Another bout of cold burrowed into his skin, and Frank shivered. Something else was in the air, voices whispering, conspiring against him. He couldn’t make out a single word, but it sounded like…children?
I’m losing my mind, he thought.
Frank’s sweat turned to ice.
If he wanted an explanation, he was getting one now.
This is not simple, he thought. This is anything but simple.
Frank stepped slowly toward the brougham. The horse snorted and looked back at him, but it wasn’t a horse anymore. A demon-like thing had taken its place, smooth, shimmering, dark blue skin. Huge muscled flanks made its legs, perfectly polished claws instead of hooves. The demon snapped its head in Frank’s direction, issuing a growl that made all the hairs on the back of his snack stand to attention.
His mind was like a steel trap. His vision darkened. He felt faint and queasy suddenly.
Sadie was sick the night before…
Force of logic made him take another step. He knew this wasn’t happening. How could it? The brougham was a prank, mystical energy gone awry.
Despite the cold, his palms were sweating. Frank reached out and curled his fingers around a handle made of ice. He turned it and opened the door of the brougham.
A figure sat inside.
This isn’t happening. I’m not seeing this.
The form was small, wrapped in tattered, shredded blankets splotched in blood, no bigger than a child.
The boy raised his head and turned to Frank. Two, black, ragged caves filled the space where his eyes were supposed to be.
Frank took a step backwards. A smell of freshly dug earth hovered just under his nose. Darkness congealed against his face, forcing him to his knees.
The brougham lurched forward. Frank barely noticed it. The darkness—some thick, tangible life-like entity—grabbed him by the neck, forcing him to the pavement.
Soon, the feeling eventually passed. When he looked up, he was alone on Juniper Avenue. The brougham was gone.
A fog, however, still clung to the edge of his vision. Despite the emerging brightness of day, Frank Allen Bimsley felt a dormant chill.
He tried to stand up, but couldn’t. Frank took a deep breath and tried to clear his head.
Please God, he thought. Just a dream. I’m gonna wake up and find out all this was just a dream. Please.
But he didn’t wake up. He was the child he had been, scared, frightened of everything his bedroom hid, mainly the closet. It had followed him through the years, from his childhood and the nightmares he’d had as a boy…to the grown man he’d become.
CHAPTER VII
Malcolm Alister decided to walk into town instead of taking his bike. It was the perfect day for it, a crisp summer morning. He did this often, but sometimes wished he’d brought the bike so he could ride home instead of hoofing it back along the two-mile stretch, especially after being on his feet all day. On a hot day, pedaling wasn’t exactly his favorite thing to do, but a nice stroll during the early morning before school started sounded like a good idea.
It was Thursday, August 25th. The following Monday was the first day of school. Summer had come and gone in a flash, it seemed. Malcolm didn’t feel ready for the tedious, unending study. The subjects bored him, making it difficult to endure. He did well when he applied himself, but he grew restless easily. The teachers didn’t help, either. They could be as tedious as the subjects they droned on about. Reading the books in his grandfather’s library should be education enough, he thought. He liked the feel of books, the convenience of a paperback, the way it fit into his hand. He carried them everywhere. The October Country, by Ray Bradbury, protruded from his back pocket now.
Malcolm understood his grandfather’s passion. He’d read every book Algernon had ever written, and was surprised to find he’d enjoyed them all. He tried penning tales of his own, but he didn’t think they were any good. The sentences turned tiresome without painting pictures. Maybe he’d learn more about it after several hundred re-writes.
He savored the cool air as thick clouds moved over the bright morning sky. He took the air deep into his lungs and smiled. A touch of autumn, he noticed, glad he’d dressed for the occasion.
For some reason, the town was unnaturally quiet today. Maybe it was the early morning still. He’d gotten up earlier than usual. Every door was shut. Sadie’s death had left an ominous hush over the town of Ellishome, but now the quiet seemed unnatural. Time seemed to freeze as he walked by storefront windows. He peeked into Discount Dry Cleaning. No. No one there, either.
Malcolm frowned, pushing his glasses onto his nose, and looked from one side of the street to the other.
He’d thought about Sadie off and on since the boy’s death, two weeks ago now. Malcolm had met him once while sitting in the hallway at school. He’d been reading one of his grandfather’s novels, World Eaters, a story about a foreign race of creatures who preyed on living planets.
“How come you’re not outside?” Sadie asked.
The boy had materialized out of nowhere. Sadie was wearing a Chicago Cubs T-shirt, jeans, and bright white tennis shoes. Malcolm wondered if the boy’s family was from Chicago.
“Too many distractions,” Malcolm said.
Sadie smiled. “Whatcha readin’?”
“World Eaters. It’s about monsters.” Malcolm displayed the cover. A group of gangly, sharp-teethed aliens encircled a lone planet in space.
Sadie raised his eyebrows.
“You can borrow it when I’m done, if you want,” Malcolm said.
Sadie nodded, but didn’t seem interested. “Sounds scary.”
Malcolm shrugged. Being scared had never occurred to him.
As quickly as he introduced himself, Sadie left Malcolm alone to read his book, and walked down the hallway.
Maybe it was the quiet streets, or the fact that he’d been thinking about Sadie…but suddenly gooseflesh prickled along his arms.
Was that the wind?
Maybe he’d buy a new CD today, or add another book to his grandfather’s library.
He’d done something similar six months ago, purchasing a pair of candlesticks for Algernon’s study. Malcolm thought they’d inspire the old man to write again, but his plan had backfired.
“Did I tell you to buy me candlesticks?” Algernon had asked.
“No, sir.”
“Then what did you buy them for?”
“I thought you’d like them,” Malcolm said. “I thought they’d look cool on your desk. I thought you could write about them.”
Algernon took a deep breath. “Listen, Malcolm,” he said, composing himself. “I appreciate it. I really do. But the money I leave for you isn’t for you to buy me things. It’s for you, period. I’m a tired old man who drinks too much, so don’t remind me. One of these days, you’ll understand, or maybe you won’t. Who the hell knows? Just don’t buy me things, okay?”
Malcolm looked at his grandfather for a long time. “Okay.”
Algernon nodded, thick, spiky eyebrows making him look villainous. “Good,” he said. “Now, if you want to do something for me, close the door on your way out.”
“Yes, sir,” Malcolm said.
He had better memories of his parents wrestling around on the floor in their home back in Lakewood. While trying to push Grant away, Lucia had accidentally clipped Malcolm’s father on the mouth, splitting his lip open. The wrestling match had ended quickly.
Grant put his hand to his lips, his fingers wet with blood. “Barbarian!”
“I’m a barbarian!” Lucia said. “I lay here helpless, overpowered by an oversized brute, and I’m a barbarian! What a baby!”
“Baby!” Grant exclaimed. “You vampire! Come here!” Grant reached for his wife. He was on his knees, but Lucia retreated, backpedaling across the floor. Grant lost his balance, fell face first, and smacked his nose on the edge of the coffee table. “Oww!”
Despite Grant’s pain, Malcolm and his mother burst out laughing.
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“See what happens, Malcolm, when guys beat up on girls?” she told him.
“Oh,” Grant said, in a nasally whine.
The bleeding eventually stopped. His father looked like a wounded animal. Malcolm and his mother exchanged a glance, still giggling.
“I’m a barbarian,” Grant said, holding his nose. “You two are over there laughing while I’m over here bleeding to death.”
“Oh, stop it,” Lucia said.
Malcolm smiled, thinking about that day.
He stepped off the sidewalk and onto the street. He was chilly suddenly, and rubbed his arms, looking south along the road. He frowned. There was someone out after all. Just down the block, facing the opposite direction was a man on a horse wearing a top hat and a cape.
Malcolm crossed the road, feeling as though he’d gone back in time. The figure was straight out of the London streets during the nineteenth century. In the same moment he thought this, the figure turned, seeing him.
Was it wearing a mask, because its face seemed made of bones?
Malcolm hurried across the street, not taking his eyes off the man on the horse. Suddenly, he knew exactly what he was looking at. He didn’t know how, but…
He was looking at Sadie’s killer.
The figure steered its horse toward him, moving now in Malcolm’s direction. Was the smile stretching wider?
Malcolm didn’t waste a second. If he lingered, he’d be dead.
He bolted down the first alley he saw. His ears burned with a strange, foreign cold. Behind him, the trot of the horse’s hooves grew louder.
Malcolm made a left into another alley behind the shops along Main Street. He panted for breath, his heart laboring in his chest, as he ran. His lungs were already raspy and dry.
The hooves grew louder, drawing closer. The man on the horse was in the alley now.
Stale, rotting garbage filled the alleyway. A yellow cat darted out of sight behind a dumpster.
He looked behind him. The thing was gaining, a grinning skull under the top hat. The cape billowed behind it. The horse was the same lifeless, soulless creature, but it was galloping at full speed.
Dead breath moved over him, as though something were plucking at his throat. Sweat trickled down his cheeks and neck.
Not sweat. That’s blood.
He slipped on the loose pebbles of the alley, his feet sailing out from under him, and collided into a chain-link fence.
Feel my pain.
Malcolm glanced over his shoulder. It was right behind him, the face a grinning skull. The horse was a lifeless, dull, matted beast. He felt like Ichabod Crane being chased by the headless horseman.
Malcolm’s eyes widened, and he scrambled to his feet, bolting down the alley again, running as fast as he could. The phantom on the horse were getting closer. He turned to look over his shoulder, and when he did, he collided once again into what felt like a brick wall.
Malcolm fell back and onto his rear. His ears were ringing. His head hit the ground hard, and he saw tiny pinpricks of light. A shadow loomed over him, then quickly vanished.
Malcolm opened his eyes, rubbing the back of his head.
He hadn’t run into a brick wall at all, but a large black man wearing a bright red flannel shirt. The man was sitting on the ground with his back against the dumpster rubbing his head like Malcolm was doing.
Malcolm blinked, sweat dripping into his eyes. He tried to catch his breath. He looked around him, but it was only the alley, he and the black man. The creature was gone, but that was impossible, wasn’t it? It had been inches behind him only seconds ago.
“That was a good collision,” the man said. “What did it do for you?”
His ears were ringing. Flies buzzed around the dumpster. Scraps of pink bone lay here and there on the ground.
“You all right, son?” the man asked, still rubbing his head. He blinked several times, then held his jaw, moving it back and forth.
Malcolm couldn’t believe the creature was gone. He looked around him still, but it was only the alley, the summer morning, and the black man.
The man stood up, rubbing dirt off his pants, and helped Malcolm to his feet, but he was still frantic.
“Easy there, son,” the man said. “Don’t take my arm off just yet. I only got two, and I like ’em right where they are.”
Malcolm winced, rubbing the back of his head still.
“You all right, boy?” the man said.
Malcolm caught his breath and tried to focus. “Thought…something,” he tried to say, and realized how stupid it would sound. “…someone was…chasing me.” He looked around, still unable to believe the phantom was gone. “I thought…”
“Well,” the man said, showing a big, toothy smile. “Nothing but a couple’a bumps and bruises it looks like. You okay?”
Malcolm nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it,” the man said. “Just a few scruff marks, but it looks like we’ll survive the holidays.”
Malcolm eyed the scraps of meat and bone scattered on the ground. The man must’ve been taking them out to the dumpster when he’d bulldozed into him. He knelt and helped gather the scraps, dropping them into a gray, plastic trashcan the man had set next to the dumpster.
“Kid sends me into La-la Land,” the man said, grinning, “then offers a helpin’ hand. Don’t worry about it now, son. I got it.”
Malcolm helped anyway, and when they were done, the man emptied the can into the dumpster.
Malcolm looked both ways down the alley. The cold was gone. The clouds parted, revealing a blue sky, but he was still uneasy. He wanted to go home, get out of the alley. What if the demon was waiting around the corner, or on the road heading home?
“Must have been high-tailin’ it pretty fast, kid,” the man said. “Didn’t even see you comin’.”
Malcolm shuffled his feet, lightly touching the back of his head. He’d have a nice lump there soon. “Mister?” he said, raising his eyebrows. He tried to think up a good lie. “Do you mind if I…I mean…could I stay in the shop with you for a little while? I ran into some bullies from school. I’d like to wait around a bit before going home.”
The man grinned, showing his white, toothy smile again. “Sure you can, son,” the man said. “I know what that’s like. Had plenty of bullies in school when I was growing up. Things haven’t changed a bit, have they? Kids always pickin’ on someone. Probably ten a’them and only one of you, and all them was three times the size, right?”
Malcolm smiled.
“Yeah,” the man agreed. “That’s always the way. Got to show off in front of their friends. Especially when it’s ten to one.” The man stopped, switched the garbage can to his left side, and thrust a massive paw out at Malcolm. “Might as well introduce myself, scholar. Name’s Jamey Argason. Steaks and burgers is my business. Pork and fowl, as well. Not the most lucrative way to make a living, but it does me fine. Who do I owe the pleasure, son?”
It must be the glasses, Malcolm thought. It was amazing they were still on his face. He pushed them onto his nose, then put out his hand. Jamey’s massive paw encircled his. The grip was firm and strong. “Malcolm Alister.”
“Malcolm, it’s a pleasure,” Jamey said, pumping his tiny hand, “Meetin’ scholars ain’t my everyday business, but it does me fine. Grace my company, boy, and let’s idle indoors.”
Despite the terror minutes before, Malcolm felt relieved.
“You like steak, Malcolm?” Jamey said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Glad to hear it,” Jamey said. He led the way, carrying the small trashcan. “Music to my ears. I don’t know if I trust a man who doesn’t like a good, tender piece of red meat. Like a sin against nature. Or cows, I guess. Them vegetarians would have a field day with that one, I suppose, wouldn’t they?”
Malcolm paused. He looked both ways down the alley before closing the door. When he did, he pulled it as tight as he could, twisting the deadbolt into place.
ii
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Hailey Patterson felt he’d done Ellishome a favor by finding that McCall boy. He deserved a reward. He should be a celebrity, ought to get his picture in the paper! All Sheriff-thumbs-up-his-ass-Bimsley did was smile and say thank you. You’d think the guy could show a little gratitude. What was the world coming to, Hailey thought?
He’d have to settle for Johnny Walker as compensation. He was doing a decent job emptying the bottle, draining it quite nicely, thank you very much, Sheriff Thumbs. He had several hiding places in which to keep his bounty. The bottle he carried now had come from under the stairs. Tanisha had found his hiding spot in the toilet tank a week ago, emptying a brand new bottle right before his glazed, incredulous stare. He could’ve killed her! Who paid the bills in this house? Who bought the groceries? She went to the bar, spending his money, and he couldn’t even have a few cocktails?
A man had to stick up for himself. A man had to be a man, but Tanisha was a tank commander! He’d brawled with her on more than one occasion. Her fist had collided into the side of his head like a wrecking ball, making him virtually do a pinwheel in the air. Hailey had lain unconscious for two full hours before he’d woken up. His dad once told him, “You can’t wrestle a tractor, Hailey,” and he’d been right.
It was eleven o’clock in the morning on Thursday. Hailey sat on the couch, the eastern light shining through the windows. Tanisha hadn’t come home again the night before.
Hailey didn’t care what she said about him drinking in the house anymore. It was time he made a stand, and he would do it with Johnny Walker Red.
He fingered one of the cigarette burns on the couch, roughly a dozen of them now from passing out with a stogy in his hand. He was lucky he hadn’t burned the house down yet.
Hailey tipped the bottle back, trying to rid the ache in his head. After several gulps, it seemed to work. He felt better instantly. Hailey was celebrating. Since Sheriff Thumbs had taken all the credit for the McCall boy, Hailey decided to have a little party of his own.
The house was in chaos. Clothes (he and Tanisha’s) lay scattered from the bedroom to the bathroom, along the back of the couch and on the living room floor. One of her bras, the size of a two-man tent, hung over the back of the dining room chair. On the counter, crushed beer cans lay alongside dishes encrusted with hardened spaghetti sauce. Torn, ripped magazines lay beside crumpled newspapers. Hailey tried to remember how the magazines had gotten there, but he drew a blank. Glasses of water, half full, were scattered throughout the house: on the coffee table, the mantel by the hallway, the niche by the door. The glasses drove Hailey crazy! Tanisha was responsible for all of them. She always filled a glass, took a drink, then left it alone. When she went back to the kitchen for another drink, she’d fill another glass, take a drink, then leave that one lying on the counter as well. All day long, another drink, another separate glass. How come she couldn’t just use the same glass throughout the day? It drove him batty!
Snapdragon Book I: My Enemy Page 12
