As I stared at the unmoving face in front of me, the darkness dissipated and I could see a crooked grin.
It was a carved pumpkin sitting on a tall bureau up against the wall. I almost laughed when I realized what I had touched.
It was wearing Lonny’s toupee.
He had been there.
Here was proof. But proof of what? I wasn’t sure. I only knew I had to let Hooper know. But how? I surely couldn’t tell him I snuck in here and found it. He’d never believe me. He’d think I planted it.
I stood there in the darkness, trying to think of what to do next, when I noticed deep breathing coming from behind me.
For the second time inside that house, I froze. Everything was silent except for that sound of inhaling and exhaling, so clear I could practically feel it on the back of my neck.
Slowly I turned around, sure of whom I’d see.
Nobody was there. Only the breathing.
I thought maybe Jason followed me in here and the breathing would soon turn to a ghostly laughter. But then I noticed the sound came from behind the partially opened door on the other side of the hallway.
I walked toward it, moved the door open just a little, and peeked in.
Up against the back wall, in the middle of a queen-sized bed, lay an enormous sleeping woman. Her body covered the bed nearly from side to side. Her bloated form swelled from her chest up into her face so you couldn’t even tell where her neck ended and her chin began. Great sucking sounds of air were drawn deep into her cavernous nostrils and exited just as loudly, her whole body rising and falling in rhythm.
I watched her hypnotically, till I was jolted out of my trance by a sudden burst of static.
It came from a walkie-talkie on a bedside table.
“I coming home, Ma!” came Carrothead’s screeching voice.
The old lady stirred but did not waken.
I started to back out of the doorway when the static buzzed again.
“Can you hear me, Ma? I coming up the driveway!”
Oh shit.
I backed into the hallway, looking around, wondering where to go. I didn’t see a back door. I stepped into Carrothead’s room and shut myself in just as I heard the front door bang open.
I’m trapped.
I leaned against the wall and looked across the room at the window on the opposite end.
I heard footsteps shuffling and I bounded across the space, momentarily thinking about grabbing Lonny’s toupee and shoving it in my pocket but then decided against it.
As I quickly made my way across the spongy carpet, I stumbled over something, muffling a cry of surprise as I nearly fell against the window.
The glass opening looked tiny as I threw up the sash, doubting I’d ever be able to get past it, but somehow, sheer panic forced my body through the cavity just as I heard the door opening behind me.
I dropped to the ground and pressed my body up against the rough clapboards. Carrothead must have heard me banging around because I could hear him cross to the window, quicker than I ever imagined he could move, and as I tried to make myself as much a part of the side of the house as possible, I could see his head peer out from the edge of the window.
I dared not move as his face turned from side to side, scanning the shadows beyond the house. I felt a small drop of drool land on my cheek, but I suppressed an urge to wipe it away in disgust. Soon, his head popped back into the room and the window slammed shut. I waited a second longer and then sprinted away, rubbing my cheek as I went. I ran from that house like I did those many years ago, half expecting his steel-like arms to wrap around me and squeeze the air from my lungs.
When I was back at my room at the inn, I sat on the edge of my bed, thinking, wondering what it all meant, wondering what to do. There was no way to explain to Hooper my discovery of Lonny’s toupee. The typewriter sat cold and silent on the desk, a machine waiting for its engine to be revved up again. Maybe I could write a solution for my dilemma, explain away Carrothead’s possession of the toupee.
I fell back against the mattress, hoping its comfort would soften my frustration. My eyes traversed the tin pattern above me until my lids became heavy. I closed them for only a second.
I dreamt.
In the dream, I was running through the ravine. It was nighttime, the moon was obscured by black clouds. I picked my way through the ravine, being careful but trying to be quick.
Something was chasing me.
I could not see what it was. All I saw behind me was a shadowy figure with a misshapen head.
I veered around bushes, ducked beneath limbs, stumbled over exposed roots, all the time glancing behind me to see the thing gaining, moving slowly, methodically, but gaining ever so slightly.
I bolted out of the ravine to the yards behind the houses on Elm Street. I stopped, for just a moment, turning around and looking back into the darkened ravine. I didn’t see the thing emerge from the misty blackness. Maybe it had stopped. There came a thrashing from the branches and I realized it was still coming.
I sprinted around to the front of one of the houses and ran to the door. It was Chief Hooper’s home. I pounded on the door with my fists, yelling and screaming for him to open it. After a moment, the shade on the window beside me lifted. I saw Hooper looking out at me, his fat face grinning, food particles embedded in his teeth. I screamed for him to let me in. He laughed and slowly pulled the shade down.
I looked left and saw the shape coming across the lawn toward me. I turned and ran across the street screaming the whole way, hoping someone would come help me, but all the houses were dark and quiet.
I ran toward the Pines, mounting the hill, feet digging into the ground. The climbing was slow, as if my legs were weighted. I glanced over my shoulder and saw it right behind me, climbing up the hill. I looked away, continued moving up, thinking any second it would reach and grab me by the ankles and drag me back down.
I scrambled to the top, out of breath. I was hunched over in a clearing amongst the pine trees, leaning up against the big boulder at the top. I tried to suck in air but not much came. I couldn’t run any more. I would make a stand here.
The thing came upon me, standing over me. I looked at it. A cloud moved away from the moon and light streaked down between the trees and shone on the thing’s head. It had the dead, rotting head of a lamb on its shoulders. Flies crawled all over it; maggots weaved their way throughout its molted fur.
I stared in fright, heart racing. But then I mustered the courage to do something. If I was going to die, I had to see.
I reached up and pulled off the lamb’s head.
I screamed in horror.
The face beneath the lamb’s head was my own.
I awoke.
I lay in my bed, staring at the dark ceiling above me. My hands gripped tight to the sides of the mattress. My breathing was hard; sweat dampened my flesh. It was hot in the room. I needed air, needed to open the window. I looked to my right and through the darkness could see the window was open. I sat up in bed.
I heard a creak to my left.
In the shadows I could see the closet door was open about six inches.
Strange. I didn’t recall using the closet at all since I’d arrived. All my clothes were in the bureau and I was sure I’d placed my jacket over the back of the desk chair. I had hung nothing in the closet, and I didn’t recall the door being open. Not that I’d really paid much attention to it till now. Its gaping opening stared back at me like a sinister grin.
Was that where the creaking had come from?
I had a strong urge to either run over there and fling the door open the rest of the way, (Don’t open it; Don’t open it) or to slam it shut and hold it tight. But I didn’t do either.
I stared at it, almost daring it to move. It didn’t. Through the dark crack, I thought I could see the outline of a jacket. I must have hung it in there without realizing it.
I looked over to the desk. There was my jacket hung over the chair.
I didn’t want to look back at the closet, wanted to only crawl into the bed and pull the covers up over my head. But I did look back.
The door pushed open.
I sat frozen on the bed.
A figure walked slowly out.
I couldn’t move. My mouth opened but nothing came out, not a single breath.
The figure approached, slowly, not at all in a threatening manner. I finally found control over my muscles and stood up. Light coming through the window from a street lamp outside fell on the floor and cut a path through the fog between us. The figure stepped into that light and I saw its face.
It was Woody.
He stopped a couple of feet before me and looked at me, but it was almost like he couldn’t see me. His eyes were glassy and distant. He looked thin, thinner than when I had seen him at the asylum. His skin was practically stretched over his bones. His clothes were filthy, covered with remnants of dead leaves and pine needles, as if he had been sleeping in the woods.
“Woody?” I said, my voice a hoarse whisper. I was scared, but I didn’t know what to do. Even though I was afraid, I didn’t really feel threatened by him.
He reached a hand out, an empty hand, but the effort seemed too hard and it dropped back to his side.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
He did not respond, just stared at me, his jaw slack, eyes unblinking.
Then it looked as if he were about to speak. His mouth opened slowly, wide. No words came out but a long brown worm did.
I was about to scream but my own voice was driven mute from shock. His body pitched forward, and I reached my arms out to catch it. It was light and lifeless. I held tight to him, so tight that my hands sunk into his back, right through his flesh.
Once again my mouth opened to scream, but once again the words and voice were lost. His legs buckled and I tried to maintain my hold. His flesh began peeling away from his bones. The front of his body split wide open and intestines and stomach spilled out onto the floor. I looked at his face and saw his lips peel back from his teeth, an eyeball slide from its socket. I tried to adjust my grip, tried to hold him together, but I couldn’t. He was decomposing right in front of me.
I let go and his whole body collapsed to the floor, bones poking up through tatters of flesh, innards lying in an oozing pile. An eyeball still looked at me, the teeth in his skull opening and closing as if trying to speak to me.
I stumbled backwards onto the bed and sat there, shaking, my face in my hands, crying in heaving sobs.
God, what’s happening here?
I took my hands away and looked to the floor.
There was nothing there. Never had been. I knew now that Woody was not here.
I gulped deep breaths of air as my breathing slowed to normal. My body was covered in sweat, my head ringing.
What time was it?
I looked to the small clock on the nightstand beside the bed but it was no use. It wasn’t working.
A faint sound came from beyond the open window and I went to it and paused.
It was a soft, stuttering, pinging sound. I knew where it came from. It was the sound of Mr. Under carving a name onto a headstone. (Lonny’s?) Each stroke felt like a chisel of ice chipping into my spine.
It reminded me of something I had to do.
I grabbed a pen and piece of stationery from the bedside table, sat at the desk and quickly, with just a slight pause to refresh my memory, scribbled a few lines. I then threw on some clothes and left the room.
Once outside I walked at a quick pace, as if I were in a race with time. As if the sands were running out of an hourglass and smothering me.
As I walked along the boardwalk toward the center of town, I looked up at the sky. A fat, swollen yellow moon hung over the lake, seemingly ready to burst. Beneath it, sitting in his rowboat in the middle of the water, was Professor Bonz. I smiled.
I crossed the boulevard and Main Street to the opposite sidewalk. I walked past the closed shops until I got to Mr. Under’s place.
A bell rang over the door as I opened it. I walked to the counter and looked over at Mr. Under who sat at his work table. A wide smile broke over his face when he looked up and saw me.
“Are you next?” he asked.
There was an ominous familiarity about the question.
“I hope not,” was all I could think to reply.
He got up from his chair and approached the counter, leaning his angular frame forward in an almost leering manner, smile never leaving his face.
“I’ve been following the events up at the Tower House,” he said.
“They haven’t been very pleasant.”
“There’s a lot in life that isn’t very pleasant.”
There was a chalky smell of dust in the air. I looked around the small shop. Even though he had stopped working, I could still hear a pinging in my head.
“You’re working late,” I commented.
“Business has been good.” His smile would not subside.
“And that makes you happy?” I queried.
“It keeps me busy. I like being busy.”
“Then I can help you out.” I removed the piece of paper from my pocket. “I have something for you.” I handed it to him.
“Something – for me?” He took it in his hands with childlike glee. “What is it?”
“My epitaph.”
He looked at me queerly, smile fading this time, and unfolded the paper. As his eyes moved over the words, I envisioned them as I had written them. My full name on the top, with my birth date beneath it. Then a few lines below that, six short words.
He looked up at me. “The second date is missing.”
“I’ll leave that for you to fill in later.”
He glanced back down at the paper and read out loud the last line: He was a teller of tales.
He looked up at me and his smile returned. “I like tales. How about telling me a tale?”
I thought about the stack of pages sitting on the desk in my room at the inn.
“I can’t,” I replied. “I haven’t finished it yet.”
I stepped onto the sidewalk. The realization that I hadn’t really seen Woody made what I had to do – fast — clear to me. I looked up and down the street. It was quiet. Then I noticed a figure standing in the gazebo. It gave me a chill. Not again, I thought.
The figure waved to me.
It was Carrothead.
“Hullo,” he called as he continued waving.
I thought about going over and talking to him, find out what he saw at the ballpark, ask him about the toupee. But then I thought it best to avoid him. There was something else I wanted to do.
I walked down the sidewalk, ignoring him. He continued to call out to me.
As I passed the Loon Tavern, I paused and glanced in the window. I scanned the inside of the bar. Nick the barber was in there, sitting by himself at a table, dark spots covering the front of his smock. He was probably waiting for Mr. Under to join him.
Then I noticed Oliver sitting at the bar talking to a woman. When the woman turned her head, I noticed it was Mary. I felt a twinge of jealousy, but I couldn’t bother with that now. I had something to do. Now was my chance if I hurried.
I crossed the street and headed toward the direction of the inn. Behind me, Carrothead was still calling out to me, becoming fainter until, by the time I reached the inn, I could either no longer hear him or he had given up on me.
When I entered the inn, I greeted Bob Wolfe behind the counter and headed up the stairs. I could feel his suspicious eyes on me the whole way up the first flight. And I don’t know how it was possible, but when I passed by the moose head, those eyes followed me too.
All the rooms were dark on the second floor. Professor Bonz was still out on the water. Mary was at the bar with Oliver.
I continued up to the third floor and went straight to the stairway that led to the tower room and headed up to the door at the top. When I opened it and walked inside, I had the strange sensation
I was stepping into a trap.
This was too easy.
I looked around the room, trying to decide where to start first. It was dark, so I went to the window and lifted the shade to let in what light was thrown from the moon and the street lamps outside. I didn’t want to turn the light on inside. It would be like a beacon in a lighthouse tower from the outside.
I decided to start with the dresser. I wasn’t sure exactly what I was looking for. A weapon is what I was hoping to find, maybe the same hunting knife Oliver used to always carry with him as a kid, but anything would do. Anything that could resemble some kind of evidence. Something to make me believe Carrothead innocently took Lonny’s toupee.
Knowing now that I had not been seeing Woody around made one thing clear. From the beginning it had seemed Woody was the obvious choice as the killer because he had been in a mental asylum. That coupled with his mysterious disappearance. But Woody was not at Acorn Estates because he was crazy. He was there because of a physical condition brought on by a psychological problem.
Oliver on the other hand, I truly believed had a sick, twisted mind. I think it had been like that since his childhood.
There was nothing in the drawers and I quickly moved on to the closet. I was trying to proceed as fast as I could. I did not like being here. The closet yielded nothing, and I checked the desk and under the bed and mattress. Nothing. This whole idea was futile. I felt like an idiot. Did I think I was some kind of detective? Even Hooper wasn’t this stupid.
I stood in the middle of the room, staring at the window and the night beyond it, frustrated. I had wanted to find something – anything – that I could bring to Hooper and stop Oliver.
Then, for the second time that day, I was frozen by the sound of breathing behind me.
I prayed to God it was my own I was hearing but realized I was holding my breath. I felt like I was in a state of suspended animation. I turned in the slowest motion possible. Standing in the dark behind me was Oliver.
“Looking for something?” he said.
Jokers Club Page 21
