Destroyer of Worlds

by Daniel G. Keohane

  He nodded. “Yeah. You do websites, right?”

  “As a side. Lately I’ve been trying my hand at computer-based art.” She laughed lightly, pushing her chin out as she did. She was quite beautiful. “I’m a bit flighty when it comes to the right side of my brain. Got tired of oils, and you can only get so much artistic satisfaction from making jewelry. In my mind, at least.”

  Samantha looked around the room. “Did you paint any of these?”

  “All of them. Not great, I know, but they remind me of the moments I painted them. They were good times, so I keep them here.” She leaned forward and looked at Corey with a mischievous sideways glance. “The bad times paintings are in the basement.” She said this in mock seriousness, but Abby cringed.

  “Really?”

  “No, no. I’m sorry, Honey. I was only joking.”

  “They’re wonderful,” Sam said, looking around the room from her perch on the couch. Apparently, she was too comfortable to get up and browse. Corey could see five paintings from his seat. All but one were similar in size— eight-by-ten, framed in aged wooden frames. The fifth was smaller, the size of a paperback. The painting closest to him was a still life, bowl of fruit, grapes spilling over the lip, a vase with two bright red roses. A long silver fork lay across the foreground, an odd element, but somehow fitting. The painting beside this, centered over a mahogany end table was of a long, sloping hillside, the image leading the eye down to a quaint church-steepled village glowing in darkening twilight. It looked familiar, this scene.

  “These are quite good,” he said, to no one in particular, still focused on the hillside scene. “That one,” he pointed, “is it around here somewhere? Feels like I’ve seen it before.”

  “I don’t believe so,” Vanessa said. “I saw one like it on the Cape, and did my own version from memory when I got back. It’s one of my oldest ones, too. Painted it in college, actually.”

  “Oh, where’d you go to school?” Samantha asked.

  “UMass Amherst.”

  Corey stopped listening as they compared notes. Sam had gone to the University of Massachusetts, but in Dartmouth. The growing cynic in him assumed Vanessa knew this already and lied about where she’d gone, if she’d ever been to college at all. That was when he looked more closely at the last of the larger paintings. Another field, a pasture with a lone cow looking up from its meal of grass as if startled by the artist. The same painting was in their kitchen, or one close to it. He stared, eyes moving slightly to take in every detail. No, not close. Exactly the same painting.

  What the hell was going on?

  “You didn’t paint that one, did you?”

  Sam had been talking. She fell silent and stared at him. He didn’t like the look, or the tone of his own question. But it was the same painting…

  “Which one? With the cow?”

  Abby turned around, suddenly awake. That was good, since her mug of hot chocolate had been tipping dangerously in her grip. “It’s Moomoo!”

  A flurry of motion on the couch as Sam turned, Vanessa leaned forward. Of course she must have known what the painting was about. “Oh, yes. Not my best, but I find myself always relating to that poor lonely cow.” She smiled.

  Sam temporarily forgot her irritation at being interrupted and whispered, “But, we have the same painting in our house. A lot like that one, at least.”

  “It’s Moomoo,” Abby said again, delighted. “He’s in our kitchen. But our picture is bigger! Moomoo’s bigger, too. This one is prettier.”

  “Why, thank you, Sweetie.” Vanessa turned to Corey. “Are you sure? Was it hanging the other night? I didn’t notice it. I’ll admit, I based this one on a painting I saw in The Artist magazine. Maybe you have the original. Or a print?”

  Sam said, “Oh, it’s definitely a print. We got it at an art sale at the mall a long time ago. What are the odds of that?” She laughed. Corey wondered, What are the odds? Too many coincidences. He felt suddenly tired and out of place. Everything here was warm and comfortable. As much as he didn’t want to, he had a sense of being safe here. The others felt that way, too. But with so many strange things falling in front of him, any coincidence bothered him. This house’s sense of safety and comfort felt thinned, worn to a patchy veneer, revealing something behind the dark walls. A trap closing in on them. He looked back to the hillside painting with its village and evening glow and felt another sense of déjà vu. He'd seen that place before; in fact, he’d been there recently. But that was impossible.

  He stared at the still life’s long, silver fork in the foreground, tried not to think of Abby’s nightmare. The clouds over the perfect village were yellow and purple in the sky. How many details had his daughter given him?

  “Corey?”

  He looked away from the wall. “What?”

  Sam was standing beside his chair, laid a cool hand on his forehead. “You’re sweating. Feeling OK?”

  He reached up. His fingertips touched her hand, glad for its presence against his skin. He wanted to go home, be alone with his wife. Lay with her in their bed away from this strange woman with her contradicting details and intentions.

  He took Sam’s hand and lowered it to his mouth, kissed it lightly. “Good meal and warm coffee,” he said again. He released her and added, louder, “But I’d say young Abigail has had enough excitement for the night. We’d better get you to bed, little one.”

  “I’m not tired,” she said, but Corey knew she wouldn’t put up a fight.

  Sam said, “You’re right. Thank you for having us over, Vanessa. Dinner and company were both wonderful.”

  Vanessa got to her feet. They embraced amiably. As friends. Anything else was only his imagination. Again, when Vanessa hugged him Corey was surrounded by Autumn leaves and apples, crisp air, dying grass. Then they were apart and the room came back into focus. After a prolonged squeeze for Abby, she walked them to the door.

  “I assume you’re taking the path back,” she said, following them down the two steps to her back yard, “or do you think it’s already too dark?” The woods were filled with shadow, but the path was clear.

  “We’ll be fine,” Sam said. Corey nodded.

  Vanessa took in a deep breath, her entire body lifting within the dress. “It’s a beautiful night. Mind if I walk with you? It’ll give me an excuse to get some exercise.”

  They walked together among the trees, Corey holding Abby’s hand behind the two women and sensed they’d done this all before, been together in this very spot at the edge of the woods.

  He still had the card for Sam’s old therapist buried in his wallet. It was the second time in two days he’d thought about it. Maybe he should see someone, sort out the weirdness going on.

  They passed the spot where the old shed was nearly invisible in the growing dusk, sagging against the gloom. No sign of wasps. Of course not, he thought, with a pang of irritation, they followed you home and moved into your chimney. Sam and Vanessa never looked in that direction, too enraptured in their discussion of how Vanessa once got a table at the craft fair at Saint Malachy’s, how much jewelry she’d sold and to whom. Abby was quiet beside Corey, looking nervously around her.

  Vanessa left them at the end of the path with a final set of foliage-scented hugs. By the time they reached the porch and looked back towards the woods, she was gone.

  III

  Vanessa

  The room was silent. No insect sounds, no light breeze coming through the window. As if nature had withdrawn its head in expectation of a storm. Vanessa pushed herself up, then forward, settling down on top of Corey. He was full inside her, hard, even though at this hour the man was lost in sleep. He would wake in a moment, just prior to his own release and she would let him, stare into the glint of his eyes in the dark, join him in spirit as well as body. She moved with a frenzied urgency now, head spinning from the fullness of him, faster. The new mattress was silent, with no risk its rhythmic motion would wake anyone else. Everything was in her control, for the moment. Core
y’s breath in sleep became a gasp; then her body was filled with his sudden heat as he climaxed inside the condom. She shuddered, forced herself to leave her eyes open and meet his, which had blinked to alertness. She tightened her body’s grip around him, moving faster and faster, always looking at him, and he at her. She ground herself lower, making him gasp, before leaning forward, hesitating, kissing him, wildly, passionately. In this moment of lucidity and confusion, he returned the kiss. They were one, perfect, complete. His kisses became less wanting, more reflexive, and he softened inside her. Vanessa leaned forward, holding the condom in place until he was out of her. She kissed his forehead, his nose, whispered, “Go back to sleep,” which he did. Spent. From the side table, she lifted the warm facecloth she’d brought with her, cleaned him up, wrapped the condom in a tissue, then carefully dropped it into the pocket of her robe as she slid it on. She quietly opened the bedroom door and peered cautiously out. Empty. Once in the bathroom, she made no further attempt at being quiet, though she kept the facecloth in the robe’s pocket beside the tissue, just in case. When she emerged back into the hallway, it remained deserted. Vanessa returned to the master bedroom.

  Everyone remained deeply asleep. She smiled a little, kissed his cheek before leaving the room for the last time.

  Back in the hall, she leaned against the wall, feeling guilt’s inevitable return. This was against The Rules, not just a few but every single one. She forced her smile to remain locked on her face though it was without any meaning, invisible in the dark in any case, and reminded herself that sometimes you broke the rules for a good reason. She laid a hand below her belly, feeling the lingering memory of him still inside her. Her smile faded. There was a reason for what she’d done. A good one. None of this was selfish. If she got a little pleasure from it, so what? She’d done nothing wrong. This would work. It had to work.

  Vanessa tried in vain to keep Hank Cowles from returning to her thoughts. The Destroyer of Worlds as he was known by so many. The name was appropriate enough. She would beat him this time. She would win. She had the advantage. She was real. He was not, at least not the man currently haunting Corey’s family.

  Why was she so obsessed with him? Leave him to the purgatory he’d been cast into. He had no power over anyone.

  She stepped lightly down the hall, trying not to think. It wasn’t healthy. She was getting too deep into Corey’s world, had to remain objective though this had begun to feel impossible. Vanessa was quickly becoming as lost as the man she’d just, effectively, raped.

  Hank Cowles would laugh at the idea. Maybe he was laughing now, he and his stupid little dog.

  She let out a breath. Stop it! Stepping outside into the cool night air, it was easier to follow such a command. A little easier, at least. And tomorrow she would meet the man himself, face the demon chewing apart Corey Union’s soul.

  THURSDAY

  I

  Corey

  Corey woke from a stone dead sleep so abruptly his first waking breath was a prolonged gasp. He waited, heard only Sam’s steady, nasally breathing beside him, still asleep. He rolled over, draped his arm across her. She felt good against him, more so as she reflexively snuggled closer. Why did he feel like such a piece of shit? He hadn’t done anything wrong. Just a stupid, stupid dream. The second one where he’d had sex with their neighbor, no snippet or fragment this time but a drawn out, vivid play. A long way from seeing clowns rolling past on the back of a caboose like he’d long suffered as a child. He craved for that nonsensical but nightmarish image of his youth over this. Less a suggestion he might be attracted to another woman. Corey reached down, felt himself. Warm, but dry. Good.

  He lay beside his wife for a long time, her arm wrapped around his in sleep, but eventually being this close became too hot. He pulled free, kissed her shoulder before rolling over. His head felt thick, hovering on the edge of sleep but never sinking under the surface. He waited.

  Sleep would not come.

  Corey finally gave in and glanced at the clock. Two-thirty-seven. Three and a half hours until he was supposed to wake up and get ready for another day. What day was it? Thursday, he thought. His brain began the mental planning reserved for the drive into the city. He tried to stop thinking, let his mind empty and drift, like a balloon loosed from a child’s tentative grip. He was getting pretty good at that. Focus on the balloon, he told himself; watch it drift. He imagined himself rocking back and forth between the clouds, pushed by unseen hands.

  All around him, imaginary birds sang, bees hummed, buzzed louder—shit! That wasn’t his imagination. Though faint, the buzzing was coming from down the hall.

  They’re back. He could pretend they weren’t, pretend he was a balloon again but knew the truth - he was going to lay here listening to them until…

  Corey slid out of the covers smoothly, not wanting to wake Samantha. He’d wander down the hall to see how bad it was (he’d closed the flue, of course he had…), get a drink of water, swallow some Tylenol. Not that Tylenol had any way of helping him sleep without a good dose of Codeine, but until he broke down and bought some sleeping pills, taking anything was better than nothing at all.

  Corey stepped barefoot into the hall. He smelled it immediately. Wet stink of garbage, rotting food, back of the throat tang of vinegar. He laid a hand over his nose and mouth. For a few seconds, all he smelled was his own, sweating skin, then the reek found a path between the creases of his palm and back into his head. What the hell is this?

  Flashing images fought for attention in his imagination. Food gone bad, dead animal outside. He leaned into Abby’s closed door, breathed in. The smell was not coming from in there. Best not to check on her, risk letting the odor into her room.

  When Warren had walked them through the finished construction, he’d suggested a cap for the flue top, to keep squirrels from falling inside. Corey thought it would be too ugly up there, and the house was built far enough from the trees to keep critters off the roof. Obviously not. Something had crawled inside, then died. Maybe it disturbed the nest and now he’d be paying more money to clean out its corpse and end up installing one of those stupid caps.

  He stepped quietly to the end of the hall, hand back over his face and reached for the light switch. Wait. Corey listened, heard nothing but the usual serenade of nature outside the windows. Had the buzzing been his imagination?

  But the stink… he lowered his hand. Still there, somewhere. The kitchen maybe. He turned in that direction. The back door was closed. Night glowed blue through the four-square window behind the curtain.

  He reached around the corner and turned on the overhead light.

  He stared, fumbling to make sense of what he saw. Corey looked around the room for Abby. He stepped further in. No one here. Of course not. The light had been out.

  Scattered around the kitchen table were dozens of sandwiches. Peanut butter and jelly if his guess was right, bread stained purple from long soaked through with jelly. Each rotted on a separate paper towel. Five, no six glasses of milk, most half full below thin film of ghostly white as if the milk had leaked through a pinhole in the bottom. Drained, evaporated.

  That was the smell. Sour milk, stale bread. All along the edges—crust cut off, the way she liked it—more stains, maybe mold.

  Nothing clicked in his mind, no sense to it. Corey took a second step into the room. At the far corner of the table—Samantha’s secret book of poetry, open, pen resting on top with the exposed pages stained with coffee circles and other unidentifiable markings. He couldn’t move any further, only stared at the sandwiches, the book, finally forcing his head to turn away towards the counter. A jar of peanut butter beside the sink, another of jelly, covers askew on top as if something had escaped and—

  Corey turned off the light, pressed both palms against his face. Nausea churned inside him, mixing, readying itself for release. He had no balance, finally leaned on the corner of the wall at the boundary of kitchen and living room, the border of madness and sanity. Nothing mad
e sense, so it must be him. He was crazy.

  And his throat was dry. Even with a tight, worried stomach Corey forced himself to swallow. He was sleepwalking. Hands still on his face, smell of his own skin, a real sensation.

  If he was asleep a second ago, he was awake now. No bees, nothing wrong in the kitchen. He would turn on the light, prove everything was normal. He tried to move a hand that way, could not. He would not.

  Back to bed, yes. Go back to bed and forget all of this. Hurry.

  Everything, every day, everywhere the world was twisting inside out, going wrong. He was wrong.

  Something buzzed beside his ear. Corey used one hand to swat at it, connected with nothing. The whine of small wings, joined by a second, and a third. They were back. The bees were back.

  Corey stayed where he was, one hand hovering beside his head, the other pressed against his face, against the smell he refused to acknowledge. He would not move until he knew for certain he was awake.

  Another sound, now. Ticking, like the clock, but coming from outside, on the front porch. Corey pivoted sideways, toes moving from the cool linoleum to the hallway carpet. He lowered the other hand to stare at the same nighttime glow outside the windows beside the front door. Nothing moved outside, not that he could see. It was so dark, though.

  Tickety, tickety, went the sound again. Click, click, click.

  Claws. When the word came he knew it was true. Claws on the porch.

  Corey whimpered, sensing the walls beginning to melt around him, heated rubber sagging, his world no longer solid. Sam, he thought, and Abby. They need you. Fight this!

  Thinking of them helped. The walls righted to solid masses again. What would Abby do if her father went crazy? I have to stay strong.

  He had to protect them.

  So many little phobias, fears, twitches he’d allowed himself lately. It wasn’t fair to them. It was selfish. If he focused only on Sam, on Abby…

  Something bumped against the front door; then the ticking resumed. It wasn’t a large porch. What the hell was out there?