Occasional Demons

by Rick Hautala

  As he turned into his driveway, his truck rattling in the ruts, Merit realized he was so tense he consciously had to ease up his grip on the steering wheel. He pulled to a stop in front of the barn, killed the engine, and got out of the truck cab. He’d been holding his breath so long his side ached worse than before because he had expected to see the compost heap back on the porch. When he saw that the porch was clear and that there wasn’t a trace of compost anywhere, he let the air out of his lungs in a long, slow sigh. Shaking his head and rotating his right arm, which had stiffened up something awful at work, he started up the weed-choked walkway to the back door. Halfway there, he stopped and looked up, stunned, at the back door. It was open, and small piles of black soil littered the entryway.

  “I know I locked the goddamned door,“ he said to himself, but he kept moving, slower now, toward the steps.

  What if someone had broken into the house while he was a work?

  Or what if a friend had stopped by and opened the door after knocking and not getting an answer?

  But—no, Merit was positive he had locked the door.

  He mounted the steps and paused once he was under the shade of the porch. Cautiously, he poked his head into the house and glanced into the living room. The TV was still there, so that probably ruled out a break-in. As he eased his way into the hallway, though, a powerfully pungent aroma assailed his nostrils. The stench of rot lingered in the air, mixed with a rich, loamy aroma that smelled like fresh, overturned soil. When he cocked his head to one side to listen, he thought could hear a faint buzzing that sounded like dozens of flies circling somewhere in the house.

  “S’anyone here?“ he called out, surprising himself with the strength of his voice. “Al—? That you—?“

  Maybe his brother had stopped by to see if he wanted to go fishing before it got dark. Merit knew the only time his brother dropped by was when he wanted to drink Merit’s beer and eat his food, freeloader that he was. Then another thought struck Merit.

  What if all of this was Al’s doing? What if this was some twisted practical joke he was pulling? It’d be just like Al to think something like that was funny.

  He called out again, but no reply came from inside the house. Everything was silence except for the faint buzzing sound just at the edge of hearing. Merit took a deep breath, adjusted his belt, and then walked boldly into the kitchen and placed his empty lunch pail beside the sink as he looked around. He had been right about one thing. The buzzing sound was flies. The screen in the window over the kitchen sink was crawling with them as they beat their wings furiously and darted back and forth, seeking to escape. Grumbling under his breath, Merit slid the screen up so most of them could fly away. The few that didn’t get out, he crushed with his thumb and cleaned up with a napkin before pulling the screen back down.

  Merit decided that a shower before supper might help him relax a bit. All in all, it had been one hell of a day. Maybe a blast of nice, hot water would ease up the pain in his side. Moving slowly, he walked down the hallway to the stairs and slowly climbed them. When he was halfway down the hall to his bedroom, he realized that the loamy smell had gotten much stronger.

  “What in the name of...?“ he sputtered, but he couldn’t say anything more when he opened the bedroom door and saw the compost heap piled up high in the middle of the bed. Black clumps of moist soil had stained the bedspread and pillows, and small pieces seething with activity littered the floor around the bed. Unable to tear his eyes away for the sight, Merit started backing up until he bumped into the bedroom wall. The compost heap surged with hidden activity. Huge chunks of rotting black earth shifted as though moving toward him. The strangest thing of all was, the compost heap no longer looked like a simple pile of rotting vegetation. Damned if it didn’t look like the frigging thing was a body that had been lying down and was now struggling to sit up.

  Merit grunted and doubled over when the pain between his ribs suddenly intensified. The jab of cold was so intense he couldn’t help but cry out. He eyes began to water as he stared, unblinking, at the compost which now, undeniably, had gathered itself up into a pile with a rounded knob on the top. From either side, thick clumps that looked almost like horribly deformed arms protruded. Defying gravity, they curled up, rising to the top of the pile, which now—most definitely—looked like a distorted head. Two dark ovals opened up where the eyes should be, and a squat nub formed into what looked like a squashed nose. Below that, a long, wide gash widened, looking like a distorted mouth.

  “No...no,“ Merit whimpered as he slapped his hands uselessly against the wall, trying to will this sight to go away.

  But the compost heap continued to shift until it clearly assumed the rough outline of a human body. The gaping opening where the mouth should have been dripped thick clots of dirt and something that looked like dark, stained mucous. Twisted lips, wiggling with maggots, opened and closed as though it was struggling to speak. And then, wioth a sound that froze Merit’s blood, a voice distorted by a bubbly gurgle rasped, “Hello...Honeybun...“

  “No! … No, this isn’t happening,“ Merit said, his voice fading away into a low moan of abject terror. He shook his head and rubbed his eyes as though that would get rid of the illusion, but the pile of rotting muck on the bed continued to seethe as it assumed a more distinct human shape.

  “I...thought...you...might...miss...me,“ the pile of moldy earth said, its voice a distorted, watery rattle. “I...was...so...lonely...out...there...behind...the...barn...“

  Unable to move, Merit gaped at the monstrosity as two large chunks shifted to the edge of the bed and clumped down onto the floor like thick, black-crusted legs and feet. The bedsprings creaked horribly beneath the shifting weight as the heap shifted forward to stand. Merit finally broke through his amazement and moved swiftly to the closet door where he kept his shotgun. He flung the door open and reached inside for it, feeling around blindly for it because he didn’t dare take his eyes away from the thing getting up off the bed. Just when he felt the cold metal of the gun barrel against his hand, the thing heaved itself up from the bed and stood up straight. The top of the quivering mass of lumpy black earth almost touched the ceiling. Maggots rained down onto the floor like spilled rice. The only difference was, this rice squirmed around on the rug. The stench of rot ballooned in the bedroom as the thing lurched forward with its arms spread wide.

  “Didn’t...you...miss...me...Honeybun...?“ the black pit of a mouth said thickly. “Aren’t...you...sorry...for...what...you...did...to...me...?“

  Merit experienced a momentary flood of relief when his fingers closed around the smooth barrel of the shotgun. Raising it quickly, he snapped open the chamber to make sure it was loaded, then he snapped it shut and raised the gun, taking aim at the compost. He was shaking so badly his aim kept wavering, but he tired to fix it on the distorted head of the thing.

  “You can stop right there,“ he said, his voice wavering and almost breaking. “I ain’t sorry ’bout nothin’, but if you don’t stop right where you are.“

  “But...Merit...Honeybun...“ the heap said in a low rumbling voice that sounded vaguely like Lydia’s voice. “I...want...you...to...join...me...“

  “No way in hell!“ Merit shouted. “Now you git!“

  He jabbed the shotgun at the compost as it continued to slide across the floor toward him. The stench grew stronger and almost overpowered him, but he raised the shotgun and closed his eyes as he unloaded both barrels.

  The twin blasts slammed into Merit’s ears like hammer blows. He opened his eyes to see clumps of black earth spray into the air and splatter against the wall behind the bed. Shotgun pellets ripped into the wallpaper, shredding it and making rough divots in the plaster beneath. Black smears of wet ooze dripped down to the floor in wide ink-splash swatches. For an instant, the compost heap seemed to stagger; then it righted itself and kept moving forward.

  “Now...that...wasn’t...very...nice...now...was...it...Honeybun...?“ the black hole of the mouth
said, widening to the size of a basketball.

  “You keep away from me!“ Merit shrieked, his voice so strained it was pitched much higher than normal.

  He felt an impulse to turn his back to the thing so he could find the box of shells he knew was on the closet shelf, but he didn’t dare look away. The seething black horror now rose up, towering above him with its arms spread so wide they almost touched opposite walls. The mountain of chunky black earth, crawling with worms, swept up like a tidal wave and then crashed down on top of him, suffocating him in blackness that writhed all around him. Horrible things clawed and scraped his flesh, and when he hit the floor, the air was expelled from his lungs as the thing buried him. Within seconds, the life was squeezed out of him.

  “What’s that?“

  “Oh, that? That’s nothing but an old compost heap,“ Merilee Bryant, the real estate agent from Century 21, said as she along with Ben and Sarah Cauldwell walked out behind the Parker’s barn.

  It was a hot August afternoon, and this was the seventh showing she’d had this week for prospective buyers. Following Merit and Lydia’s Parker’s mysterious disappearance, Merit’s brother Al had put the house on the market without even bothering to clean it out. Al claimed all he wanted was some quick money so he could pay off his son’s college expenses, but Merilee knew Al’s reputation and was pretty sure he’d drink as much of that money as he could. With the prices houses were going for, even this far out from Portland, Al was going to be set for years.

  “Compost?“ Sarah Cauldwell said, wrinkling her nose as she took a cautious step back from the large, sloped pile. It stood almost head-high. She glared at her husband as he knelt down beside it and dug his fingers into the rich, black mulch. He made a ball of the stuff and squeezed it until it crumbled in his hands.

  “Sure,“ Merilee said. “You take grass clipping, leaves, and any vegetable waste, mix it with some dirt, and it turns into the best fertilizer you can find.“

  “It’s just an old garbage pile,“ Sarah said, taking another step back.

  Merilee looked back and forth between the man and woman, wondering if this was going to be another no sale. She could definitely sense some kind of tension below the surface between these two. The hostility was subtle, but it was barely repressed. Merilee could feel it like a taut wire about to snap. In all her years selling real estate, she had seen this plenty of times before when one partner loved the property and the other wasn’t so sure. She just hoped it wouldn’t kill this sale. She really needed the commission. On their walkthrough of the house, things had seemed pretty good, and she didn’t want something as minor as a compost heap to be a deal breaker.

  “I certainly don’t want to live where there’s a...a pile of garbage in the back yard,“ Sarah said. She waved her hand in front of her face. “Phew. It stinks, too.“

  “No, honey,“ Ben said, looking at his hand, which was stained black from the compost. “Like Merilee says—it’s great for gardening“.

  “You can use it if you want to,“ Sarah said, his voice thick with disdain. “But you can count me out.“

  “It’s my understanding,“ Merilee said, “that if you do it correctly, it won’t smell at all. Just like rich soil. This one probably just went bad because the people who lived here didn’t manage it properly. You just need to cover it over so the bacterial action can work“

  “And you know, Sweetie,“ Ben said rather meekly. “We can use it to grow roses on the fence out front, maybe even have a little tomato garden out back here.“

  “If you do have a garden—“ Merilee said. She was about to say more, but she hesitated when she thought she saw the compost heap move slightly. Maybe it was just some of the stuff sliding down because of the handful Ben had scooped away. After a second or two, she regained her composure and continued, “Composting is the way to go. Anything you put in here will rot away in a few days or weeks, leaving nothing but fertile soil.“

  “Really? It will decompose anything?“ Ben said, his eyebrows arching for a moment as he stood up and looked up at the real estate agent. He brushed his hands on his pants legs, leaving behind wide, black smears. Placing his hands on his hips, he looked past the barn, down to the wide field that was bordered at the far end by a pine forest. Then he turned and looked back at the house. After clearing his throat, he said, “Sweetie, I think we should take it. I definitely think we should take it.“

  “I don’t know, Honeybun,“ Sarah said, frowning as she shook her head slowly from side to side. “I’m not so sure I like the idea of living so far out from town.“

  “Ahh,“ Ben said with a dismissive wave of his black-stained hand. “It’s not that far. And you know I could use a little peace and quiet.“ He glanced at Merilee and smiled. “There’s nothing wrong with a little peace and quiet, now, is there?“

  “Nothing at all,“ Merilee said, smiling to herself because she knew—she sensed she had just clinched the deal.

  Iron Frog

  “Frogs at the bottom of the well see only a small part of the sky.“

  —A Chinese proverb

  “I think I might’ve seen pop last night.“

  Mark Stover was sitting at the kitchen table across from his mother. Overhead, a single light bulb cast a dull yellow patina, like a coating of dust, over the well-worn linoleum floor, the faded and chipped counter top, and the frayed, red and white checkered tablecloth. Ellen Stover, Mark’s mother, was sitting silently with her hands folded on the table in front of her. Between her forearms was a cup of tea. She hadn’t yet sipped it although it was no longer steaming. The overhead light made the skin on the back of her hands look as cracked and pale as the old ceramic teacup. It was almost translucent. Pencil-thin tendons and twisting blue veins stood out in sharp relief beneath her skin as she twisted and twined her fingers together.

  “What do you mean?“ Ellen said, her voice low and tremulous, almost a whisper.

  Mark heaved a sigh as he leaned his chair back on two legs and took a swallow from his beer bottle. His throat made a loud gulping sound that might have been funny except for the sensation he had that unseen hands, as cold as ice, were gripping him by the throat and slowly squeezing.

  “Well, I—“ He paused and took another swig. “You have to realize how tough this is for me, coming back home after all this time.“

  His mother nodded but said nothing. His grip around the beer bottle tightened as he absent-mindedly flicked the edge of the bottle’s label with his thumbnail. His vision went unfocused as he dredged up the memory of the nightmare he’d had the night before. It had been his first night sleeping in his boyhood home in more than ten years.

  “I know it wasn’t pop. Not really. But I was thinking about him, you know, and trying to...“

  He let his voice trail away because he wasn’t sure how to say what he wanted to say without hurting his mother’s feelings. She smiled reassuringly at him and sighed and then shifted her gaze away, blinking her eyes as though fighting back tears.

  “Well of course it couldn’t really have been him,“ she said. “Your father’s been dead more’n eight years, now.“

  Mark nodded and after a moment said in a low, raspy voice, “I still feel bad about not making it to his funeral.“

  “What’s done is done,“ his mother said with a shrug that didn’t seem as casual as she might have intended. “So where’d you see him?“

  A terrible chill gripped Mark as he allowed the memory of his nightmare to come back. For a moment, he couldn’t take a deep enough breath to speak, but he finally managed to croak out the words, “In my bedroom.“

  “I see.“

  An odd expression crossed his mother’s face. His stomach tightened, and his heart dropped in the cold center of his chest.

  I know exactly what it was! Mark thought, fighting back the terror that skittered up and down his back.

  The bastard’s still here!

  No matter how long he’s been dead...no matter how deep we bury him...he will alway
s cast a shadow over this house and both of our lives.

  He wanted to say this—or something like it—to his mother, but the sensation of cold hands tightening around his throat grew stronger. To relieve it, he tilted his head back and focused on the ceiling as he took another long swallow of beer.

  After a lengthening moment of awkward silence, he cleared his throat and said, “Do you know how much I dislike this island?“

  His mother sighed, lowered her gaze as though heartbroken, and said nothing.

  “I mean, do you have any idea how much I hate this place! The whole goddamned thing! Goddamned GlooscapIsland and the goddamned ocean that surrounds it! Everything about it! You know—“

  He caught himself and sniffed with laughter as he narrowed his eyes and shook his head. “You know, it’s really funny how every summer this place is overrun with tourists and summer people—“

  “And every year, it seems to get nothing but worse,“ his mother added, sounding almost wistful.

  “And what do they come here for?“ His mother frowned and shrugged. “To get away from it all, I guess,“ she said. “Away from the crime and overcrowding in the cities, the hustle and bustle. They want to be surrounded by the ocean so they can relax and forget all about their problems back at home. They want to breathe fresh ocean air and—“

  “Exactly! Fresh air,“ Mark said sharply, pointing at her with his beer bottle. “And do you want to know what this island smells like to me?“

  He paused, but when his mother didn’t say anything, he continued.