Occasional Demons

by Rick Hautala

  And then, without another word, he began to cut.

  The Call

  I’ve been working on this journal for almost thirty years. Ever since I was twelve years old. You’d think I would have finished it by now and gone on to write something else, but I have to keep writing and re-writing it if only to make sure the memories and the fear stay fresh and alive in my mind.

  I want to remember.

  I have to remember because I don’t want to have what happened to my father happen to me. So at least four or five times a year—sometime a lot more often—I take down the old journal and read it straight through, and then I write...and I revise...and I remember.

  I have no idea when it started for my father. It had to have been long before I was born, back when he was a kid, growing up in Hilton, Maine. I do remember that, at some point, the dreams got so bad for him he told me one morning at breakfast that there were times when he actually couldn’t distinguish between waking and sleeping.

  That idea really bothered me.

  I was just a kid at the time, remember. Couldn’t have been more than five or six years old, but I’ll never forget that particular morning. My dad and I were sitting across from each other in the breakfast nook, in our usual places, eating what we always had for breakfast -– cereal, usually Cheerios, and orange juice for me; scrambled eggs, wheat toast, juice and coffee for my dad.

  My mom died when I was three years old, so I don’t have any memories of her that aren’t colored by the old photographs I’ve seen of her and how my father’s described her. But memories of my dad—and that morning and what happened afterwards—are still sharp and clear.

  I work at keeping them that way.

  My father was a good man...a good father. I don’t remember him as anything other than patient and understanding, even when I screwed up royally. Now that I’m older, and married, and have a son of my own—he’s named Matt, after my father—I think I understand a little better why my father was the way he was. At the time, though, especially that morning, all I knew was that I was worried sick that he was going to die, that I was going to lose him like I’d lost my mom.

  That morning...

  It was spring, maybe March or early April. I remember how the sun was shining warmly in through the kitchen window, but the view of our back yard out the kitchen bay window was of a brown, dead world. The only snow left on the ground was in the shadows under the pine trees that bordered our property, and I remember a swarm of brown sparrows fluttering around the feeder my dad and I had built together the summer before. I could hear them chirping even through the closed window.

  I also remember being confused and frightened by what my father had said, and then he told me a story that confused and frightened me even more. He said it was something called a Zen koan. I don’t remember exactly how it went, but it was something about a man who was upset because the night before he’d dreamed he was a butterfly. His friend or teacher or something asked him if he could be sure that, right then, he wasn’t a butterfly, dreaming he was a man.

  I still not sure I get it.

  But then my dad proceeded to tell me how for the last several nights, when he was dreaming—when he was in his dreams, they were so vivid that he felt as though he had been awake all night. When he awoke up in the morning, he said he felt so tired he might just as well not have slept at all.

  He didn’t look so good, either.

  I remember thinking that. His eyes had puffy, dark bags under them, and his face was pale and drawn, really pasty-white. To my little kid’s eyes, he sure looked like someone who might be living two complete lives instead of one with no time left over for any real sleep.

  My dad worked at Martindale’s Rope and Twine Factory, in Biddeford, Maine. It wasn’t a glamorous job, by any stretch of the imagination, but he worked hard, and we got by. I don’t remember ever going without food or clothes, although—like any kid, I suppose—there were toys and stuff I wanted that I didn’t get, even for Christmas.

  It wasn’t until a little later, once I was in junior high school, that my father died, and that’s what this is an account of, as best as I can write it. Of course, there are lots of things—especially what my father was thinking and feeling at the time—that I can only guess at. But I was there when it happened, and I saw what I saw, no matter how unbelievable it might seem even to me.

  Even now, thinking about it, I get a chill deep in my gut. No matter how much over the years it seems more and more as though it had to have been a dream or a nightmare, I know it really happened. I know because it killed my father.

  But even if it didn’t happen the way I remember it...even if it was just a dream, I know dreams and nightmares, no matter how intense, fade over time...like memories, and I have to remember this one. I have to keep it fresh in my mind so I don’t end up convincing myself that it didn’t really happen, and then fall into the same trap my father fell into.

  The whole time I was growing up, I remember thinking how my father didn’t look very healthy. He was always on the thin side, even in his wedding photos, but by the time I was in seventh grade, I remember lying awake many nights worried sick that my dad had cancer like what had killed my mother, and that he was going to die, too, and leave me all alone in the world.

  And that’s exactly what happened.

  He died, and from the seventh grade on, my aunt and uncle, Pauline and Mike, raised me, but my father didn’t die of cancer...not unless it was cancer of the universe.

  Now there’s a concept!

  Cancer of the Universe.

  Every now and then, especially in the months before he died, my dad talked to me about his dreams. I remember many mornings when he looked haggard and tired, and he would ask me over breakfast what I had dreamed the night before. He taught me early on to pay attention to my dreams, but I’m sure now that it wasn’t just out of interest or curiosity. He was checking on me...making sure I was okay...not being threatened. No matter how casual he tried to be about it, I always felt like there was an undercurrent of danger when he asked me about my dreams, as if he didn’t quite trust his own dreams and was afraid that mine would get to be as bad as his.

  He never told me any of the details of his dreams, at least not that I recall, but he seemed to move through life with a dark cloud hanging over his head, shading his face even on the sunniest days. That’s the only way I can describe it.

  Anyway, it was a bright, sunny morning in spring when I was in seventh grade that my father looked particularly worn when we sat down at the table for our usual breakfasts. By then I was convinced he was wasting away from some dread disease he didn’t know about or he did know about and didn’t yet have the heart to discuss with me. So I got really nervous when he told me he wasn’t going to work that day, and that he was going to call school and tell them I wasn’t coming today and we were going for a drive.

  I protested.

  Not that I wanted to go to school or anything, but there was something about the way he said it that I could tell something was really wrong. All I could think was, he’s going to take me to the doctor’s office or he’s going to check into the hospital where the doctor would break the news to me that he had only a few weeks—or days—to live.

  “Hey. What’s the matter, Sport?“ he asked, scruffing my hair.

  He called me “Sport“ a lot.

  “You got something against missing school and spending the day with your old man?“

  “It’s not that,“ I said, and I remember that I was burning inside, dying to ask him if he was okay, or if he was going to die. Instead, all I could manage was a feeble, “So what are we gonna do?“

  “I was thinking about taking a little drive up north,“ he said with a thin smile. The circles under his eyes looked like smears of black shoe polish.

  “You mean up to Hilton?“ I asked, and he nodded.

  I remember thinking how his smile looked forced...not at all natural or normal. And I remember that all I did was nod in agreem
ent and focus as hard as I could on the cereal floating in the milk in my bowl, all the while thinking, He’s going to die! He’s sick, and he’s going back home to die!

  Crazy thought for a little kid, don’t you think?

  Anyway, we finished breakfast, cleaned up the dishes, and got into the car. As we backed out of the driveway, I wanted desperately to ask him why he wanted to drive to Hilton, especially today, but I couldn’t because I was still tingling with the dreadful anticipation that he was going to admit something horrible once we were on the road...something I didn’t want to hear.

  The drive north went okay. I’ve never been much for long car trips, even now. After two or three hours in a car, I start getting a little twitchy. But this particular day, I remember, was mild and sunny. The grass was green, and leaves were bursting out all over the place. As we drove, my dad told me he wanted to take the long way and see some of the scenery while we were at it.

  My father was born and raised in Hilton. It’s not much of a town, but I always had fun whenever we’d visit. I remember thinking how it must have been kind of a cool place to be a kid. Although I haven’t been back in ages, probably only once or twice since he died, I can imagine that, even now, in spite of cell phones, the Internet, and MTV, it’s probably retained some of that quaint “small town“ charm it had back them. There are places where the Twenty-first Century still hasn’t arrived.

  We stopped along the way and ate lunch at Moody’s Diner on Route One before heading west along Route 201. My father didn’t seem to be in any particular hurry, and as far as I could tell, he wasn’t in a bad mood or depressed or anything. I do remember thinking how he seemed...distant, maybe, is the word. It was like he was preoccupied, thinking about something other than the drive. I’m sure now that it was his dreams he was mulling over. He was living half of his life, and right up to his dying day, I’ll bet he was trying to figure out how those two lives he led—the one awake, the other dreaming—might coincide.

  We got to Hilton a little past three o’clock in the afternoon. We drove through downtown but didn’t stop even though my father recognized a couple of people and waved to them as we passed. At the edge of town, I could see Watcher’s Mountain through the trees, off to the west. We turned onto a narrow dirt road that wound through a dense stand of pine trees. I didn’t recognize the road, and I was suddenly afraid.

  “Where we going?“ I asked.

  This wasn’t the road to the old family homestead—I knew that much. My father’s parents were both dead, and my dad had only one brother, my Uncle Mike, who lived with his family in Saco. I’d been thinking all along that we had come out here so he could drive past the old house, and my dad could reminisce.

  “I just wanna check something out,“ my father said.

  At least now, I remember hearing a certain tension in his voice, but at the time, I think I just shrugged and settled back in the seat, waiting to see where we ended up.

  The road was a typical dirt road, the kind you find all over Maine. It wound through a long corridor of dense pine forest that shut out the sun except at high noon. I had my window open, and I remember the strong smell of pine resin wafting around me. I’ve always loved that smell, but for some reason, on this particular day, the smell made me sick to my stomach. I could hear birds singing, deep in the forest, but their songs didn’t seem very cheerful.

  “So—uh, where are we going?“ I asked again.

  I wasn’t afraid of my father. I’d never been afraid of him even the few times I’d made him angry by doing some bonehead kid thing. I trusted him like I’ve never trusted another person, before or since. But I realize now it was fear I was feeling.

  It was fear for my father as much as fear for myself.

  The tall pine trees blocked out the sunlight, and my father’s face was all but lost in shadow. I kept trying to think of this excursion as fun, but I remember thinking this was how it must feel when you’re driving to a funeral.

  “There’s a small lake out here that I want you to see before I...“

  He stopped himself before he finished the sentence, but I mentally finished it for him - before I die!

  He was going to die...at least he thought he was going to die, and he wanted to share something with me...a family secret or something.

  “Look over to the south there. See?“ My father leaned forward and squinted as he pointed off to the right.

  Through the trees, I caught a glimpse of sunlight, sparkling on water. It looked like quicksilver flashing between the dense stand of trees.

  “That’s Watcher’s Lake,“ my dad said. “And you see all these woods around here? We own it all.“

  “Who does?“

  “Us... Me and Uncle Mike...“ He paused and took a deep breath. “And you.“

  “All of it?“ I asked, amazed as I scanned the area.

  I think now that I should have been more excited than I was. I certainly was impressed, but the deep, cold gloom of the forest had seeped into the car and into my mind. Whatever else you could say about the land, it certainly didn’t seem cheerful, even on a warm May afternoon. I could just imagine what it was like out here on a dreary winter day.

  “The old homestead is on the other side of the mountain.“

  I knew Watcher’s Mountain well enough. It was a bit of a hike from my grandparent’s house, but there were a couple of times back when we visited in the summer, when my grandparents were still alive, that my dad and I climbed it. I almost remember seeing a lake or pond from the mountaintop, but no one ever said anything about it to me...not until right then.

  “So how come we never come swimming out here?“ I asked, and my father gave me a funny look. It makes sense to me now, but at the time, I remember being confused.

  “We just don’t,“ he said, and there was a certain finality in his tone of voice that made me know that was the end of it, so I let it drop.

  My father took a turn onto an even narrower dirt road, not much more than a path, really. I could see we were getting closer to the lake. Something—probably the suspension—was making a real loud bumping sound underneath the car. I was jostled up and down in my seat so much that, when I spoke to my father, my voice sounded all chattery.

  “Why we coming down here today, then?“ My voice trembled with fear, but if I had known then what I know now—especially after what happened an hour or so later—I would have been a lot more frightened.

  “I want to check on something,“ was all my dad said.

  He frowned as he hunched over the steering wheel and looked up at what little patch of sky he could see above the pine trees.

  “We probably should have waited, though,“ he said, talking more to himself than to me.

  I knew he was he worried about it getting dark soon. Plus, the forest had this...this feeling to it. Maybe it still does. It was like night came here a lot sooner than it does any place else on Earth. I suspect memory and imagination have played tricks on me, and I’ve exaggerated this feeling more than I should. But I swear I have a clear memory of feeling like the trees were closing in around us, and the sky was pressing down like it was made of something heavier than air. All around the car, the shadows under the trees were dense, so dense it looked to me like they were opening up in front of us and then closing back behind us once we were past, keeping us in this kind of bubble that separated us from the real world.

  “Maybe we could come back tomorrow,“ I offered.

  “It may be too late tomorrow,“ my father said, and I could tell—and I’m positive this isn’t something I made up later—that he said the words before he thought it through. He caught himself, and the expression on his face made it clear he wished he hadn’t said anything.

  “Too late for what?“ I asked, unable to choke back my question even though I was afraid of the answer.

  My dad forced a laugh and scruffed my hair.

  “Hey, Sport. Don’t you worry about it, all right?“

  I could tell he was forcing it. The
look in his eyes made me feel plenty worried.

  The car crested a long, slow hill that curved around to the right. At the top, it dropped off, much steeper. The lake was close by on the right as we started down the hill slowly, the car bouncing all over the place like the shocks were gone. The shadows deepened around us like black water, swallowing us even though I could see sunlight reflecting off the water. The narrow dirt road ended at the bottom of the hill, and through a stand of pine trees, I saw a small wooden shack.

  “Is that—“ I started to say but then cut myself off, knowing that my father would eventually tell me what was going on...if he wanted to.

  As we pulled to a stop, I could see that the building wasn’t big enough to be a summer camp or anything. It was just a tiny shed that looked like it was used either as an outhouse or for storage. Its shingles were rotted, and some of them had fallen off, giving the shed a funny, gap-toothed look. Dark, black moss was growing up its sides like a fringe of uneven beard.

  “Want to take a look around?“ my dad asked.

  The car was as close as he could get it to the small shed. I remember thinking I should be excited about being at the lake. It was an adventure. Even though it was too early in the year to go swimming, I could have waded along the edge of the lake and explored.

  I looked at my dad, wanting really bad to ask him again what we were doing out here, but I couldn’t get any words out. I could hardly breathe.

  “I don’t really like this place,“ I managed to say, and I know my dad heard the tremor in my voice.

  The sun was tipping the edge of the western horizon, making the forest on the opposite shore look like it was on fire. After a moment or two, though, I noticed something curious about the lake. The sky was streaked with bright red and orange clouds, but the water was dull and gray. It looked like how I imagined it would on a winter day, just before a blizzard. It was like the lake absorbed rather than reflected the sunset. I wanted to say something to my dad, but I wasn’t sure how to phrase it.