Stories for Nighttime and Some for the Day

by Ben Loory

  And then he realizes.

  It’s staring back.

  The young man is now sitting very, very still. He is trying very hard not to move. He has this fear that if he does move, the hat will suddenly leap at him and tear out his throat.

  The young man tries to forget about this madness, but for some reason it has a hold on him. It takes everything he has just to find the courage to stand, to slide his chair back and back away toward the door.

  The hat does not follow, does not make a move. It simply sits there on the table, staring.

  Staring, staring—staring at the young man.

  The young man turns away and runs.

  The young man now is walking down the street. His breath is starting to come more easily.

  It was just a hat, the young man thinks, just a stupid hat. Someone left it on the table, and I didn’t see it at first.

  He forces a laugh, and then shakes his head.

  And it certainly wasn’t staring! he says.

  But then—up ahead—the young man sees the hat again.

  And once again, it’s staring right at him.

  This time, the hat is on a windowsill. Up ahead, at the end of the block.

  Hats can’t stare, the young man says. It’s a physical impossibility. But, on the other hand, they can’t walk either. So how did that hat get there?

  He freezes in terror, and then laughs again—

  Different hat! he says. It’s a different hat.

  This seems to calm him enough to carry on.

  But he doesn’t look at the hat as he walks by.

  The young man reaches the boardinghouse, and goes in and directly upstairs. He sits on the bed and takes off his boots. Then he checks around the room and in the closet.

  No hats in here, the young man says happily, and immediately turns in for the night.

  It takes him some time to finally fall asleep. The bed seems cold and lonely.

  And when he does manage to somehow drift away, the young man has very strange dreams.

  In the morning, when he awakes, the hat is sitting on his chest.

  Aaa! the young man shrieks, and bats it off.

  The hat flies across the room, into the corner, where it hits the wall and falls to the floor.

  It lies there crookedly, half behind the spittoon. But still it is staring up at him.

  The young man grabs his pants and boots and runs. He runs out the door and down the stairs. He flees the town—this hat-haunted town—and strikes out into the desert, alone.

  He runs into the sun, over the dunes, past the cacti. He runs all day long. For days and weeks on end, he runs and runs. He runs and runs, without stopping.

  Every now and then, he glances back. But he never, ever sees a thing. Never even so much as a sign of the hat. Not a single sign.

  Still, he hurries on.

  But finally, after a long time—a very long time—the young man begins to grow tired. He slows to a frightened jog, then to a walk.

  He walks and walks.

  He walks on.

  The sun beats down on the young man from the sky. There is no water, no food, no shade. The young man starts to stagger; his flesh burns and bubbles. He’s lost, he doesn’t know where he is.

  And finally, he collapses.

  He’s lying in the sand.

  He doesn’t move.

  He can’t move.

  He doesn’t.

  And it is then—and only then—that the woman appears. She comes over the dune like an angel. The young man looks up. His lips crack as they smile.

  The woman’s hair is shining in the sun.

  The woman helps the young man to a nearby hidden cave. The cave is full of many rooms and corridors. The darkness is held back by candles and torches.

  They enter a room with a table.

  There on the table are bowls of food, and a pitcher of water and a glass.

  Sit, says the woman. Sit down and eat.

  And she turns and walks from the room.

  The young man doesn’t waste time. He starts to eat. The food is delicious; the water, cool. The young man eats and eats, until he is full.

  Then a shadow falls across the room.

  And the young man looks up.

  In the doorway is the woman. She is no longer clothed. Her body is perfectly bare. Her lips are very red, and she is smiling, smiling.

  But then she steps into the room.

  She’s wearing the hat.

  The young man’s chair scrapes backward as he stands up. It crashes against the wall and it breaks.

  The woman keeps coming—closer and closer.

  And from its perch upon her head, the hat stares.

  The young man steps back, and hits the wall himself. He feels the cold rock against his spine.

  He stares at the hat as the hat comes ever closer.

  The hat never once looks away.

  The woman now stands before the young man. Her eyes look up, searching for his. But his are still fixed on the staring hat.

  So the woman reaches up to touch his cheek.

  The woman’s eyes are warm, and very, very wide, when the young man finally looks into them.

  And suddenly—suddenly—without his even noticing—the hat on her head no longer concerns him.

  The young man reaches out and takes the woman in his arms, and they come together in a kiss. The woman gives a sigh, and the young man begins to lower her down to the floor of the cave.

  But just before the woman’s body reaches the ground, a silent transaction occurs. The woman reaches up—with a sure and unseen hand—and transfers the hat onto the head of the man.

  THE MAGIC PIG

  A MAN COMES HOME FROM WORK ONE DAY TO DISCOVER that his daughter has found God.

  Are you kidding me? he says. What are you talking about? You were always such a rational person.

  ▫

  The members of the family sit down to dinner.

  You really think there is a God? the man says.

  Why not? says his daughter. Why on earth not? What reason is there to believe that there isn’t?

  The man looks at her.

  I can’t help but think, he says, that if there were a God, he’d give us some kind of sign.

  At that very moment a statue of a pig on its haunches suddenly materializes in the middle of the dining room table.

  See? the man’s daughter says, pointing at the pig. See? See? See?

  The man’s family bursts into action—making calls, telling the neighbors, taking pictures.

  Only the man does not move from his place. He simply sits there and stares at the pig. After a while, he reaches out and gently touches one of its legs.

  It’s perfectly solid—probably wood—and made (he thinks) in a rather crude fashion.

  The man looks up at the ceiling, half hoping to see some gaping hole through which it could have fallen. Then he peers under the table for hidden mechanisms, like he read about once in a book on séances.

  But there’s nothing to find, wherever he looks, so the man just sits there and frowns.

  Then he gets up and goes into the other room and sits down and turns on the television.

  The days go by. The house is crowded with pilgrims. People from other cities, other lands. They stand in the man’s dining room and stare at the pig. Some claim that it speaks to them; others cry for joy.

  But the man just stands there, arms crossed over his chest. He doesn’t believe even a single word.

  How can you not believe? all the pilgrims say. It happened right there in front of you!

  I believe something happened, yes, the man says. But I don’t know what it was, or why.

  The pilgrims regard him with wide, confused eyes. Then they shake their heads and walk away.

  At night, the man lies in bed with his wife.

  Can’t you at least try to believe? she says.

  I try every day, the man says to her.

  Do you really? says his wife. Really?

>   Well, says the man after a while, let’s just say I wonder.

  You should wonder harder, the man’s wife says. It would make you a happier person.

  The man lies there in silence and stares at the ceiling.

  You think I’m unhappy? he says.

  The next day the man sits at the table with the pig.

  All right, God, he says, if you exist, show me one more sign with this pig thing.

  And he sits there all day—waiting, waiting—waiting for the pig to do something.

  What are you doing, Dad? the man’s daughter says when she gets home from school that afternoon.

  Nothing, says the man.

  He looks rather sheepish.

  He takes the pig off the table and goes into his study.

  There he locks the door, puts the pig on the floor, and kneels down right in front of it.

  Come on, pig, he says. Come on; it’s just us. Make me happy. Make me believe. Please.

  Late that night a knock comes on the study door.

  Honey? says the man’s wife. Are you in there?

  Yes, says the man, but please, leave me alone. I’m in here with the pig.

  The man’s wife hesitates.

  But we miss you, she says. And also the pig.

  You don’t need the pig, the man says, you have God. And I’ll be out when I’m done. I promise I will.

  There’s silence, and then the man’s wife walks away.

  Days go by, then weeks and months, and then, eventually, years. The man’s beard grows gray, and very, very long. His eyes dim, his bones weaken, his muscles atrophy.

  The man sits and sits and stares at the pig.

  But the pig says nothing, reveals nothing.

  There’s no sign. Nothing. No sign of a sign.

  And as he sits, the man grows very old.

  And then—finally—after what seems like a lifetime, the man gives a sigh and stands up.

  There is no God, he says, that much is certain. And what’s more, I miss my wife and children.

  He turns and walks to the study door, unlocks it, and opens it up. The hallway outside is very, very dark. He peers down in the direction of the living room.

  The entire house seems strangely quiet.

  Maybe they’re asleep, the man thinks.

  And he starts off silently down the hall.

  Behind him, the pig rises to its feet.

  BIGFOOT

  A MAN IS WALKING THROUGH THE WOODS, WHEN suddenly he sees Bigfoot.

  Holy cow! the man thinks. Bigfoot!

  Bigfoot sees him and runs away.

  The man chases Bigfoot through the woods for a long time. He chases him for hours and hours. Finally, he gets close enough to leap—which he does.

  Bigfoot comes crashing to the ground.

  I’ve got him! the man thinks as he ties Bigfoot’s feet. I’ve got him! I got him! I caught Bigfoot!

  Almost instantaneously, the man becomes a celebrity. People from TV come to his house.

  How does it feel to have captured Bigfoot? they say.

  It feels good, says the man. Really good!

  A lot of people didn’t think that Bigfoot really existed, the people say and then wait for a response.

  Well, says the man, I guess now they know!

  And everybody laughs and claps their hands.

  The man sits in his house and watches the news. Bigfoot has been taken to the zoo. They show the lines of people outside the gate; there are dozens of them, hundreds, thousands.

  Everyone wants to see Bigfoot, thinks the man. And now, everybody will.

  That night the man has a very bad dream. In his dream, he is sitting in a cage. Someone keeps asking him what he wants for dinner.

  But he gets nothing, no matter what he says.

  In the morning, the man wakes up feeling strange. He goes into the kitchen for some cereal. He sits down at the table, but doesn’t feel like eating.

  Finally, he gets in his car.

  In line at the zoo, the man is recognized.

  You’re the guy who caught Bigfoot! someone says.

  Why are you waiting in line? says someone else. Won’t they let you cut to the front?

  It’s okay, says the man. Really, I don’t mind.

  Truth be told, he is terrified.

  When it comes time for his turn to go in and see Bigfoot, the man stands toward the back, very still. Bigfoot doesn’t look good. He’s not moving around. He’s just sitting on a log in the middle of the enclosure.

  The enclosure itself is very nice; the zoo people built it special. There’s a cement pool, and some fake rocks, and a painted backdrop of a forest.

  Bigfoot is just staring at the ground.

  Hey, says the man, stepping forward after a while. Hey, he says to Bigfoot, are you okay?

  He doesn’t expect a reply, so he’s surprised when Bigfoot looks up.

  Do I look okay? says Bigfoot. Does this look okay to you?

  They make a big deal out of it on the news.

  Bigfoot speaks! the announcers say. Bigfoot human!

  The man begins to feel very, very small. The TV now pictures him in an unfavorable light.

  Who is this man? the announcers say. And what exactly were his motives?

  There’s an interview with Bigfoot. He complains about his treatment.

  I lost three teeth when he tackled me, he says. I was just trying to get home to read the papers.

  That night the man decides to go to see a movie. But the second he sets foot outside, a rock flies out of the blue and smashes him in the face.

  Murderer! a voice screams. Murderer!

  Another rock hits him in the shoulder, and the next one breaks his knee.

  The man falls to the ground in pain.

  Who are you going to kill next? the mob screams. And what are you gonna do after that?

  I never killed anyone! the man quietly sobs, as he drags himself back into the house. He slams and locks the door. He curls up on the rug. A few moments later, he passes out.

  The days go by, and then the weeks. Still the mob screams outside. The man thought that it would lessen eventually, but it never does. News choppers circle overhead, blaring horrible things at him through megaphones. Bright lights shine through his windows at night and make it hard to sleep. The rocks slam against the aluminum siding in a constant, steady barrage. The man overturns the dressers and tables and barricades the doors.

  And then one night, there it is: fire outside the window. The man watches as the torches are passed around, hand to hand to hand. He watches as the mob comes closing in, in an ever-tightening circle.

  The entire house is surrounded.

  There is no way out.

  What do I do? cries the man as he stumbles through the house.

  What do I do? he shrieks as it starts to burn.

  And as the flames fill the house with heat and light, the man holds up his hands—and suddenly, he can see right through them.

  And then he starts to laugh.

  In the morning, the mob combs through the smoldering wreckage. There is no sign—not one—of the man.

  It’s impossible! they say. He couldn’t have gotten away!

  You can’t catch the Invisible Man, a voice says. Not that way.

  THE SHIELD

  A MAN AND HIS WIFE ARE WALKING THROUGH A MUSEUM when the man sees a shield on the wall.

  Look at that! he says. Isn’t that remarkable?

  The two of them walk a little closer.

  What’s so remarkable about it? says his wife.

  Well, the workmanship! says the man. It’s exquisite!

  It’s just a shield, says his wife. It’s a big hunk of metal. There’s not even anything painted on it.

  Well, I think it’s nice, the man says after a while.

  But there isn’t really much more to say.

  That evening the man and his wife go to dinner at a friend’s house.

  You should have seen this shield, the man says.


  Oh? says the friend. Tell me about it.

  There’s nothing to tell, the wife says. It was just a shield.

  I’ve always wanted to be a knight, says the man. It just seems like it would be so much fun.

  Fun? says his wife. It’s a good way to get killed!

  Not with a shield like that! says the man.

  And the friend, at least, laughs along with him.

  The man has a hard time concentrating on the road on the way back home from dinner. He has had too much to drink, and in his mind, he is jousting with another knight on horseback. He is doing very well; he is winning.

  Let’s stop by the museum, he says to his wife.

  What? his wife says. Are you kidding?

  But the man is not kidding. He drives to the museum and he parks across the street from it.

  You can’t be serious, says his wife. You’re going to get arrested.

  No, I won’t, says the man. Don’t you have any faith?

  The man heads toward the museum.

  His wife stays in the car.

  Inside, the museum is dark and very still. The man makes his way down the long rows of artifacts. He keeps an eye out for guards, but none seems to be around.

  Finally, he stops before the shield.

  There you are, the man says, and lowers it from the wall.