by Rick Hautala
The wet smack of the woman’s knuckles against the man’s fleshy jowls cracked through the air like a gunshot.
But it wasn’t the trading of punches that kept Dianne’s attention; it was the expression on the woman’s face just before she hit the man. It was there for an instant, flickering like summer lightning, but the gleam of absolute determination and delight when her fist connected was stunning. Her eyes flashed wickedly in the sunlight. The grim set of her jaw blended into a triumphant smile when she saw the man stagger backward with a goofy-legged stagger. He spun around on one heel, his hands clapped across his mouth as thin streamers of blood leaked between his fingers and ran down onto his chest.
“Don’t you ever talk to me like that again!” the woman shrieked, her voice carrying clear and shrill in the humid air.
The man hunched over and said something, but Dianne couldn’t quite catch it. Suddenly the driver behind her blasted his horn. Dianne jumped, glanced in her rearview mirror, then looked ahead. The van was only a few feet from her front bumper but moving forward slowly. She stepped down on the gas to start moving with the flow of traffic.
Dianne’s mind swirled with confusion. Although she was sure she had never seen her before in her life, she was positive she recognized that woman. The mixed expression of stark fear and triumph flashing across that woman’s face reawakened something deep inside Dianne … something that had been dormant a long time but was now stirring like a slimy creature that had slept too long in the muddy bottom of a pond.
The world outside the car withdrew, looking incredibly distant as rippling patches of darkness nibbled at the edge of her vision, threatening to sweep across her sight. She wasn’t even conscious of her own breathing as the black bubble of a long-buried memory rose to the surface of her mind.
I’ve seen that look before! she thought, only distantly aware of the cold, clammy feeling that washed over her. Her mind was spinning out of control, shuffling through memories she hadn’t had in years.
Where have I seen that look before?
She was feeling so overwhelmed she barely reacted at all when, at the next intersection, the moving van turned right onto the Old County Road, heading to Summerfield like she was. She couldn’t stop the gnawing wonder and worry about what she had seen back there at the traffic light. She knew if she thought about it long enough, she could figure out exactly what that woman’s situation was, and she should be concerned for the woman’s eventual safety once her husband or boyfriend or whoever that was finally sobered up.
But that wasn’t what filled her with such gut-twisting apprehension.
Waves of cold, clenching panic and deeper stirrings of dread wrung her out, making her feel numb. For a moment, she had the curious sensation of being outside herself, watching from the back seat as she drove along the winding country road behind the moving van. Her mind was so lost in thought that she was barely aware of the loose play of the steering wheel in her grip or the pressure she alternately applied to the accelerator and the brakes as the van finally gained a bit of speed and got up to a whopping thirty-five miles per hour.
Where have I seen that look before?
She no longer cared how fast or how slow the van was going; she had to figure this out—right now! It must have something to do with seeing a therapist for the first time in her life this morning. She had always held the opinion that only crazy people—real nut cases had to see shrinks. Was she so far gone that she had to talk to someone so she wouldn’t lose her mind completely? Was the next step a straitjacket, a shot of Thorazine, and a rubber room?
At first she was almost convinced that maybe that look of pure, outraged delight on the woman’s face had something to do with herself … that it was something she had felt or might have looked like at one time or another. But when had she ever been that angry at someone?
Damnit! Where have I seen that look before?
When had she ever wanted to hurt someone the way that woman had obviously wanted to hurt that drunken man? When had she ever—
The thought gave her a sudden twisting in the pit of her stomach.
When had she ever wanted to kill someone?
That’s was it! That woman had truly wanted to kill that man!
And then it hit her … It hit her so hard she jammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop by the side of the road. Dust rose up behind her car in a funnel-shaped cloud. She sat, watching numbly as the van pulled away, stretching out the distance between them, dimly grateful that there hadn’t been a car tailgating her the way she had been tailgating the van. The dust swirled and then settled onto her car and the roadside weeds like pollen. The throbbing tightness in her chest and throat became unbearable. From behind the wires trapping her jaw, her throat warbled with a low, building howl that sounded like an animal in pain. Hot, plump tears ran down her face and dripped onto her hitching chest.
Oh, God! My mother!
The thought was like a blinding bolt of light spearing the darkness inside her mind. Shivers raced through her like electricity.
It wasn’t me! … It was my mother!
The bright green field beside her disappeared in a watery blur. Her hands trembled, no matter how tightly she held on to the steering wheel as though for dear life. Her breath whistled through the wires as she took sharp, panting breaths.
I was—what? Only eight years old when I saw that same, exact expression on my mother’s face.
The hitching in her chest felt like sharp knife blades, sliding up under her ribs.
It was just before dad left home for good … the time—like so many others—when he was drunk on his ass and they started arguing … only this time … this time they didn’t just argue … she got mad … so mad at him that she—
“Oh, my God!” Dianne muttered, pressing her fists hard against her closed eyes as if she could somehow reach inside her brain and push the memory back down into the darkness where it had remained—forgotten—for all these years.
So mad at him that she tried to kill him!
“Hey, Uncle Mike! You in there?”
As he walked boldly through the field of weeds up to the old mill, Brian tried to make his greeting sound hale and hearty, but his voice echoed back from inside the building with an odd flatness. The pigeons nesting in the attic cooed softly and ruffled their wings. Six or seven of them shot up into the air and started circling around as Brian walked over to the stone stairway that led down into the cellar.
“Hey, I’ve got some of that stuff you wanted,” Brian shouted. He stopped at the top of the stone stairway and put the bag of food and the folded blanket down on the ground. Wiping the sweat from his head with the back of his arm, he leaned forward and peered down into the gloom below. A cold draft blew up from the cellar into his face, carrying with it that almost-but-not-quite nauseating smell of damp earth and decay. Brian chuckled at how the smell already seemed so familiar—almost welcoming.
“Yo! Uncle Mike! It’s just me, Brian!” he shouted, cupping his hands to his mouth. “It’s okay!”
No reply came from inside the mill, but Brian couldn’t shake the sensation that Uncle Mike was hiding somewhere nearby, watching every move he made. Was this some kind of test, to see what he would do? He straightened up slowly and glanced around. To his left, the river glistened in the morning light, sparkling with flashes of silver through the trees. A strong, hot breeze whisked through the weeds, flattening them as if invisible hands were pushing down on them.
“I got some food here for you!” Brian shouted. He noticed this time that his voice carried a slight waver. He swallowed and licked his lips before adding, “If you want, I can just leave it downstairs.”
Still, no answer came except for the wind, whistling as it gusted warmly at his back with a gentle shove. Taking a deep breath, Brian picked up the things he had been carrying and started down the steps. Cobwebs brushed against his face with a feathery touch, but his hands were full, so he couldn’t brush them away.
He couldn�
��t dispel the sensation that he was sinking down into cold, brackish water as the damp air and gloom of the cellar embraced him. He reached around to his back pocket and fished out the small flashlight he’d gotten from the kitchen cupboard. He clicked it on, but the beam, although strong, barely cut the darkness as he made his way across the cellar floor to the back room door. His sneakers scuffed in the dirt with a harsh, gritty sound that reminded him of someone munching on cereal. A current of tension ran through him, but he commanded himself not to let it get the better of him. If Uncle Mike was dangerous, he never would have let him leave here yesterday. Besides, wasn’t it obvious that he was here to help him?
The rough wooden door was shut but not locked. Brian lifted up on the door as he pulled it open so the bottom wouldn’t catch on the uneven floor. Inside, the room was dark, and a quick survey with the flashlight revealed that it was unoccupied. Brian swallowed hard as he entered the room, closing the door behind him. He found it difficult to believe that anyone could actually live down here. It was so confined, so, so dismal … like a jail cell.
But maybe that’s what he got used to at the mental hospital, Brian thought with a shiver.
He walked over to the homemade table and deposited his load of goods. He considered writing a note but realized he didn’t have a pen or pencil—besides, he wasn’t even sure Mike knew how to read, so he contented himself with taking the boxes and cans of food out of the bag and spreading them across the table.
“There—” he muttered, brushing his hands in satisfaction.
He wondered if he should stick around until Uncle Mike showed up or just head back home. He certainly didn’t have anything else important to do, but he wasn’t so sure he wanted to wait down here. He was thinking he could at least go upstairs and poke around in the mill some more, but then a thought hit him—
Two days ago, the last time he was out here, how did Uncle Mike get down into this room without being seen or heard?
As far as he knew, there was only this one entrance into the room; but he had seen Uncle Mike coming up the road, heading toward the mill, and later, after they started talking, Uncle Mike had admitted it was him, so how did he do it? Somewhere, there had to be another entrance into this back room.
After glancing out into the main part of the cellar and calling out again to make sure Mike wasn’t around, Brian began a systematic search of the small room. Scrambling around on his hands and knees, he checked underneath the table, behind the old mattress, everywhere, but the stone walls were just what they appeared to be—solid granite blocks that didn’t move no matter how hard he pushed against them. Brian considered that there might be some hidden mechanism that could trigger a hidden doorway, but how likely was something like that in a building this old? It was a real stumper, but he knew there had to be a solution. After the better part of half an hour, he had scanned every square inch of the walls twice and still couldn’t find anything. Sighing with frustration, he sat down and leaned his head back against the wall. By chance, he happened to look up.
“The ceiling! That’s gotta be it,” he whispered.
He stood up and ran his flashlight beam up and down along the ceiling rafters. The charred timbers of the floor above him were supported by thick joists that were worm-eaten and blackened by fire. Several decades’ worth of cobwebs draped down in thick, black tangles. Brian knew this room was underneath the pile of burned rubble at the back of the building. Maybe there was a trapdoor, like in the other part of the mill.
“That has to be it!” he said, punching his thigh with his fist.
All of the ceiling joists were evenly spaced a foot and a half apart, but as far as he could tell, there was nothing to indicate a hidden trapdoor. Uncle Mike might have a few of the boards up there loosened so he can move them aside whenever he wanted to drop down into the room; but Brian was positive that, as nerved up as he had been that other day, he would have heard him. Still, this seemed like the only possibility, so he crossed the room, standing up on tiptoes and pushing up against the floorboards to see if anything moved. Gritty soot fell down, sprinkling his face like pepper.
“Damn! It’s gotta be here somewhere,” he whispered as he probed every bay between the joists.
But twenty minutes and an aching neck later, he had tried every board in the ceiling, and nothing had moved. Okay, so Uncle Mike didn’t gain entry from above. That only left …
“Of course!” Brian shouted, clapping his hands together. “The floor!”
His gaze went directly to the blanket-covered mattress, and before he could take another breath, he was on his hands and knees, lifting up one edge. The moldy smell of the rotting wool blanket gagged him, almost making him vomit, but underneath the mattress he found a flat piece of plywood. And it looked like new plywood, not something that had been rotting out here since the mill had been operating. Sitting back on his haunches, Brian pushed the board and mattress aside with the heels of his sneakers. The thing slid begrudgingly, but even before it was halfway over, Brian knew that he had found what he was looking for. Beneath the plywood was a dark hole with earth-lined walls. With a cautious glance over his shoulder, he scrambled forward and shined his flashlight down into it.
“All right!” he whispered.
Brian’s guess was that the tunnel had been dug recently, probably since Mike had returned to the mill. It dropped straight down maybe five or six feet, and then angled sharply toward the stone wall. The hard-packed earth walls were festooned with hairy roots that hung down in tangled clumps. The rich smell of freshly dug dirt filled Brian’s nostrils. He had no doubt that, once the tunnel passed under the outside wall of the building, it angled upwards. He hadn’t found it outside because Uncle Mike had probably covered it with debris from the burned portion of the building.
“That’s the ticket,” he whispered, satisfied that he had finally figured out how Mike had gotten into the building and snuck up behind him. He was still glorying in his discovery when he became aware of a faint, whispering voice. He snapped off his flashlight and tensed, straining to listen, but the voice—if it had ever been there at all—was gone.
Am I hearing things, or was that—
Down inside the tunnel, he saw a soft glow of light appear from the other end. There was a gentle hissing sound, like light rain patting against a window as dirt sifted down into the hole. The diffuse glow got steadily brighter. Brian heard the sounds of heavy boards being moved aside.
Oh, shit! That’s gotta be Mike, up there! He’s back! Brian thought with a sudden flush of panic.
For a single heartbeat, he watched as the light shining down into the hole was suddenly blotted out; then he sprang into action. He knew he couldn’t let his uncle catch him here, especially now that he’d found out about the secret entrance. He jumped over to the other side of the mattress and quickly shoved the plywood and mattress back into place. He hoped to hell Mike wasn’t in the tunnel yet, and that he hadn’t heard the noise he was making. Once the plywood was back in place, he got up, brushed off his pants, and ran to the door without looking back. Gritting his teeth, he carefully lifted up the edge of the door and, grateful that the hinges didn’t squeak, wedged it open just enough so he could slip out. Just as he was easing the door shut behind him, he heard a loud scraping sound from inside the room as Uncle Mike shifted the plywood aside to open the secret entrance.
Panting lightly to control his breathing, Brian leaned against the door, pressing his ear against the rough wood so he could listen to the sounds coming from inside the room. First he heard a low grunting sound followed by a heavy thump. That must have been Uncle Mike, hiking himself up out of the tunnel opening. Then there came that scraping sound again—the plywood dragging against the dirt floor as Mike slid the mattress back into place.
So far so good, Brian thought, but he knew he wasn’t in the clear yet. The air in the cellar seemed to have gone suddenly bad. He tried to swallow down the lump that had formed in his throat, but it wouldn’t budge.
As he ran, he kept glancing over his shoulder. As soon as the mill was out of sight, he slowed to catch his breath. Just as he was leaving the rutted dirt road and entering the woods, the sudden blast of a horn, far off in the distance, made him jerk to a stop. His pulse surged for a moment, but then he shook his head, embarrassed that he had let the sound surprise him. He knew exactly what it was—the town fire horn. He stood in the dancing shadows of the tree and patiently counted out the number of horn blasts.
“Two-two-four-four.”
They meant nothing to him, so after one more glance over his shoulder to make sure Uncle Mike wasn’t following him, he resumed his leisurely pace toward home.
“Hey, you seem kind of quiet today,” Edward said. “Is everything all right?”
Edward had already eaten the tuna fish sandwich and drunk the thermos full of coffee Dianne had brought out to him, and now they were sitting side by side under one of the few large maple trees he’d left standing in the wide clearing. Off to their left, in the spot where the excavator would start digging the house’s foundation on Monday, orange flames glowed inside the tangled pile of branches and stumps. Bright sunlight made the flames almost invisible. A thin, gray wash of smoke curled up and vanished like heat haze into the blue sky. Shadows of leaves dappled their faces as the wind gently stirred the trees overhead.
