I have all the company I need.” He leaned forward and tapped his head lightly with his forefinger as if he and Brian were sharing a deep secret. “And anyway—although I think everyone’s a little bit angry with me right now, I’ll be all right. Don’t you worry about me.”
Brian had no idea what he meant by that, so he let that comment slide like so much else his uncle had said. He said a quick goodbye, then hurried out into the cellar, scrambled up the pile of rubble to the stairway opening, and jumped to the ground from the side door. He wanted to run away from the mill as fast as he could, but he forced himself to keep his pace slow and casual, just in case Uncle Mike was watching him.
Once he was halfway down the road, he turned and looked back at the mill, his whole body feeling rubbery with relief. He didn’t see Uncle Mike anywhere, but that was no guarantee that he wasn’t hiding somewhere nearby. Even in the bright sunlight, the mill looked odd, almost like an illusion that wasn’t really there. Brian couldn’t repress the shiver that raced through him when he was struck by an unnerving thought:
What if he’s not in there? What if he’s not even real? What if I imagined everything that just happened?
He stared at the old mill for a long time, studying the way the sunlight glanced off the slick, gray siding. He found the difference between being inside the building and out here in the sunshine stunning, nearly staggering. He felt completely disoriented, as though he had just zapped between two entirely different worlds.
And then another thought struck him:
How did Uncle Mike get into that room so he was behind me?
Uncle Mike had all but admitted that Brian had seen him coming up the road. Brian had been so scared that he was going to be caught by his father, he surely would have seen or heard something if anyone had made any noise getting into that small room in the cellar. One thing was for sure, he hadn’t used the door.
So how did he do it? How did Uncle Mike sneak in there without me knowing it?
He tried to laugh it off, but the sound was hollow and false. In a lot of ways, he thought Uncle Mike was like the old mill—full of mystery and secrets. And Brian found that he was curious to find out more about him. He started for home again, and long before he got there, he had made up his mind. Against his better judgment, he was going to keep Uncle Mike’s secret, at least for a while longer … long enough to find out a few more things about him and the old mill.
Chapter Fifteen
Memory Lapse
Dianne’s first meeting with Ruth Murray, the therapist Dr. Collett had recommended, was two days later, the day after she had the bandages removed from her face. The meeting went about as well as she could have expected, considering the circumstances. After fifteen minutes or so of casual conversation, in which she felt completely self-conscious about her red, swollen face, Dianne started to feel at least relaxed enough to begin to talk about some of the negative feelings she harbored concerning her accident and the operation. Several times, a sour, stomach-churning tension started to rise up inside her—especially when she told Dr. Murray how bad it got at night when she was terrified of falling asleep because she was afraid of vomiting and choking on blood or of not getting enough breath through the strands of wire that held her jaw in place. She didn’t mention the nightmares, thinking she’d keep them in reserve for the next session—if there was a next session.
Intellectually, Dianne realized that she couldn’t choke on her own vomit simply because she hadn’t eaten any solid food in weeks, but just having her jaw immobilized made her feel like she was in serious danger. She had also mentioned to Dr. Murray her concern that the medication she was taking might be screwing up her perceptions, affecting her concentration, and making her absentminded.
Dr. Murray reassured her that all of her fears were, while certainly normal and entirely understandable, not rational, and that she simply had to believe that she was going to be all right. She couldn’t allow her negative thoughts to get so out of control. She taught Dianne a quick mental exercise of creative visualization which she could try the next time she felt a panic attack coming on. She also suggested speaking with her doctor about reducing the dosage of medication, just in case it was too strong for her.
Dianne left the office feeling a bit more upbeat, but that quickly faded when, an hour later, she was slowed almost to a stop on Route One in Saco, stuck behind a slow-moving U-Haul rental truck. Her car’s air conditioner was barely functioning, so the air swirling inside the car felt sluggish and sticky. Her breathing came in shallow gulps, and before long, that same old cramp of apprehension turned into a cold rush of panic as it crept up from the pit of her stomach. She snapped on the radio, rolled down her window, and took several deep breaths to try and distract herself, but the prickly feeling quickly spread up her back, dancing like needles of ice between her shoulders to the back of her head.
Jesus Christ, not now! Not now! she thought, her lips moving as she mentally formed the words. Her tongue pressed up like a trapped animal against the metal cage in her mouth.
She started to think—now—that maybe visiting the therapist hadn’t been such a good idea after all; if anything, it had only made her feel more threatened and vulnerable. She tried to focus clearly on a single thought—all she wanted to do was get home before lunchtime so she could put together a picnic lunch and surprise Edward out at the house site. But her anxiety rose steadily, spiking into pure, stainless steel terror with her frustrated desire for traffic to get moving.
“Come on … Come on!” she said tightly, resisting the urge to honk the horn. She tried several times to pull out around the van, but the steady flow of oncoming traffic forced her back, earning her nothing more than a blasting toot or an angry gesture from the other drivers.
Jesus! Jesus! JESUS! Stop it, please! Stop it now!
Tears welled up in her eyes. Her hands were slick with sweat, and her knuckles turned white as she squeezed hard on the steering wheel. The clammy chill skittered like dead fingers up over the top of her head and embraced her skull. The slow-moving truck loomed large in front of her, sunlight reflecting wickedly off its shiny back door. Several times she had to jam on the brakes suddenly when the truck stopped and she spaced out for a split second and didn’t notice until almost too late. She wanted like hell to lay down hard on the horn and hold it, but the choking sensation tightening around her throat convinced her that she couldn’t handle any more noise. Even the hissing whoosh of passing traffic made her nerves crackle like thin ice.
“Jesus, please … please get me out of this!” she begged in a low whisper. The muscles in her jaw were aching. A sour taste filled the back of her throat, warning her that she was about to throw up.
“Get the fuck off the road,” she mumbled, deep in her throat.
But Jesus Christ, U-Haul, and she herself couldn’t manage to get her car around the truck. They were so close together that she thought it must look like the truck was towing her as they lurched in the stop-and-start traffic down Route One. They never went faster than twenty-five miles an hour until they stopped for the tr
affic light at the corner of Main Street and Beech.
“Come on! … Come on! Move your ass!” Dianne whispered, her voice hissing between the wires in her mouth.
She remembered the mental exercise Ruth had taught her and wanted to give it a try, but towering wave after wave of cold nausea flooded through her, breaking her concentration. And anyway, she knew the panic attack had already progressed too far to stop now. Feeling faint and wanting more than anything else just to scream out loud, Dianne looked out at the heat-hazed town, unable to dispel the eerie sensation that none of it was real—that the scene around her was nothing more than a pale, thin shadow of what it used to be. Shoppers, businessmen, and women on lunch break moved along the sidewalks with a curious, silent glide. Litter and pigeons swirled almost soundlessly in the gutters, distantly rattling like bones on the pavement.
“Please, please, please just get out of my way!”
When she stuck her head out the window, trying to see around the van, the fluttering sound of voices, deadened by the blanket of humidity, drew her attention. She looked around and saw two people, a man and a woman, squared off against each other on the sidewalk in front of a shabby building. A neon Moosehead Beer sign flickered in the window behind the woman’s head. Above it was a faded, painted sign that read THE FIREHOUSE.
Dianne’s chest felt compressed; she couldn’t even breathe as she watched the couple argue. The man had his back turned to her, so she couldn’t see his face, but the angered expression on the woman’s face struck Dianne with a sharp jab of recognition.
What the hell—? Dianne wondered. What is it about her that’s so familiar?
The tight grip she had on the steering wheel made the heels of her palms ache. She knew she should focus her attention on her driving, be ready for the light to change, but she couldn’t tear her gaze away from the couple. She made a frightened squeak in the back of her throat when she saw the man clench his fist, cock back his arm, and throw a roundhouse at the woman’s face. The man was obviously drunk, and the woman dodged easily to one side as he spun around with the momentum of his swing. She came up beside him with her own clenched fist, jabbed with precision, and caught him on the right side of the jaw.
