"Well, I think the whole place looks a lot better, Mom,” Lee offered, obviously sucking up as a defense as he twisted back around into his original position slumped over in the chair.
"You've done a great job, honey,” Ted agreed, giving Maggie a squeeze.
"Well you just wait ‘til the new furniture comes,” Maggie said, her face almost seeming to glow. “It'll be a whole new house. You'll see."
Lee didn't go right back to his book; he took some time to look around, trying to remember what the room had looked like the last time he'd visited his grandmother. It seemed like every square inch of the walls had been covered with pictures.
Thinking about it, he concluded that Maggie's replacing many of the dour old photographs with framed lithographic prints had made the biggest difference in the room. That was one of the few perks his dad had from working at Morrison Printing. Whenever they produced an attractive art print or limited edition lithograph, a copy always found its way to their walls. Maggie had hung her favorite, the classic copy of Blue Boy, on the wall by the dining room table, and a couple of the still lifes of flowers and fruit were up as well. There was one of a man in waders, fly fishing for trout on a beautiful mountain brook, which had been a favorite of his dad at the house on Keystone. For some reason it was conspicuously missing here.
Lee knew though, that before Maggie's purge there had been a wealth of photographs on his grandmother's walls featuring Darva Anne, his mother. He had always been interested in looking at them when he visited Grandma Bonham, as there were none at his house. To follow along the walls in the hallway had been to watch a chronology of Darva's young life. There were pictures of her as an infant, one of her as a toddler wearing only a diaper while playing in the sand at a beach, and one of her in her Lenoir High cheerleader's outfit frozen in mid air as she preformed a cheer. But there was one which especially had captured his attention. It was of his mother as a little girl, dressed for a Fourth-of-July celebration. She was standing with Lee's broadly grinning grandfather and holding a small American flag in one pudgy hand and a Coca-Cola bottle in the other. From the view captured in the background, it had obviously been taken at a visit to the Ballard house long before all the beautiful cherry trees had been ruined. It was still hanging in the hall. He figured Maggie would get around pretty soon to taking down all those pictures in the hall. He planned, when the timing was right and Maggie was in a good mood, to ask if he could have that one to put up in his room, though he hadn't quite thought of the diplomatic way to approach the subject yet. He never ever talked to Maggie about his mom and only rarely broached the subject with his dad when Maggie wasn't around.
Finishing the catalog, Ted tossed it on the coffee table atop the spreading pile of others. Maggie pulled herself out from under his arm and stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray. She stood up, stretching her arms out wide, her fingers splayed.
"Who'd like some lemonade?"
"Me! Me! I do!” Patty screamed only a hair's breath before Lee.
She smirked at him and stuck out her tongue, knowing she'd won.
Maggie gingerly stepped over her husband's outstretched legs to make her way to the kitchen. Ted took advantage of her situation and playfully caught her square across her butt, landing his hand on her tight jeans with a resounding pop.
"How ‘bout some fresh squeezed?” he grinned, his hand lingering.
"I'll give you fresh squeezed!” She peeled his hand from her bottom and caught him in the face with a pillow she'd snatched from the arm of the sofa. Before he could retaliate, she scampered from the room, escaping to the safety of the kitchen.
"Hey Dad,” Lee asked, for at least the tenth time that evening. “You think we're really going to be able to watch the new T.V. this Saturday night?"
"Well let's see,” his Dad played along, as excited to talk about the T.V. as were his kids. “Tomorrow's Friday. The antenna base should be dry by then. We've got to let it dry good, so the pole won't wobble in the wind. Saturday, Uncle Ed's coming over with his big ladder to help hang it and run the wires."
Like Maggie earlier, his dad's face had that happy look Lee liked to see but had almost forgotten until just recently. He looked up at the ceiling as though he was considering something gravely important and rubbed his evening stubble with one hand. “I guess we should have it up and running ‘bout the time you kids go back to school in September."
"Awww, Dad!” Patty and Lee chorused together, loving every second of it.
"I don't see why we can't turn it on right now,” Patty pouted. “It's plugged in."
Ted had his own exasperated look, surprisingly similar to Maggie's. “I told you, Baby; the antenna's like a net. It catches the pictures as they fly through the sky. No net. No pictures."
Patty had heard this before and didn't like the answer any more now than she had a half hour ago, or yesterday, for that matter.
Interrupting, the phone rang. Ted got up, using his hands on his knees to pull up, and walked over reluctantly and picked the receiver up from where the phone hung on the wall.
"Yell-o,” he always liked to say.
It was the print shop.
"Lee, go over to the table and get my satchel,” he said, pinning the receiver between his ear and his shoulder and pointing to the large leather bag on the table. “Hang on, Terry, if you can't find your copy I can read you off the type changes they made this afternoon."
The only person who was on call more than his dad was Dr. Beutel or maybe the Sheriff. It seemed that if his dad wasn't working late, he was on the phone, going over last minute page changes or ink color formulas. They never left him alone even calling at three o'clock in the morning and on Sundays. Lee vowed the last thing he would ever be was a printer. Unlike his dad, at least the doctor made good money for all his aggravation.
He handed his dad the bag, then took his place back in the chair picking back up his book.
Maggie came into the room holding up a pitcher only slightly full at the bottom with fresh squeezed lemon juice. “Bad news kids. We're out of sugar."
"Aw, Mom!” Patty griped, as though her entire world was coming to an end. “You promised!"
"Ted.” She held the pitcher up and waggled it at him. “Can you run down to the icehouse and pick me up a bag of Imperial Pure Cane?"
He juggled the phone and covered the mouthpiece. “I can't, honey. Terry doesn't know his ass from a hole in the ground."
"Just drive in to work and take care of it, then pick me up a bag on the way home,” she suggested. “We've got a car now, you know."
"Hang on Terry. Just a second.” Ted placed the receiver against his shirt. “If I go in now, you won't be having any lemonade until tomorrow night at the earliest. Send Lee."
"Would you honey?” Maggie put on her sweet voice.
"I'm grounded. Remember?"
"Come on Lee. We haven't had lemonade since forever,” whined Patty. “You're just lazy."
"I am not,” Lee fired back. “It's about fifty miles to Little's."
"It's not that far to Little's,” Maggie came back. “I'd go, but you know that I don't like to drive at night. I would think you'd want to get out after being stuck here all week."
"Aww, Mom. It's kinda late.” Lee knew he was losing.
Actually, he was used to being sent out to run errands. After his dad's wreck and they'd lost their car, Maggie had sent him out constantly for a pack of cigarettes, a bag of this or a bottle of that. Of course, it had been a lot easier to just ride to the Lucky Seven. But that was before his bike had been stolen. For the past few months, since he'd come out to the bike rack at school and found it gone, he'd been on foot.
"You're just a lazy bone,” sneered Patty.
"Okay, okay, I'll go,” Lee gave in, throwing his book down.
"Let me give you a dollar, honey,” Maggie smiled. “You can get yourself some peanuts or a candy bar as a treat. Something for Patty, too. How ‘bout that?” Maggie was already rummaging in her purse on
the table by the door.
Lee grudgingly took the money and scuffed his new PF Flyers on the floor, making sharp squeaks until he was out of the door. Immediately, upon stepping out into the light on the porch he was hit in the face by a stupid, fat June bug, which had been circling the light.
"Damn, bug!” he said, swatting it away.
"What did I hear?” Maggie's voice carried through the screen door.
"Nothing,” Lee grumbled. She didn't usually make him wash out his mouth with soap for just saying damn, but he never could be too sure.
Maggie came to the screen. “Don't forget to bring me back the change!"
Lee walked down the steps, and the light of the porch died away quickly. The big, green Ford seemed huge out on the drive, waiting patiently in the deeper shadows under the spreading oaks.
"I sure wish I could drive,” thought Lee, as he walked past the car.
It was a beautiful, green and white ‘58 Ford Fairlane, with wide white wall tires and enormous chrome bumpers front and back that must weigh at least half a ton. Now that they had a car again, he was looking forward to getting back to some of the things they'd missed. Tops on his list, was resuming the family trips out to the Thunderbird drive-in theatre on Friday or Saturday nights.
It was not quite pitch black outside near the house, but close. Overhead, the bright carpet of stars speckled the sky from one horizon tree line to the next. The line of huge oak and pine trees, separating the edge of their property from the Ballard estate, could be made out as black silhouettes against the dark eastern sky. On the other side of the trees, the serious darkness already draped down, spreading out to cloak the ground below the slightly rustling leaves.
Lee stepped out of the drive and could only just barely make out the gray gravel of Seminole Road below. Still though, the slight breeze felt cool, as the house had been hot. And to tell the truth, he was sick of being stuck inside helping Maggie all day.
He began to run.
Somewhere near the end of their property the last of the light from the porch faded away completely, and he was all alone out in the dark.
Each step crunched out loudly as Lee picked up his speed to a loping trot, moving quickly down the narrow gravel road. Little's Icehouse was more than a mile away at the intersection where Seminole Road met the highway. It was still too early in the summer for the cicadas to be plentiful in the trees, so it was the enveloping silence of the darkness, amongst the sighs of the whispering leaves, of which he was the most aware.
Lee liked to run, especially in the summertime. It just felt wonderful to feel the air slipping past his ears and to get that rhythm going with his breathing, his feet and the swing of his arms. But for some reason this was different. He had this awareness of himself out in the darkness unlike anything he'd experienced before, and like being apprehensive in church, with a rumbling, hungry stomach, something told him the quieter the better.
Out in the night, it was as though the world had changed; as if suddenly what he had known was no longer there, and now there was a new set of rules, which had taken hold when he passed beyond the point where the darkness deepened all the way to a thick pitch black.
It was a cold, curious feeling, like diving deep down in the river and suddenly coming across a cooler current of water lurking below. It closed in around him, encircling him immediately after he'd left the tree line behind which marked the end of his own yard, and the beginning of the long stretch of the Ballard's frontage down Seminole Road.
Without realizing it, Lee unconsciously picked up his pace, swinging his elbows back further and moving a step or two faster than he had been just a moment before. He was conscious though, of every footfall. Stretching out further with each stride, he tried to let his steps land more softly, respecting the eerie silence, which had fallen all around him and taken him in.
A vagrant breeze swirled by out of nowhere, brushing lightly across the side of his hot cheek. He could feel the sweat beginning to trickle down his ribs. It felt hot, or maybe cold; it was hard to tell exactly, just right now.
Lee stared out into the pitch darkness, concentrating on his running, and trying not to concentrate on a growing feeling of dread.
Maybe it was only the disturbing jumble of severed limbs jutting up from the thick, black shadows which caught his attention from out of the corner of his eye. Whatever it was, an uneasy and apprehensive feeling washed through him, sinking low in his stomach, as well as tickling the exposed hairs now standing on the back of his neck.
Lee ran. Swinging his arms and keeping his breath steady to pace himself, he ran, and ran, and ran.
Without any warning, but with a sure and subtle change in tone, the silence became suddenly more real as he felt the darkness coalesce and come alive both in front and behind. Even more disturbing, Lee had become aware of a fretful change in the night air itself. It was as though all around, the darkness was listening to the echoes of his steps, measuring each footfall, sizing him up.
Feeling tiny, naked and so utterly alone and exposed, a sharp prickle shivered up his back.
What is it about the things you don't hear with your ears, that don't really make a sound, but that you have to swear to yourself you didn't really hear?
What in hell was that? Lee started, acutely alert.
Alert for what?
He couldn't see a damn thing.
Flashing in his mind, in another of those peculiar visions of self-awareness, it was almost as though he could see himself, and a wave of desperation washed over him. So intense was the emotion, that in spite of the risk of breaking his rhythm, he looked back over his shoulder, back towards the distant yellow point winking between the trees, which was all that remained of the light from home.
Whatever it was he hadn't heard; he was sure he heard it again. Closer this time. Maybe even all around.
He strained his eyes into the pitch darkness. Is there something ahead?
Crazily, it was so quiet, Lee had become self-conscious of the sound of his own heavy breathing, punctuating the staccato of his shoes pounding down the gravel. And as the unease changed into fear, something instinctual cried out for inside him to be silent.
His fists were clenched solid. His arms pumped the air, and the drumming in his ears seemed as loud as the beating of his feet. He'd seen nothing, felt nothing, heard nothing, but he wasn't about to stop and catch his breath. Something told him if he did, that breath would be his last.
To the right, deep and away, the wretched dead branches crowning the mangled trees, tilted crazily against the lighter black of the starry sky. Each one stood stark still, watching, witnessing.
Are they really still?
He wasn't about to look.
He didn't need to look. Lee could sense it; the Ballard house was back in there, unseen, yet definitely there. The night, flowing around him like some awful river of woe, seemed to release itself, rushing out from where it had been hiding amongst the rows of dead trunks, drawing strength from the rot and pulling something awful up and out of the earth. And as if embodied in a tangible chill amongst a sea of blistering heat, whatever it was that had been released rushed out and poured out on to the road.
It's a dog! Lee thought desperately, now positive he wasn't alone. Maybe Sticker's got loose. That's what it is. But as soon as he thought it, he knew this wasn't any damn dog.
Did something move? God! It's behind me! Right behind me! The heat around him was growing almost unbearable. The air whistling past his ears was sharp and searing. Lee was drenched and soaked in his own sweat. And in his stomach, his adrenaline was burning, knotting into bile and creeping up his throat.
Lee, not slowing down for an instant, strained his eyes, but couldn't see a damn thing in the dark. Even the stars seemed to have gone away.
Oh, Lord. What the hell is it? Flashed in his mind as he tried to grasp at any possibility, anything other than the fear.
Lee's feet kept up the wicked pace, his sneakers flying through the dark.
For just a moment, he almost forced himself to stop. Instinctually, he had this flash. This wasn't fear, but anger. What the hell is it? He wanted to look behind, to confront what ever it was, to take the first swing, if that was what it was going to take.
But he didn't. He didn't dare.
Ahead, coming up to his right, he could just make out the grayish break in the shadows where the Ballard drive joined the road. Again, he reached inside himself, finding a reserve and picked up speed. Somehow he hoped that the line marking the drive was a point that desperately needed to be crossed. He told himself that certainly whatever was after him would then surely have to leave him be.
Lee had never experienced night terrors, unlike Patty, who'd always been afraid of the dark. Even at school, no matter who it was, how old they were, or how big they were, he always stood his ground, giving or taking his lumps, without a thought to running away. When he had done something wrong and had to wait for his dad to come home, he would feel anxious, even worried, but never afraid, and certainly nothing like this awful and almost overpowering sense of dread. This was something for which he wasn't prepared. The strength of the awareness of a terrible presence so close was almost overwhelming.
A taste of bitter brass crept up behind his tongue. He realized he was beginning to grow tired, and if he kept up this pace, pain was about to take hold.
But he wasn't about to slow down. Whatever it was, God, it was right behind! He could feel the intensity, the very ugliness in the glee of such a hateful thing.
Oh, no! It's drawing closer!
Lee flashed the drive and flew on, now only two pounding strides between the burn of each crashing breath.
The horror gripped him. Passing the drive it had not relented. For the briefest of moments, again, he thought of stopping, of fighting. But the instinct for self-preservation wouldn't let him. To run like this was a battle all its own.
That's what it wants. It wants me to give up. Give in.
It must be reaching out wheeling its arms and snatching at him as he ran; something tugged, momentarily drawing back upon edge of the hem of his flapping shirt.
Evil Heights, Book I: The Midnight Flyer Page 7
