by Rick Hautala
“Oh, God!” she shouted as she rolled off him and then scrambled to her feet. “I’m so sorry. Are you all right?”
Brian stood up slowly, unfolding his body like a battered accordion. The wind had been knocked out of him, but he hunched over, took a deep breath, and nodded before gasping, “Yeah—yeah … I’m okay.”
“God, I feel like such a klutz,” Dianne said. From behind the wires holding her jaw, her voice sounded muffled and flat. “You could have been hurt bad. Are you sure you’re all right?”
She started to reach for Brian, as though to comfort him, but he pulled away quickly and squared his shoulders as if his chest didn’t hurt half as much as it did.
“Yeah, don’t worry about it, okay?” he said, backing away from her even more. “Let’s—let’s just get the curtains up so I can get back to what I was doing.” He almost said the “fucking” curtains.
“Sure … sure … okay,” Dianne said. A frown creased her forehead as she looked at him darkly.
Brian could hear it there in her voice again—or still, that same old defensive tone. So for—what, maybe fifteen seconds? she had seemed actually worried that she might have hurt him. But any traces of concern were already gone, replaced with her customary iciness. She nodded curtly, then bent down to pick up the fallen curtain rod. Without a word, Brian took the other end and steadied it. After flouncing out the curtains, Dianne stepped up onto the back of the chair again, bracing her knees for balance, while Brian stood on tiptoes and reached up. After a moment of fumbling around, he got the hook onto the edge of the bracket and swung it down into position.
As soon as the job was done, Dianne muttered a quick thank you, then turned her back on him and went about her business straightening out the curtains. Simmering with anger and still smarting from having her land on him so hard, Brian backed slowly out of the living room. He stared at her back for a few seconds, thinking hateful thoughts, then turned and ran upstairs. As his feet pounded on the steps, all he could think was: Why’d I ever do that? Why’d I even try to help her? It would have been better for all of us if she had fallen down and broken her goddamned neck!
It was already early evening, just after supper, when Brian finally got out of the house. He told his stepmother he was just going for a walk and didn’t even try to explain the bag he was carrying, loaded with bread, potato chips, Skippy peanut butter and a half-gallon of milk. The sound of crickets buzzing in the back yard gradually faded as he entered the woods. The damp shadows embraced him like cold arms. Through the trees to the west, he could see the sun already lowering, sending spikes of orange light like fire through the leaves. There was a raw, tangy smell in the air that made him almost dizzy.
As he walked along, he noticed the curious, muffled stillness in the forest and realized how much he had actually come to like it. Taking the path out to the abandoned mill was almost like moving backwards in time; he felt like he could come out here and seal himself off from the “real” world, forgetting all about it. Having been isolated and friendless all summer, he had come to relish this feeling of having his own private world into which he could escape. He understood now that this was why—even after the fire—he hadn’t asked his father to send him home to Arizona ahead of schedule. He liked—no, he loved coming out here! And in spite of the weird, creepy feeling the old mill and Uncle Mike gave him, he felt almost like he was coming home when he went to the mill.
So what is it about this place—these woods and that old mill? he wondered as a shiver of excitement coursed up his back. What seems so special about them?
But his private world and the delusion that he could somehow insulate himself from real life all came crashing down the instant he broke out onto the road and saw the roof line of the mill far off in the distance. At least today, he was out here with a purpose. He was determined to get an answer—no, a lot of answers from Uncle Mike.
His breathing came high and fast as he crossed the weed field, sending grasshoppers and crickets flying in wild trajectories. Moving quietly, he approached the steps leading down into the mill. At the top of the stone stairway, he hesitated a moment as the feeling that he was being watched gripped him with a near palpable pressure. Gnawing on his lower lip, he looked all around but saw no indication of anyone lurking nearby. The humid summer wind blew heavily through the opened windows and doorways of the mill, and for a split second, Brian thought it sounded almost like a person—like several people, heaving deep sighs … or groaning in agony. Remembering the human shape he had seen standing—No, it was hanging!—in the window, he nervously glanced up but saw nothing except the dusty shadows inside the mill.
Take it easy now, he cautioned himself. No need to get all worked up!
He placed one foot on the top step and leaned forward, peering into the darkness below as he cupped his hands to his mouth and called out, “Hello …?”
Something—probably a rat—scurried out of sight over by the pile of rotting sawdust. His voice echoed dully from the stony throat of the building. He took a deep breath and called out again.
“Hey! Uncle Mike! … You in there?”
An icy shiver danced up his back when, after one last glance over his shoulder, he started down the steps. His sneakers scuffed on the stones and echoed from inside the cellar. He looked up at the sky, tinged with the first purple traces of evening, and wished he had thought to bring a flashlight … or had decided not to come out here at all!
“Hello-o-o … It’s just me—Brian! … I—I’m alone!”
The dank smell and clammy air almost gagged him as he picked his way across the cellar floor toward Uncle Mike’s room at the back of the cellar. His shoulders were hunched up, and his fists were clenched tightly as he walked forward, waiting for some indication that his uncle was down here. Without a flashlight, he had to inch forward, being careful to avoid tripping over fallen stones or any of the other junk that littered the floor. He wished the feeling that at any second he was going to be jumped would go away, but it heightened with every shuffling step, tingling his nerves.
I probably should just forget all about him being out here, Brian thought as he wiped his sweaty forehead with the back of his arm. Just leave him the hell alone—turn around and go and never come back!
This wasn’t the first time he’d had such thoughts. Especially since the fire, he had wondered how smart it was to deal with this man. But Brian didn’t turn around and leave. Something drew him on. He was almost to the wooden door when he heard the faint sound of an opening latch, then the rough scraping of the door edge, dragging in the dirt. A slice of hard, white light from Mike’s lantern shot out like a knife blade across the floor through the opening door, illuminating every detail of the rough dirt floor. Then an ink-black silhouette loomed into sight, blocking the light.
“Well, well, well,” said a deep, resonating voice. “It’s about fucking time you came back. Where the hell have you been?”
Uncle Mike’s voice sounded so different that for a panicky instant, Brian was convinced this wasn’t really him; but as the door opened wider, he recognized the man’s curiously stooped posture.
“I—umm, I never got a chance to get out of the house till now,” Brian said. His throat felt as dry as sand. He licked his lips and swallowed furiously. “I’ve been real busy. We—uhh, we had a bit of a prob—”
“You don’t have to tell me what happened!” Mike snapped. “I know all about the problem you had!”
And did you have anything to do with it? Brian wondered but didn’t dare ask. Uncle Mike didn’t sound at all like himself, but maybe that was part of his problem. Maybe Uncle Mike had ferocious mood swings or multiple personalities, like the crazy people in the movies or that woman his teacher talked about last year in science class.
“The—uh, well, I promised you I’d bring out some food and stuff,” Brian said. “You got that stuff I left out here a few days ago, huh?”
Uncle Mike nodded and backed away from the door. Brian stepped in
to the harsh light of the room, his eyes stinging from the sudden brightness. He could barely see as he handed the bag of groceries over to the man who grunted his thanks as he took it.
Every muscle in Brian’s body was tensed and ready either to fight or run. He was hoping to keep an open path between himself and the doorway, but after depositing the bag on the table, Uncle Mike went over to the door, shut it, and latched it.
“I hope you didn’t think I was going to—you know, not do what I promised,” Brian said. He hated the trembling edge he heard in his voice, but Uncle Mike seemed not to notice or care.
“I don’t give a rat’s ass about what you promised!” Uncle Mike said. “I’ve got plenty of other friends who can help me out if I need them! All I gotta do is ask.”
Brian noticed a winding tension, both in Uncle Mike’s voice and in his posture that set off alarms in his head, but he took a deep breath and told himself to stay calm. If Uncle Mike was on a hair-trigger, there was no sense saying or doing anything that might set him off.
“I—you know, I should probably get going,” he said. “It’s gonna be dark soon, and I don’t want to have to walk through—”
“What, you ain’t gonna stay and talk with me a while?” Uncle Mike snapped. “Christ! You’d think the least you could do is visit with me for a while!”
“It’s … it’s getting dark already. I don’t want my dad to be worried.”
“Worried? He should be worried!” Mike shouted. His voice was suddenly much sharper and higher, sounding almost like someone else was speaking. “He should be damned worried!”
“And why’s that?” Brian asked. He winced with anticipation but still didn’t dare ask his question.
“Why? Because they’re all so pissed off! That’s why! They’re all so fucking pissed off!”
Brian’s breath felt like a hot lump of coal lodged in the center of his chest. He mentally calculated how far it was to the door and how long it would take him to get out of here. Once in the open, he didn’t have any doubt that he could outrun Mike; but in the close quarters of the mill, he knew he didn’t stand a chance.
Dreading the reaction it might get, he cleared his throat and, in a voice barely above a whisper, said, “Who? … Who’s pissed?”
“I don’t want you to use fucking profanity in my place, understand?” Uncle Mike shouted. He closed his eyes tightly, clenched his fists, and, arching his back, shook his hands wildly above his head. “They’re fucking angry enough as it is because they’ve all been forgotten… All of them! Forgotten! You see, I’ve been to my mother’s grave, and she—” He closed his eyes, and tears squeezed out between his closed lids. “—and she told me about them! And she said she wants me to … to—”
His voice suddenly roared with a sharp intake of breath; then he started coughing so hard his face turned bright red, almost purple in the lantern light. While Uncle Mike was doubled over in his coughing fit, Brian took a few quick steps toward the door.
Every inch counts, he told himself.
“Honestly, I’d really like to stay and talk, but I’ve got some—”
He was about to say, some questions to ask you, but this time he caught himself, sensing that if he asked his uncle anything about the fire, no matter if he had started it or not, it would set him off even more. “I—I’ve got some work to do at home. You probably know we’re living in the—”
“I know where the fuck you’re living!” Mike shouted. “Do you think I’m stupid? You think I don’t know?”
Brian shook his head violently. Cold sweat was running down his neck, making him shiver. “No … no,” he stammered. “I don’t think you’re stupid.”
Just insane, he added mentally.
Uncle Mike looked up at him, his eyes glistening with a wild, crazy gleam. His face twitched and contorted as if it were the battleground for raging, conflicting thoughts.
“I know what you’re thinking! They told me exactly what you’re thinking,” he said in a tight, strangled whisper. “You think I started that fire, don’t you? Don’t you?” Thick spittle sprayed from his lips, glistening like diamonds in the lantern light.
Brian shook his head in vigorous denial.
“Oh yes you do!” Uncle Mike shouted, punctuating his words with a deep, sinister laugh. “You sure as shit do. Well, maybe I did, and maybe I didn’t. And so what if I did? So what if I tried to burn down the house and kill all of you? Who gives a flying fuck? That wouldn’t make them feel any better, would it? Do you think it would? I’ll have to ask them!”
“I … I have no idea,” Brian said. His body was hot and trembling. His ears throbbed with the heavy hammering of his heart.
“Well maybe it would, and maybe it wouldn’t! I can’t say one way or another! They’d have to tell me, and they haven’t yet! Not yet!”
The tight ache in Brian’s chest blossomed as he watched his uncle, writhing in misery. He was ready to fight back if he had to, but again, he couldn’t resist the wave of pity he felt for the tormented man.
This isn’t the same person I met a few days ago! Brian thought. Crazy or not, something’s happened to him … something bad has happened!
The room felt like it was closing in on Brian. The gathering pressure made his tension spike even higher. Feeling dizzy and weak-kneed, he turned and fumbled with the door latch, all the while expecting Uncle Mike to come charging up behind him and slam the door shut on him.
Miraculously, though, he didn’t make a move to stop him as he swung the door open wide and stepped out into the cellar. The clammy air was almost a relief after the stifling heat inside the small room. When he turned to close the door, he saw that Mike was still doubled over, clutching his stomach and shaking as though he had a stomach ache after eating a bag of sour apples.
Brian’s step faltered. He almost went back inside the room to make sure the man was all right before he left, but then he lifted the door edge and swung the door closed, cutting off the harsh glare of light.
“Look,” he said softly, not knowing if Uncle Mike could hear him through the door or even if he wanted to hear him. “I’ll come back tomorrow, once you’re feeling better. I promise I will!”
He pressed his ear to the wood and listened, but the only sound coming from the room was a high-pitched whimper. He told himself to get moving, to run home before night closed down, but he didn’t move. Flattening himself against the stone wall beside the door, he listened as the heavy hammering sound of his heart gradually slowed. Then, from inside the room, he heard a voice, talking in a harsh, grating whisper.
“I never—never wanted him to find out! Him—or—or anyone—else! No one needs to know that I was—I was—out here, you know.”
The voice was tight and crackling with tension, but it sounded very close to the way Brian remembered Uncle Mike’s voice sounding the first time he’d met him.
After a short pause, when another, deeper voice spoke, a flood of panic rushed through Brian.
“I believe you,” the other voice said, “but the fact of the matter is, he does know.”
The extreme difference in tone and inflection shocked Brian, hitting him like a solidly placed punch out of the darkness. He tensed, wondering if this, also, could be Uncle Mike talking, or if—somehow—there was someone else in the room with him. How had this person gotten in there so fast? Had he been hiding in there all along, or had he used Uncle Mike’s secret entrance? Was he one of the “friends” Uncle Mike had said would help him?
Brian’s hands went clammy with sweat as he strained forward to hear, but then another person spoke, this time with a broad Maine accent.
“You know, you should’a stayed hidden when he first came out here. That would have been best all the way ’round.”
“Well, we can’t very well do anything about that now, can we?” said a still different voice. This one sounded like a prim and proper woman with a thick Scandinavian accent that was flat and emotionless.
“He hasn’t seen us, but I t
hink he suspects we’re here.” said another voice. “He’s sensitive. He might be able to see or hear us.” This voice also sounded feminine, but she spoke with a bit more earthy tone.
“If we want him to.”
“He’s no problem, though,” someone else said—a man with a Scandinavian accent. “None of them will be once we—”
“—Once we’re strong enough,” finished a still different voice that sounded like a young boy.
Brian couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Each voice had a distinct personality and spoke separately, without intruding on any of the others. He had the distinct impression that Uncle Mike’s room was filled with people, but he knew that was impossible. He had just left there, and there was no way, even by using the secret entrance, that this many people could have gotten into the room so fast and so quietly.
“So what do you think we can do about it?”
Again, this was the voice that Brian thought sounded most like Uncle Mike’s, but now he wasn’t so sure until he added, “I just wanted to come back and visit my mother’s grave!” Then his voice rose high and almost broke with a pained sob. “Does anyone know where my mother is?”
“We already told you, we don’t know where she is,” said the strong, masculine voice. “We haven’t seen her in so long. Has she forgotten all about us?”
“We also told you what you have to do!”
“But I don’t … I don’t know if I want to do that,” Mike said, followed by a tight, dry whimper. Brian could picture Uncle Mike, sitting on the floor and rocking back and forth as he knuckled his head with his fists. “I don’t know if I can.”
“Now that she’s gone, there may be no other choice. You know that,” the masculine voice said evenly.
