by Brian Hodge
How can it be a dream? he asked himself as he watched the fog resolve itself into dozens of tiny figures. Before long, the entire window was filled with distorted dark shapes as Kip, in his dream—
It must be a dream!
—cowered back against the headboard.
Gradually, he became aware of a sound that had been building so slowly he couldn't remember when it had started or when he had become aware of it. In a way, it seemed as though the sound had always been there in the background, just waiting for him to notice it.
More shapes filled the window as the sound grew louder. Faces wavered into view and just as quickly dissolved like swirling puffs of smoke. At first Kip had no idea what the sound was, but as he cringed in the darkness, he eventually realized that it sounded like insects, termites maybe, chewing and gnawing into rotten wood. A low, steady scratching sound like... like...
In his dream, Kip suddenly leaned forward and looked at the shapes in the windows. In a flash of terror, he realized exactly what was making the sound, and he could have made out the faces, but the pre-dawn mist swirled between him and them, smearing the details.
Huge, lamp-like eyes peered at him through the glass. Kip could see long, narrow fingers, tipped with thick, bony fingernails—claws the size of a hawk's talons—picking and scratching at the edge of his bedroom window.
His panic swelled when he realized there was just a thin pane of glass between him and...
Them!
The yellow globes of their eyes watched him steadily. An icy hatred in the depths of their gazes squeezed the breath from Kip.
Once he realized it was claws, scraping at his windowsill, the sound rose in intensity until he was surprised it didn't wake up everyone in the house. Steadily, yet nearly frantically, the claws picked at the edges of the window, and Kip was sure those things outside would eventually gain the purchase they needed. They'd rip the window from the wall. It would fall and shatter on the ground below. And they would pour into the bedroom, swarming over him in a single snarling, slashing mass.
Kip suddenly lurched out of bed, not really sure whether he intended to rush to the window and try to protect himself, or merely hide somewhere... anywhere. He closed his eyes, wondering how he could do something like that in a dream, but the image of the shapes was still there in his mind, clawing and ripping their way through the window as they tried to get at him, to get him.
Kip thrashed in the bed, and something snagged his leg. He twisted around and pitched headlong onto the floor. Afterwards, he realized he must have gotten tangled in his bed sheets and fallen out of bed. He was yanked out of the nightmare as soon as he hit the floor.
An electric jolt of pain shot up his back from his butt to the base of his skull. He was panting heavily as he stood there in the darkness and faced the window. He uttered a low whimper when he realized there was—
Nothing.
A thin morning mist drifted lazily on a wafting breeze out his window. From deep in the woods, he could hear the song of a robin. The house was steeped in eerie stillness, and the steady rasping sound of claws scratching to get in at him was gone.
He could discern no shapes out there in the twisting morning mist. No yellowed claws picked and tore at the window and, as far as he could tell in the pre-dawn light, the wood of his windowsill hadn't been touched by anything except a bubbly film of dew.
Feeling both exhausted and a bit foolish, he knelt down on the floor by the window and stared out at the slowly awakening world. The nightmare had seemed too real, too close, was the first word that sprang to mind. The dreamy landscape, bathed by a pre-dawn glow, and the distant bird song seemed less real than those faces he had seen... and those glowing yellow eyes... and those sharp, grasping claws...
Kip stood up, still maintaining a tense crouch as he began backing up slowly toward his bed. He felt a soft bump against the back of his legs. As he eased himself back under his tangled blankets and sheets, he couldn't tear his eyes away from the window. There was no way he could convince himself what he had seen out there had been just a dream.
Those things had wanted him, he thought. His pulse throbbed in his throat, feeling like invisible hands were choking him.
They had wanted him!
2
"Come on, Kip! Feet on the deck!"
His father's voice slashed through the sleep that had finally claimed him sometime after dawn. Kip's eyes snapped open and were blasted by the stream of sunlight that flooded his room. He felt a cold shock when he realized that—even in sleep—his eyes had been fixed on the bedroom window.
"Marty! Kip! Come on, boys!" his father yelled.
"Yeah... yeah... yeah" came a gravelly voice from Marty's room.
Kip kicked his bedcovers aside and dropped his feet to the floor. His mouth was dry, and his eyes felt as though they were truly patriotic—red, white, and blue.
"Be right down," he called out as he dragged his fingers through his hair. He couldn't turn his gaze from the window, and he had to fight the impulse to rush over to it and check to see if the wood really was gouged with claw marks.
Marty's door suddenly clicked open, and Kip heard his brother's footsteps approach his door. After a sudden, loud bang on the door, Marty called out, "Better hurry up, Kippy-boy, or you'll be late for Sunday school." Marty chuckled as he walked down the hallway. Then the bathroom door opened and slammed shut.
"Get bent," Kip whispered. His throat was too dry to shout the way he wanted to. Slowly, he shifted his gaze from the door back to the window.
Had they really been out there? he wondered as a frantic rush of fear put pressure on his bowels.
How could they have been?
It was impossible... wasn't it?
Slowly, like a man on his way to the gallows, Kip moved toward the window, his feet scuffing across the floor. His breath was caught in his chest, and it began to burn like poison in his lungs.
It was impossible!
They couldn't have been out there!
But what were they? he wondered.
As he neared the window, he reached out a trembling hand to touch the sill. In his mind, he could still see the swirling mist, and out of the darkness in his memory, faces began to emerge... small, pinched faces with cold, staring eyes.
"No," Kip whispered under his breath as he pressed his face against the glass and strained to look down at the windowsill. Although the angle was bad and he couldn't see much, a bone-deep chill shot through him when he saw that several deep gouges marred the wood.
"I'm gonna scramble some eggs," his father yelled from downstairs. "You guys want some?"
"I'm not really hungry, Dad," Kip called back, forcing the words. With his face pressed close to the glass, his voice sounded oddly deadened. He strained to see, and—yes, the scratches on the wood looked fresh, and they certainly looked like claw marks.
But that's impossible.
Dreams don't put gouges in your windowsill.
The toilet flushed, and Kip listened to Marty's footsteps as he shuffled back to his bedroom. A second later, music started blaring.
Kip struggled to remember if he had ever noticed those marks on his windowsill before. They couldn't have happened last night, could they?
It had all been a dream.
He unlocked the window and was about to run it up so he could stick his head out and inspect the sill more closely, but just then his father called out, "Kip! Tell your brother to turn that damned music down, and both of you get down here for breakfast! It's getting late!"
"What's the hurry?" Kip shouted back. "It's Sunday."
"Just get down here!"
Struggling to suppress a shiver, Kip straightened up quickly and stepped away from the window. Shivering inside, he started toward the door.
Just leave it alone for now, he told himself as he clomped down the stairs. Just leave it alone, and hope and pray the nightmares don't come back.
3
Since before dawn, Woody had been sitting
slouched in his battleship-gray Chevy in the parking lot beside the Cumberland County Jail. He had left his black Camaro at home because, if things went the way he hoped, he didn't want to be driving an easily identifiable car.
Bruised and sore, he had been released from jail the day before after his father's scumbag lawyer arranged his release. Bill Howard's bullshit threat to let him rot in jail over the weekend had been just that—bullshit. Woody was sure his father had put the pressure on to get him released with just a promise to appear for the hearing on his assault charge.
"Personal recognizance—what crap," he said aloud.
He smiled whenever he thought about that even though it hurt to smile. His upper lip was still swollen, and both eyes were circles of puffy purple from the roughing up he had taken at the police station the night he'd been arrested. The "going away" present a couple of the cops had given him had only made sure the swelling would stay up a few extra days.
But the long wait finally paid off. The double doors suddenly swung open. Their wire-mesh windows reflected the cloud-flecked blue sky as Officer Bob Doyle stepped out into the sunshine.
It was the end of Doyle's shift, and he was leaving work that morning, looking forward to a relaxing Sunday before starting a day shift on Monday morning. There had been a full moon on Friday night, which helped explain why there had been so many calls over the weekend. He was dog-tired and wanted nothing more than a hot shower followed by a cold beer and then a solid eight hours sleep if Nancy could keep the kids quiet.
Doyle walked briskly across the parking lot, his arms swinging at his sides. Woody watched silently from his car. His upper lip throbbed as it curled into a sneer, and his hand, slick with sweat, tightened on the tire iron on the seat beside him.
He wanted to take the son-of-a-bitch out right now if he could. He hated Doyle's guts. He had been the arresting officer, the bastard who had thrown him, naked and bruised, into the jail cell on Thursday night. Goddamn! He wanted to get Doyle so bad it made his mouth water, but he watched and waited as the cop fished in his pants pocket for the keys to his black Fury.
After unlocking his car, Doyle slid in behind the wheel. The car started up, sending out a tiny puff of exhaust as he popped it into gear and took off out of the parking lot. Woody cranked his ignition and pulled out, following at safe distance.
Doyle turned right onto Middle Street, then left onto Exchange and right again onto Fore Street. This early on a Sunday morning, the traffic was light, and Woody didn't want to be too obvious, so he hung back, never letting the Fury get too far ahead as they drove past empty shops and restaurants. Doyle drove up the access ramp to the bridge heading into South Portland.
As he followed behind Doyle, Woody ran through dozens of ways he could go about getting even with this asshole. What would work best? he wondered. He obviously couldn't have jumped him in the jail parking lot. That would have been far too risky. If at all possible, he wanted to take him from behind so the scumbag would never know what hit him. It was just going to take a little time and patience, and even if he didn't get Doyle today—well, he now knew what kind of car Doyle drove. And if he was heading home now, Woody would probably find out where he lived. And then you never know what might turn up. Maybe he's married. Maybe he's got kids. There are plenty ways of getting even with someone. You just have to have the patience of a spider.
On Waterman Drive, just over the bridge, Doyle's turn blinker winked on and off as the Fury slowed for a left turn. Woody was two lanes to the right, so he slowed and watched as Doyle's car glided to a stop at the Burger King. In his rearview mirror, he saw Doyle get out and walk into the restaurant.
"Enjoy it, you fucker" Woody said, snickering as he stared at the Burger King in his rearview. "It may be your last meal."
Woody stepped on the gas and, at the next set of lights, hung a sharp left at the Mill Creek Shopping Center. Another left turn took him onto Ocean Avenue, and a left turn and a short drive up C Street brought him into the Burger King parking lot. He parked behind the Burger King and sat with the engine idling as he stared at Doyle's car.
"What to do?... What to do?" he muttered as he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. The son-of-a-bitch had to pay for messing him up the other night that was for sure, but how... how?
His best bet might be to wait and follow him home, but just in case something came up, Woody backed in beside the Fury. He clicked off the ignition, slid the tire iron up the sleeve of his jeans jacket, and stepped out onto the pavement. A cool breeze off the ocean scattered hamburger wrappers and Pepsi cups across the parking lot.
The breeze had a salty tang, and Woody found that it revived him after his late night, early morning vigil at the police station. Several sea gulls with eyes like yellow dinner plates were rummaging through the trash in the fenced off dumpster behind the restaurant.
Glancing nervously up and down Waterman Drive, Woody hurried to the side of the building, finally deciding to wait out by the trash area. It was close enough to the back door, which Doyle would probably use. If something came up—fine; if not, it was no problem to get back into his car and follow Doyle home.
But as Woody waited, his impatience quickly grew. He knew he must look suspicious to anyone who might notice him lurking there. Would Doyle recognize the car parked beside his Fury? Would that be enough to put him on his guard? Woody was just about to give up and get back into his car when the restaurant door swung open, and Doyle came out carrying a bag full of food. He was whistling as he walked over to his car.
Moving silently, Woody stepped out from behind the dumpster and with three quick steps came up behind Doyle. With a quick downward movement of his arm, he shook the tire iron into his hand, gripped it tightly, and then raised it over his head and swung a vicious blow at the base of Doyle's neck.
There was a dull thud and a satisfying snap that shook Woody's arm. Woody gasped with laughter when Doyle's knees buckled and, with barely a groan, he spun halfway around and crumpled to the pavement. His eyes were closed before he hit the ground. Woody was satisfied, knowing the bastard was at least going to have one hell of a headache. At best, his friggin' neck was broken and he'd be paralyzed for the rest of his life. That would teach him.
"Eat shit and live," Woody muttered as he slid the tire iron back up his sleeve. Before he turned to leave, he couldn't resist cocking back his foot and directing a kick at the unconscious man's kidneys. His foot made a hollow thump when it connected, like he was kicking a ripe watermelon.
After a nervous look around, Woody dashed over to his car and got in. He dropped the tire iron onto the seat beside him, smiling when he noticed a bloody smear on the end that had connected with Doyle's head.
He started the ignition and raced down D Street, turning left onto Ocean Avenue and heading back to Portland. It was an hour drive back to Thornton, so he snapped on the radio, pressing the buttons until he found a hard rock oldies station. With the volume cranked all the way up, he gloried in the nerve-jangling sound of Ratt as the salty wind whistled in the side window and bathed his face.
Maybe, just maybe, if he got lucky he'd hear something on the radio about a Portland cop getting brutally beaten by an unknown assailant in the South Portland Burger King parking lot. That'd finish it off nicely and make him feel real good by the time he got home.
4
"Dad?" Kip didn't look up but kept his eyes focused on the few Cheerios floating in milk in his bowl. He scooped at them with his spoon, but they just wouldn't let themselves get picked up.
"What is it?" his father asked hardly breaking his concentration as he leaned over the stove and vigorously beat a yellow mound of scrambled eggs. The automatic coffee maker was wheezing asthmatically as the coffee carafe filled.
Kip didn't say anything, mostly because he wasn't sure where to begin. His throat felt like he'd swallowed sand, not cereal.
"What is it, Kipper?" his father repeated. He was still too distracted trying to cook the eggs, but he chanced a
quick glance at his son. When he saw the strained expression on Kip's face, he realized something was wrong. Sliding the frying pan off the burner, he pulled a chair over so he could sit down beside Kip.
"Something bothering you, kiddo?" he asked. "I know there is, so tell me. What gives?"
Kip idly stirred the cereal with his spoon, praying feverishly that his mouth wasn't twitching as badly as it thought it was.
"Look, son," Bill said, resting a hand on Kip's shoulder and giving him a reassuring squeeze. "Whatever it is, you can tell me. You know that, don't you?"
Kip nodded, wishing to God his eyes would stop stinging. He was afraid he'd start crying, and the worst of it was, he wasn't even sure exactly what was bothering him. Sure, it had something—maybe a lot—to do with his nightmare from last night, but it was more than that. He was afraid it might be a lot more.
"It's about Mom, isn't it?" his father said, and when he spoke, his voice constricted. The grip on Kip's shoulder tightened involuntarily.
With a hitching intake of breath, Kip nodded once, quickly. "Umm. Yeah... Sort of." He felt like he'd inhaled a knotted rope.
"I know how you feel," Bill said softly, his grip on Kip's shoulder tightening so much it began to hurt.
"When someone you love dies, it's like... like—I don't know." He sighed and shook his head. "You want to think that, eventually, the hurt will go away. And in a way it does, but there's always this... this hollowness inside. Sort of like you swallowed an ice cube, and it never goes away."
Tears were spilling down Kip's cheeks now. His spoon dropped from his hand and clattered onto the table. The sound jangled his nerves like a fire alarm.
"Never?" Kip finally asked in a strangled voice.
His father shrugged, and as he did, he let go of Kip's shoulder, letting his hand drop to the table. "Never. At least that's what I think. But you know, son, if Mom could talk to you right now, you know what she'd say?" Before Kip could answer, he went on. "She'd tell you you've just gotta get on with your life. You know that, don't you?"
