Long After Dark

by Greg F. Gifune

  Again, nothing.

  Shivering from the cold, his flu or perhaps something else, Harry turned to go back inside when he saw a small mail truck turn the corner and make its way up the street. It rolled to a stop in front of his mailbox, which was located just to the left of the foot of his driveway, and the man inside, an older guy in full postal uniform, tossed a banded stack of mail into the box. Their usual mail carrier was a young woman. Must be a weekend fill-in, he thought. Harry offered him a halfhearted wave. The mailman stared at him for several seconds, as if not quite certain what it was he was looking at, then gave a lackadaisical wave of his own.

  As the mailman swung the truck around, dropped some mail in Rose’s box, then took off, something on the mailbox caught Harry’s attention. Their mailbox was a large tan plastic model Harry had purchased a few years back after some local kids had vandalized all the metal boxes in town, including theirs. A large number five decal decorated the side of the box. He remembered putting that on there himself, but beneath it, in matching black decal letters it read: FREMONT. For some reason he had no memory of that being there before. He swallowed hard, blinked his eyes until he focused better, and hugged himself against the cold wind. He studied the name a moment. FREMONT. He knew it was spelled correctly and yet…it didn’t look right. Had Kelly added the name to the mailbox at some point? Wouldn’t he have noticed it sooner if it had been there any amount of time? How had he missed it? Or was he mistaken? Did he know about it? Had it always been there? Yeah, it—of course it’s been there all along.

  But just below the name he noticed something else, a series of strange symbols etched in black across the mailbox. Quite small, they resembled Egyptian hieroglyphics but were unlike anything he’d seen before. He rubbed his eyes and squinted, hoping for a better look.

  The strange symbols were gone.

  More confused nonsense from an exhausted mind. Relax…breathe…

  But what about the rumbling sound? He couldn’t write that off as mere confusion, he’d heard it. Though rattled, he forced himself down the driveway to the mailbox, slippers shuffling on damp pavement. It felt strange to be outdoors. The air, the light, everything was different there, and even more so on this day.

  The mail delivery consisted of a few bills, a flyer for a local department store and a card reminding him his car was due for an oil change. The last piece in the stack was a small postcard with no name, only an address scribbled across the front: 14 Beach Street. The same address he thought he’d heard Kenny mention. But there was no Beach Street in town that he knew of, and yet the address struck him like an anvil. Why did that look so familiar?

  14 Beach Street…I know it means something…why can’t I remember?

  He pawed at his eyes and looked again. This time the address was correct and printed professionally, an advertisement for a local furniture store that was going out of business. He looked closely where he thought he’d seen the other address, and then to the section of mailbox where he’d seen the symbols.

  No sign of either.

  The wind whipped down the street. Something felt wrong, out of synch. He looked around. Though he was alone, he felt anything but. Someone was watching him, he was sure of it. He could feel a presence not just nearby but all around him. In the air, the trees, the houses, the ground beneath his feet, taunting him with barely audible whispers disguised as an angry wind.

  As he started back up the driveway he had the sensation someone was coming up behind him quickly. In his head he saw a vision of the man in black running toward him as a tingling fear crashed his back, crackling up along his spine and over the backs of his shoulders. Horrified, he spun around, but there was no one there. Shaking, he remained where he was a moment, eyes darting about. “What do you want?” he whispered. “What’s happening?”

  No answer came, but the house phone began to ring.

  Harry hurried inside, slammed the door closed and locked it behind him.

  5

  He’d left the cordless on the coffee table in the den when he’d gone upstairs to change. It took him a moment to remember that but once he had Harry grabbed it and quickly checked the ID.

  Wireless caller…

  “Hello?”

  Kelly’s closest comrade Jasmine was on the line. “Sorry,” she said with such astonishment it sounded as if she’d been offended, “did I wake you?”

  “No,” Harry said, glancing behind him at the bay window. Had he seen something dart across the corner of his eye just then, a flash at the very edges of his peripheral vision? “No, I just—I’m not feeling well—I’ve got the flu.”

  “Ah. Lots of fluids and plenty of rest, kiddo, that’s the ticket.” Jasmine, who had been friends with Kelly since not long after high school, was the branch manager of a local bank. Like Kelly, she’d walked through the door at the bottom rung and clawed her way up. Beginning as a teller, she returned to college on the bank’s dime and had done quite well for herself. She and her ex-husband Dennis, a morose, balding, slump-shouldered man, had divorced two years ago. When they were still together Harry and Kelly had sometimes socialized with them as couples, but Jasmine was essentially Kelly’s friend. Harry had little in common with Dennis and whenever they got together he felt like a child on a forced play-date. It was one of the more unusual aspects of their relationship, Harry supposed. He and Kelly had few friends that were theirs. While neither had large numbers of them, for the most part, he had his friends and she had hers. When it came to Jasmine specifically, Harry didn’t harbor any particular dislike of her, he’d just never been crazy about her either, and the feeling was mutual. Still, they’d been interacting with each other for so many years they’d learned to play the game and pretend they were a lot friendlier than they actually were. “So…is Kel around?” she asked when Harry offered no response. “I tried her cell earlier but there was something wrong with her service or something.”

  “She’s out of town on business.” He found it odd Jasmine didn’t know this, as she and Kelly tended to tell each other everything. “She didn’t tell you?”

  A few seconds of silence and then: “She probably did but I’ve been so busy lately I’ve been absolutely comatose. Where in the world is she this time?”

  “San Diego.” Harry gnawed his bottom lip. Unlike most of her business trips, Kelly had announced this one only two days before she left. He hadn’t thought it strange at the time but now it made him wonder. “It was kind of a last minute thing.”

  “You know, I do think I remember her saying something about that now that you mention it.”

  Yeah, sure you do.

  Jasmine sounded like someone who had just accidentally stepped in a steaming pile of excrement and was now suggesting she’d done so purposely. “She and Aaron Searcy made the trip,” he said, testing the waters and already feeling guilty for doubting his wife again.

  “That Aaron’s a hoot, isn’t he?”

  “Yeah a real charmer.” Why are you so nervous Jasmine?

  “Oh well, no big whoop, Giancarlo and I are going to a wine-tasting later in Boston and I thought she might like to come along, that’s all.”

  “Wine tasting?”

  “You would’ve been more than welcome to come too, of course, but I didn’t really think that was your kind of thing.”

  “It’s not.” Far as he knew it wasn’t Kelly’s either.

  “I’m new to the whole thing myself,” she explained. “Giancarlo turned me on to it. He’s an absolute wizard when it comes to wine.”

  How exciting for Giancarlo. Whoever the hell that is.

  “Among other things,” she added, laughing mischievously.

  “Uh-huh. Great.”

  Since her divorce Jasmine had dated a string of men and seemed to be going through a midlife crisis that involved sleeping with as many of them as possible. Ridiculous as it seemed, could her behavior be influencing Kelly? Was Jasmine plotting to turn her against him so she could have a partner in crime on the open market
like when she and Kelly were single? “Well just let her know I called, would you? And tell her we’ll catch up when she gets back.”

  “Will do.”

  “When is she back anyway?”

  “Monday night. But if you need to reach her the cell’s working again. I just spoke to her a few minutes ago.”

  “Fabulous! I’ll give her a jingle.”

  The tone signaling call-waiting sounded in Harry’s ear. “Jasmine, I’ve got another call.”

  “No problem,” she said, sounding relieved to be on the verge of escape. “Hope you feel better, kiddo. Hugs and smooches.”

  “OK, thank you,” he said awkwardly. “Bye.” He pressed the flash button, banishing Jasmine and her spurious warmth into telephone oblivion as the line clicked over to the new caller. “Hello?”

  Silence.

  “Hello!”

  The soft static he’d heard previously returned, crackling through the line along with the muffled thumping sound. As before, they were joined by a high-pitched tone which gradually grew louder.

  “Who the hell is this?”

  Like last time, the tone slowly became an electronically distorted attempt at something similar to a badly slurred human voice. Again, the voice was male, and although it wasn’t screaming in agony like its predecessor, it was even more disturbing because it sounded so eerily familiar. As it dawned on him exactly what he was hearing, Harry realized that whatever thing was endeavoring to sound human wasn’t imitating a stranger’s voice this time, but his own.

  “Who the hell is this?” he heard the voice say back to him.

  He gritted his teeth and quickly wiped his runny nose with the back of his sleeve. “If this is a joke I don’t find it the least bit funny.”

  “If this is a joke…” The voice was swallowed by the hissing sound only to return a second or two later, the words coming slower now, like whatever was parroting him was trying to better enunciate the words. “If…this…is…a…joke…”

  The voice sounded clearer now, more human, more like him.

  “How are you doing this?” Harry asked. “Why are you doing this?”

  “…I don’t find it the least bit funny.”

  Cold fear scurried through him. The last line was nearly a perfect imitation of his voice. “Who are you? What do you want?”

  Static…thumping…odd electronic noises, pulses and clicks and squeals…

  “Answer me goddamn it! What do you want?” The volume and anger of his outburst caused a tickle in his throat that quickly escalated into a coughing fit. Short of breath, head spinning, chest rattling and vision slightly blurred, once it was over he sank down into the recliner, then returned the phone to his ear. The caller had vanished. A dial tone was all that remained.

  Ignoring the desire to throw the phone down or fire it at the wall, he placed it on the coffee table, blew his nose, then stood there without a clue as to what was happening or what he should do next. If nothing else at least there could now be no doubt that someone was screwing with him. But who? And why?

  He knew the front door was locked but checked it again anyway. Even though the deadbolt was already over as far as it could go, he tried turning it harder, as if that might somehow lock the door tighter. As he ventured back into the den he looked at his hands. They were shaking uncontrollably.

  Calm down, it’s probably just kids with electronic equipment or some jerk that gets his kicks harassing people over the telephone.

  There was no point in lying to oneself. Why then did it feel so natural to do so?

  He still couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching him. And the fear associated with it was getting worse…stronger…more palpable.

  He turned to the bay window. It hadn’t rained in a while but was still overcast and dreary out. He took a long sip of coffee. It had turned lukewarm. If only I could clear my mind enough to think just a bit more clearly, maybe I could make some sense of all this, I—

  A shadow darted across the window, a dark blur flying past so quickly he didn’t have time to discern exactly what it was, but for just an instant it blocked out the light before disappearing as rapidly as it appeared.

  Harry didn’t realize he’d dropped the mug until it hit his foot and spilled coffee all over the floor. He stepped back, away from the window, and lied to himself again.

  Maybe it was a bird, a—a blackbird—or a piece of debris riding the wind. That has to be it, what—what else could it be?

  The wind blew. The house creaked. His heart beat faster.

  Though fearful whatever had gone by might lunge out and shoot past again at any second, Harry forced himself back to the window regardless. Warily pressing the side of his face to the pane, he cocked his head in an attempt to better see the sky.

  An empty gray canvas. Nothing more.

  He wondered now if he’d made a mistake not telling Kelly he’d phoned the police about the man on the roof. He looked across the street to Rose’s place. No man in black. No man at all.

  But you’re there, aren’t you. Somewhere close. Watching...

  He hurried to the kitchen, pulled a couple paper towels from the roll and returned to the den to clean up the coffee spill. The mug had broken, the handle severed, so he scooped up the entire mess and threw it away. After checking to make sure the coffeemaker had sufficiently warmed the coffee still in the pot, he poured himself a fresh mug.

  He checked the back door. It too was locked, just as before.

  Back in the den he tried the French doors. They were locked, but there was something just beyond them. There, on the patio.

  The coyote was back.

  * * *

  As it had the night before, the sudden appearance of the animal froze Harry in his tracks. In daylight it still looked wildly out of place in the backyard, but not nearly as mysterious. Like a midsize dog or perhaps a small wolf, the coyote was thin but clearly powerful and fast, its coat a blend of short tan and black fur. The ears were pointed, its snout long and tapered, nose wet and black, and its tail a bit bushy. Its golden eyes gave a slow blink, acknowledging Harry and meeting his gaze with one of even greater intensity.

  His entire body trembled.

  Christ, buck-up and stop being such a pussy.

  But fear wasn’t entirely to blame. Perhaps it was physical exhaustion, the coffee-jitters or a combination of the two mixed with the relentless chills and shivering brought on by his flu—he couldn’t be sure—but a curious tremor shook him from head to toe like a subtle current of electricity.

  The coyote watched him, silently imploring once again. Help me. Please help me.

  It seemed the perfect metaphor, this exotic and rarely seen animal so clearly and unapologetically in his presence, this living creature that occupied many of the same or nearby spaces he did, a being that was without question real and literal—flesh, bone, blood and spirit—yet almost always disguised as a vague feeling, a whisper of sound, a dark blur in the corner of one’s eye. It lived among them but went largely unnoticed, almost completely hidden, there and yet not there, leaving behind only scraps of evidence that they even existed at all. Shadows in the night, noises in the darkness, howls in the distance, it was a phantom not of fantasies, nightmares or relegated to legend, but the genuine article, indisputably alive, actual.

  Were there others…could there be others that lived among them as well? Existing in secrecy, using the impossibility of it all to their advantage, undetected and noticed only in the most extreme or unusual circumstances, and even then denied or dismissed as something else? And if so, were these others predators too? Predators of such savagery that even an animal as fearless as a coyote cowered in their presence?

  Normally Harry would’ve laughed at such a concept, considered it asinine and reserved for people who liked to indulge in silly theories best left to UFO nuts and conspiracy loons. But after nearly three full days without sleep, his mind was opening, perhaps even expanding, and though the fear was rising, there was something
unexpectedly cleansing about it as well. He was exhausted, yes, and he wasn’t thinking clearly in a traditional sense, but it wasn’t as simple as all that, and the longer he stayed awake the clearer that became. Maybe they weren’t nuts and loons after all. Maybe some were, but surely not all. To completely disbelieve something was just as ignorant and implausible as completely believing something, wasn’t it? Using UFOs or ghosts as an example, to suggest that every sighting was completely and rationally explainable was just as moronic as suggesting every sighting was without question a flying saucer from a distant planet or a spirit from another dimension. At the end of the day no one really knew a whole lot of anything for sure. Like it or not, there truly were mysteries in life. There were those who believed in life after death and those who scoffed at the idea. But neither really knew for sure. That was the reality. Of course there were the true believers who thought everything was real and often refused to acknowledge facts to the contrary, and the totally closed-minded (who often falsely labeled themselves “skeptics”) who refused to accept anything as real and approached everything from a point of disproving it rather than having an even remotely open mind. The truth, as in most things, Harry felt, was more than likely somewhere in the middle.

  Maybe a lot of people denied the reality of most things outside their realm of understanding because it was easier to do so. Certainly the world was a far less frightening place if one had all the answers. But there were always things that went bump in the night, and there always would be. They might be the wind, or a branch brushing a window, or the settling of the house, or a car’s headlight distorted and slinking along the wall. Or they might not be. Either way, surely it was safer to believe the former. Perhaps it was why many never investigated a strange noise in the night, not because they were sure of what it was, but because they were unsure of what they might find instead.