Northern Frights

by Arthur Slade

  To see what was inside.

  Then I heard a sharp scraping noise like a nail being drawn against glass. Digging a deep groove.

  I still couldn't budge. A cold Arctic mass of air crept into the room and was freezing me in place; slowing the blood in my veins, the thoughts in my head. I was trapped, helpless. I just stared at the shadow on the wall.

  Angie wasn't breathing anymore. At least I couldn't hear her.

  "Angie?" I whispered, my voice hoarse, my lips sluggish. It was hard to find the air to speak. "Michael?"

  They didn't answer. I tried to move my arm, to jostle Angie awake. I could only edge it slowly towards her, an inch at a time. It was becoming very hard to concentrate. I felt, oddly enough, like sleeping—that all I really needed to do was close my eyes and rest and everything would go away.

  I knew I couldn't surrender to this drowsiness. It was a sleep that would leave me in darkness forever.

  My heartbeat slowed. My eyelids grew heavier. I didn't seem to have the energy to stop them from sliding shut.

  The house creaked, even more weight was leaning on it now. The low rumbling outside the window grew louder.

  With a huge effort I moved my hand an inch to my left and touched Angie's arm.

  She was ice cold.

  "Angie," I whispered. "Angie, wake up."

  No reaction. And I couldn't find enough strength to shake her. It was getting harder and harder to stay awake. I blinked and my heavy tired eyes stayed closed for what must have been a minute.

  When I opened them again I heard a soft sliding sound.

  The window was being opened! I was sure of it. Slowly, quietly opened.

  Then came a wet, hollow breathing. My limbs, my chest, everything had stopped working. I couldn't even feel really frightened except inside my head. I had to keep myself awake. Somehow.

  The window slid higher, letting in a chilling breeze.

  And with it came colder and colder air. Not outside air, but something far different, from another age, another place. Air from cellars a hundred years old. From dark caves. From the deep undisturbed chambers inside burial mounds. Heavy with the scent of dirt. It spilled into our room.

  Every time I inhaled my lungs grew emptier so that I needed more air.

  My breathing slowed.

  My eyes closed again.

  It took all my willpower to open them, to stop the sleep from settling in on me.

  Now there was no moonlight. Only darkness. Whatever was outside the window had blocked it completely. It must be huge.

  Then came a cracking sound of boards slowly being broken as the window frame was tested. Whatever was trying to get in was too big to fit through that space. And yet it was forcing itself inside.

  I knew the boards wouldn't hold for long.

  I moved my arm closer to Angie, found her hand. It was frozen, each finger made of ice. I imagined mine felt the same. But one of those icicles seemed to move. Was she awake too? Lying as paralyzed as me?

  Maybe together, somehow, we could get out of this. Even if we could scream that would be something.

  I tried to open my mouth, to whisper to her, but my lips wouldn't budge. I concentrated on squeezing her hand, but my fingers hardly moved at all.

  A board snapped and part of the house surrendered to this outside force. Glass shattered, slowly. I could hear each creaking cracking sound like ice breaking up in spring, then the tinkling sound of the glass hitting the floor piece by piece.

  I had stopped breathing ages ago.

  Another huge wooden crack was followed by a second one. Bits of plaster fell down. Then a fourth crack and a fifth. And I knew it was almost in the room, it was succeeding.

  A smell floated into my nostrils, a stench of rotting meat and spoiled milk, of old urine and smoke. Inescapable and heavy.

  The intruder was sniffing now, probably at the edge of Michael's bed. It paused only to growl. I knew it was searching, that it couldn't quite see us yet. The window was still creaking and cracking so it wasn't all the way in the room yet.

  A window smashed in some distant part of the cabin.

  I thought I heard Michael moan in pain.

  Then Hugin started barking, outside. The deep sound of his warning brought me further away from sleep. I tried to move, but failed.

  There was a loud growl in our room, low, angry and threatening. The boards smashed and cracked. Plaster fell in on me from the ceiling.

  Doors slammed here and there inside the house—Grandpa! He yelled something I couldn't understand. A name. Or was he swearing?

  He knocked over a table. Glass shattered. Then he slammed another door. He seemed to be desperately searching for something.

  Hugin was closer now. His snarling sounded muffled. Did he have a hold of something?

  Suddenly there was a final crack of wood, a retreating throaty roar and the remains of the window slammed shut echoing through the room.

  The thing was gone. I couldn't turn my head, but I knew it had turned away from us to face the dog.

  Hugin was struggling with something—someone—just outside our room.

  I found I could move my eyes slightly, but my head refused to budge. From the angle where I was lying I could see the edge of the window and not much more. Half of the curtain had been knocked to the ground. It looked like the window had been broken along with a lot of the wall around it.

  The back door slammed. Grandpa wasn't going outside was he?

  Grandpa! Don't! I wanted to yell. Instead I just mouthed the words. My lips were too cold to move.

  But the room seemed to get warmer. Or my body was. I could move slowly. I squeezed Angie's hand.

  She squeezed back, weakly.

  Something huge slammed into the side of the house. Boards crashed, our wall shook and threatened to topple in.

  My heart started beating again. I could breathe too.

  Grandpa started yelling again. In Icelandic. Short harsh words.

  He was outside. What was he doing out there?

  I discovered I could move my neck now and I turned. The window had been smashed in, the remaining torn dirty curtains were fluttering in the breeze. I couldn't see outside. Both Angie and Michael were lying with their eyes open, their faces pale.

  "Guys ... " my voice was a hoarse whisper, my throat dry, "Can you hear me?"

  Angie gave me a muffled, "Yes."

  "I ... I can't move," Michael whispered. "Sarah, why ... can't I move?"

  "I don't know," I answered. "But I think Grandpa needs our help."

  "I dreamed something had a hold of my leg," Michael said. I could see dark blotches of dirt on his bed. "It was a dream ... wasn't it?"

  The shotgun fired.

  Something struck the cabin wall with the weight of a two ton truck. Glass shattered.

  "What was that?" Angie asked, frightened.

  Before I could answer I heard Hugin just outside our window, growling low and hard as if he had a grip on some animal that he wouldn't let go. Grandpa screamed. Hugin struggled, roaring and growling. Then he made a yipping, almost human cry of pain.

  An object hit the house. Smaller than the first time.

  The shotgun fired again.

  "What's going on?" Michael asked.

  I was trying to sit up. Unsuccessfully. "I don't know. But I have to find—"

  I was cut off by a scream.

  Grandpa was crying out, a long and painful wail that suddenly died. This was followed by a roar I knew wasn't a dog or a man.

  I could move. I reached clumsily for the key to the door, knocking it to the floor.

  I saw Michael stand up. He struggled to take the few steps to the window.

  "Don't!" I yelled.

  He looked at me.

  "You don't know what's out there," I said, then I scooped up the key and went to the door. "We ... we need to arm ourselves. We need something to protect us."

  It took a moment of fumbling to place the key in the lock. Then it wouldn't budge. "Oh n
o ... oh no," I whispered.

  I twisted and twisted.

  With a clicking sound the key turned. I quickly rotated the knob and threw open the door.

  Michael and Angie followed me into the darkened living room.

  "What's out there?" Michael asked. "Was it a bear? Did you see it?"

  "No," I answered. "But I think whatever—whoever—it is. It's really big."

  I found it hard to move. My body was still clumsy. My legs and arms were tingling.

  Michael went to the closet and found a bat. I took the hockey stick that was above the mantle and gave a steel poker to Angie. The stick felt too small in my hands. Who'd be scared of me?

  We went to the back door, stopped and looked at each other. I breathed in, my first good breath of air. "Let's do it," I said.

  Michael turned the knob.

  11.

  There was one light in the back yard, high on a pole. It seemed to have only about 40 watts of power, just enough brightness to turn everything into shadows. We took a few tentative steps outside.

  What I saw was enough to frighten me.

  A large section of the fence was broken, long thick slabs of wood looked as if they had been snapped like toothpicks. Grass was uprooted all across the yard. Then I looked to my left. Part of the cabin was caved in, boards stuck out like broken bones. It was the spare room—where we had slept. And it looked like there was blood on the wall. A large spattered black pool.

  "It's a battlefield!" Michael exclaimed. "What happened?"

  "I don't know! But we have to find Grandpa." I clutched my hockey stick tighter and started out into the yard.

  "Grandpa! Grandpa!" We yelled.

  It was hard to make sense of the shapes around me. There was too much gloom and darkness. I squinted, wondering if I should take the time to find a flashlight. There had to be one in the house somewhere. But what if Grandpa was just a few feet away, lying on the ground?

  I stumbled across a groove in Grandfather's tiny garden. It was as if something had been dragged along the earth, through the carrots and pea plants. Part of Grandpa's plaid shirt was stuck to a rake.

  I picked up the tattered cloth. It was stained with a dark wet spot. I wasn't sure if it was blood.

  My heart sped up. I followed the track, coming closer to the end of the yard.

  A few steps later I found his shotgun. The double barrel was bent upwards.

  Then I came to the edge of the fence. Boards and posts and wire were all broken and snapped, pointing inward. It was as if a bulldozer had slammed through it all. Just past that were trees and underbrush.

  I thought I could hear a rustling sound.

  "Grandpa?" I whispered. I couldn't take another step. I felt safe in the yard, in the dim light. "Grandpa?"

  The bushes moved. A twig snapped.

  I moved backward. Could I hear breathing? Deep, animal-like inhalations?

  "Do you see something?" Michael asked.

  It took me a second to find my voice. "Y-yes. We better call the police."

  I was still stepping backward, but looking ahead. Finally I turned and started running quickly towards the cabin.

  Angie and Michael followed.

  Michael slammed the door behind us and put his weight against it.

  Angie was standing behind him, her hands tight on her steel poker. "Phone the cops!" she yelled. "Phone the cops!"

  I dialed 911, hoping emergency numbers were the same in Canada as they were at home. An operator answered and I quickly told her what had happened, trying not to sound panicked. I must have spoke too fast because she commanded me to calm down and repeat everything slowly, which I did. "Make sure you stay in the house," she said, before she hung up.

  Michael was staring out the door's window. "I don't see anything," he said. "Do you know what you saw?"

  "I ... I didn't really see anything. I just ... thought I heard breathing." I paused. "I could just feel it there ... looking at me."

  "Maybe it was Grandpa," Angie suggested.

  "No. It was like an animal or something."

  I went to the living room window. The yard was still.

  "Oh ... jeez," Michael exclaimed.

  "What?" I asked.

  He was gawking down at his sleeve. There was a small gash on his upper right arm. "I must have cut myself. Not too deep but it's bleeding."

  I stayed at the back door while Angie helped him wash the wound and wrapped a handkerchief around it. I noticed Michael was limping when he returned.

  A few minutes later I could hear a siren. We went out the front door and huddled together on the driveway, holding our weapons. We looked like rejects from some sports team.

  I imagined lights flicking on and people looking out their windows as the cop car zoomed past. The whole neighborhood was probably waking up.

  A police cruiser turned into the driveway and came skidding to a halt on the gravel. The siren stopped, but they left the flashing lights on. Two officers got out at the same time, both tall, wearing dark uniforms.

  The driver introduced himself. "I'm Sergeant Roberts." He had a mustache and serious dark eyes. "Is the intruder still here?"

  "No," Michael said. "At least we don't think so."

  Then I explained quickly what had happened, adding that I thought I heard an animal just outside the fence.

  "Show me to the backyard," Roberts commanded.

  They followed us through the house and outside again. Sergeant Roberts and his partner looked around with their flashlights.

  The other officer pointed his light at the wall. It was a splash of blood. He took a few steps closer and examined it. "There's pellet shots here from a shotgun," he said.

  Sergeant Roberts was walking around shining his flashlight in different areas of the yard. He bent over and examined the shotgun. Then he walked to the edge of the fence. I watched, holding my breath, wanting to tell him not to go too far.

  He stepped past the fence line. Into the underbrush. He was shining his light there.

  "Oh dear," he said suddenly. "Oh no."

  Something in the tone of his voice frightened me. I had to see what he was looking at. I took a few steps towards him. He was pointing his light on a pile of grass and upturned dirt. I glimpsed a grey shape—but it seemed so far away—it looked like the mangled form of an animal.

  A dog. Hugin. Legs and head at crazy angles.

  Was it his breathing I had heard?

  Sergeant Roberts pointed the flashlight back at us. Blinding me. "Sandowski, you better radio for back up. We'll need some search equipment and a few more pairs of eyes. And get those kids inside."

  Officer Sandowski led us into the house and got us to sit down. "Don't move, please," he said. Angie was shaking, so he picked up a blanket and gave it to her. Then he went out to the car.

  None of us spoke. I couldn't even think straight anymore.

  A moment later Sandowski returned. "Do you three have anyplace you can stay tonight? Any other relatives close by?"

  "No," Michael answered. "We just know Grandpa. We're here for a holiday."

  "Well, I'll have to arrange for someone to come—"

  There was a sudden loud knock at the door.

  He turned, confused. He went to the front door and opened it, his hand on his holster.

  Althea, the woman from the bookstore, was standing there.

  12.

  "I will look after them, " she said. Althea stepped past the officer and into the house. She was wrapped up in a thick, grey shawl. She seemed to be glaring with her one good eye.

  Sandowski stepped back. "But ... Mrs. Thorhall. Did they phone you? I don't understand. How did you know to come here?"

  "I heard you go past my house. I live a little less than a mile away. I knew something bad had happened. Thursten asked me to take care of the children if anything went wrong." She turned towards us, squinting. "Are all of you alright?"

  I nodded. So did Michael and Angie.

  "Did Mr. Asmundson expect
trouble?" Sandowski asked.

  "He said he saw a large animal earlier this afternoon. He thought that it might be a bear. He borrowed my dog to help him track it."

  "I don't think a bear could make that much ... " He paused, looked at us then back at Althea. "Anything you could tell me would help."

  "Why don't we go in the yard for a second?" Althea suggested. "You three sit tight."

  Althea and the officer went out the back door. I could hear her talking to him, but none of the words were loud enough to comprehend. A third voice joined in: Sergeant Roberts.

  "What's going on?" Angie asked. "Does she know something?"

  I shrugged. "If she does, she doesn't want us to hear it."

  A moment later I heard Althea say, "Oh no ... oh no ... no ... not him."

  I realized they had probably told her about Hugin. There was a long period of silence, then they began talking again.

  "We're being left in the dark," Michael said. "Just because we're kids."

  The door opened. Althea came in, both officers a step behind. "That's all I really know. If you need any help, please call me."

  "We will," Sergeant Roberts promised.

  Althea gathered her shawl tighter around her shoulders. "All that's important is to get the children out of this house ... now. To let you do your work."

  "Yes," he agreed. "If you can take them that would be a big help."

  Althea turned to us. "I know this is all a little rushed, but please grab your clothes and come with me. Your grandfather phoned me earlier and asked me to look after you. Apparently you have a bus to catch tomorrow morning."

  "I'm not going on that bus," Michael said.

  Althea looked at him, calmly. "I ... understand. We can talk about that in the morning. Everything will make a lot more sense then. Please, we must go."

  Something in the tone of her voice made me believe her, made me hurry. I went to the bathroom and changed into jeans and a sweatshirt. A few minutes later we were at the door ready to go, our suitcases in hand.

  Sergeant Roberts was there. "Your Grandfather will be just fine," he promised. He didn't seem to believe what he was saying—he was just repeating a line he had practiced again and again in some police drill.