Doorbells at Dusk

by Josh Malerman

  Evans Light

  The man was closer to heaven than he’d ever been, hung up high on a pole in the middle of a vast cornfield. Probably the closest he’d ever get to those pearly gates, he figured. Even though the burning sun rising before him was a reminder of where he was most likely headed, the warmth of it on his face was a pleasure far greater than any he’d experienced in the previous year.

  A leather strap was looped under his armpits, holding him tight, allowing him to take in the rolling brown pastures spread out below. It was the last thing he’d ever see, he knew, but was satisfied.

  A vulture landed with a flutter on his shoulder, drawn by the rotten stench of his flesh. The man remained motionless, unblinking, as the bundle of glistening black feathers shuffled closer to his face, long pink neck craning forward, a single beady eye hungrily examining his own.

  He braced himself, waiting for the thin veil that separates the world of the living from the darkness beyond to be torn away. He wasn’t afraid. Fear had long since lost its power. After the pain and suffering he’d endured, he yearned for his soul to be unfettered from this rotting husk of flesh.

  The ravenous bird, unable to restrain itself any longer, began to peck at his eye with agonizing insistence. As the man’s vision failed, suffering dissolved into relief. At last, he would be free. Death was close at hand and he welcomed it with open arms. Other vultures circled above, hissing excitement.

  The world was swallowed up in darkness as the bird on his shoulder plucked out his remaining eye. Whether the warm viscous fluid streaming down his cheeks was blood or tears, the man didn’t know and didn’t care.

  He only wanted it all to end.

  ***

  “How do you do it?” neighbors asked. “It looks so real! Like it could jump right up and grab you.”

  The rocking chair scarecrow was the crown jewel of Mr. Rusty Husk’s menagerie of Halloween decorations, one that struck fear into the hearts of children and adults alike. Halloween was his absolute favorite holiday, and each October for the last decade Rusty had made a new scarecrow.

  He took extreme pride in his handiwork. A menacing jack-o’-lantern head perched atop its shoulders, this year’s scarecrow was dressed in a traditional manner, sporting farmer dungarees and a plaid flannel shirt stuffed to bursting with hay. Its wrists and ankles were bound to the rocking chair with metal shackles. Thick chains wrapped around the scarecrow’s torso completed the illusion that any visitor would experience a swift and certain death if the monster wasn’t forcibly restrained.

  Rusty hated to end his annual scarecrow tradition, but this year was to be the last. Having recently celebrated his fiftieth birthday, Rusty thought it time to quit while he was ahead.

  After weeks of anticipation, Halloween finally arrived. As the fat autumn sun vanished below the horizon, clusters of costumed children began to roam the sidewalks. Bucket of candy in hand, Rusty was ready for them.

  His house was always a draw, and that night was no exception. Scores of trick or treaters stopped by to beg for candy and endure his scarecrow—some reacting with frightened squeals, others with nervous laughter. His infamous rocking porch scarecrow seemed to rattle even the bravest among them.

  Rusty took his sweet time, letting them shiver beneath the scarecrow’s dark glare. He figured the kids enjoyed being scared, even if they didn’t know it. The frightening moments he provided could very well be the most vivid childhood memories they’d have in old age. Those would be gifts he’d given them.

  His neighbor, Luther, an elderly man whose gravelly voice made him sound like a pack-a-day guy even though he claimed not to smoke, eventually stopped by to inspect the final scarecrow, as he did every Halloween.

  “Ever thought about putting yourself in that rocking chair, dressed up as the scarecrow?” he said with a sandpaper drawl. “Sit real still and then jump up and grab people when they least expect it? I saw somebody do that once. Scared the shit out of me.”

  Rusty had never done that cheap trick, and had told Luther as much, many times and in no uncertain terms. Yet Luther asked him that same question every year, and eventually the conversation had become an annual ritual between them.

  As evening became night, the number of trick or treaters dwindled until, eventually, the doorbell ceased to ring at all. Rusty shook the cauldron-shaped bucket, pleased to hear a few remaining Halloween treats sliding around inside. He cocked a smile at the scarecrow chained down in the rocking chair.

  “Just enough left over for you and me, Bertha.”

  The scarecrow didn’t respond, of course. Its carved-pumpkin eyes stared straight ahead, dark and unseeing. The rocking chair, firmly bolted down as a deterrent to pranksters, sat motionless.

  “Fine, be that way. More for me.” Rusty said.

  Neighbors often asked why he didn’t simply reuse his scarecrows, since each was so perfectly creepy. He’d never answered these questions directly, preferring to dodge with a smile and an oft-repeated story: Every morning after Halloween, he’d go onto the porch to take his coffee and the scarecrow would be gone. “Split for the cornfields, I suppose.” He’d chuckle in a genial way, and that was the end of that.

  The truth was, after trick or treating was done, he’d turn off the porch light, unlock the chains and swiftly pull it into the house. There, behind tightly-drawn curtains, he’d wrap it up tight, drive it down to the abandoned lots on Shady Lane for a one-way trip through the chipper, the same one he used to mulch the neighbors’ Christmas trees in winter. He’d gotten the scarecrow’s disposal down to a science over the years, and the process hadn’t failed him yet.

  Rusty glanced at his watch as he stood on the porch, sucking a Tootsie Pop. He scanned for stragglers, but the block was empty and the night silent. Deciding that Halloween was officially over, he called time of death as 10pm, flipped off the light and stepped inside, kicking the door closed behind him.

  He went to the garage to fetch the clean-up equipment. Sometimes the slightest niggle of worry would strike, but it hadn’t this year. So what if I allow myself one little thrill? Is that really so bad? he thought while digging through storage bins for a tarp and some duct tape. Anyway, this was it, the last one, the very last scarecrow.

  He went into the living room and dropped the duct tape and tarp onto the sofa. After pushing the coffee table to one side to clear space in which to work, he started towards the front porch but ended up in the kitchen for some coffee instead.

  He was procrastinating. Getting rid of the scarecrow was the single thing he hated about Halloween. Once he finished his coffee, Rusty grabbed his keys and headed to the front porch to unlock the scarecrow from its display.

  The doorbell rang as he touched the front door, the unexpected chime jolting him as if the knob was electric.

  Who could possibly be visiting this late?

  He was irritated by the intrusion. The porch light was off, and that was a cardinal rule of Halloween: lights out, no more candy, end of story.

  He decided it was best to simply move the late visitor along, so he grabbed the candy bucket and opened the door. “You almost missed out,” he said, wearing his friendliest smile.

  No one was there.

  A haunted soundtrack of anguished moans and howling wolves floated across the yard from the speakers he’d hidden among the decorations in his front yard. Flashing lights painted the fog purple and orange as it billowed from the machine and rolled down the stairs.

  Rusty stepped onto the empty porch, into the autumn night. The darkness was still as death. He frowned. Something felt wrong. Invisible fingertips crawled along his back as he turned towards the scarecrow.

  The rocking chair was empty. A mess of scattered straw littered the floor where the scarecrow had been.

  It had been on his porch for weeks. Seldom had an hour passed without him checking on it. With all the bolts and chains, no one could have absconded with his scarecrow without raising a holy ruckus.

  But the chair was em
pty all the same, as if the scarecrow had just gotten up and walked away. As Rusty pondered what to do, a shuffle from behind drew his attention.

  He spun about and found the scarecrow’s dark jack-o’-lantern eyes waiting for him. It was taller than he remembered, the formerly hay-stuffed body grown thick and burly. Cords of muscle flexed beneath flannel sleeves, stretching the seams as the pumpkin head loomed above him.

  An enormous hand clamped over Rusty’s mouth before he could make a sound. The fingers of the scarecrow’s other hand coiled around his neck, lifting him from the ground and thrusting him through the front door with a single violent shove.

  The scarecrow clomped inside behind him, slamming the door closed. Rusty lashed out, frantic, fists pummeling the pumpkin head, smashing it into a pulpy mush. Pieces fell away as the pair moved into the living room.

  Rusty dug his fingers into a slimy chunk of pumpkin flesh, taking it with him as the scarecrow hurled him to the floor, the impact with hardwood knocking the wind from his lungs.

  He pushed himself up on his knees, discovering that his assailant was no supernatural being, no scarecrow come to life, as he’d subconsciously feared. It was only a man, a giant hunk of a man, whose beard was covered in strands of gooey pumpkin guts from the makeshift helmet he’d worn during the brief confrontation. The man’s eyes burned with a fury brighter than any jack-o’-lantern Rusty had ever seen.

  As Rusty struggled to his feet, a fist pounded into his face, sending him back down in a shower of stars.

  Rusty felt hands on him, his arms twisted so hard behind him he feared they’d be wrenched from his body. Gritty carpet fibers pressed between his lips. Duct tape ripped loudly, the tightness of it felt first around his wrists, then his ankles. Then around his head it went—one, two three times, the tape sealing his mouth.

  The man kicked Rusty onto his back, bashing his head against the floor. The intruder snatched the tarp from the couch, spread it out and dumped Rusty onto it.

  The man dropped to his knees, straddling Rusty. He leaned forward to growl a single word into Rusty’s ear: “Stay.”

  Rusty obeyed, immobile and trembling as the man’s footsteps echoed away into the foyer. The front door squeaked opened and slammed closed.

  The sudden silence of the empty house was almost as jarring as the unexpected assault. What to do? Make a break for it?

  Not likely with bound limbs.

  He tried to remember where he’d put his phone. The kitchen perhaps? Even if he got on his feet and hopped into the kitchen before the man returned, what could he possibly hope to do? How could he unlock his phone with his hands bound behind his back, much less call for help?

  Perhaps this was nothing more than a run-of-the-mill robbery and the man would simply take what he wanted and hit the road, leaving Rusty tied-up for the neighbors to find him later?

  He desperately wanted to believe that, but the fury, the purposefulness of the man’s movements, had told a different story.

  Before Rusty could settle on a plan of action, time ran out. The front door squeaked open and slammed closed once more as approaching footsteps grew ever louder.

  Rusty turned to find a pair of dirty work boots inches from his nose. A bright red metal toolbox slammed onto the floor, tools jangling inside.

  Clasps were flipped and the lid was lifted. The man retrieved a small ball-peen hammer and an odd-looking spike, bluntly tapered at one end, flat on the other.

  The man set the hammer down and sat atop Rusty once again, pinning him to the floor. Calloused fingers pressed firmly into Rusty’s spine, starting at the back of the neck and working their way down, vertebrae by vertebrae, as if carefully counting.

  The man’s probing fingers came to a stop several inches below Rusty’s neck, holding their position until replaced by cold steel.

  Rusty struggled to free himself as the man reached for the hammer, but to no avail. Shadows scurried along the wall as the man brought the hammer up and swung it back down, striking the spike with a sharp ting.

  In that instant, Rusty’s body burned as if he’d been stabbed with a billion needles and set aflame. A scream burst from his lungs, but the tape over his mouth redirected the exhalation through his nostrils where it exited with nothing more than a snort.

  His agony swelled to a crescendo of searing pain before ebbing away into a vague sense of nothingness, departing as quickly as it had arrived.

  The man kicked a boot beneath Rusty’s ribcage, flipping him over to stare at the ceiling.

  Rusty tried to roll over, to crawl away, but his body had hardened into cement. He was lying atop taped wrists and hands, but he no longer felt them beneath him. He had the sensation that his body was melting into the floor.

  Hysteria surged, triggering a wave of nausea that threatened to sweep him away. He was being suffocated by the duct tape, used-up air welling up inside him.

  Rusty looked towards the man, his head the only part of his body still obeying orders. He wanted to beg for mercy, but his lips were sealed.

  The intruder fiddled with something just out of view, ignoring him. Rusty closed his eyes to calm himself, get control of his breathing, slow his pounding heart. He told himself everything would be okay, that he was going to make it out of this alive.

  Hands tugged at his hair, lifting his head from the floor. A plastic brace was slipped around his neck and locked into place with a loud “click”.

  The room spun as vertigo threatened to swallow him whole. The man folded the tarp over Rusty’s body, rolling him over and over until he was fully swaddled in plastic sheeting.

  He lay trembling, eyes closed, bracing for the next terrible thing. Many seconds passed in silence before Rusty opened his eyes. When he did, the man’s face was millimeters from his own.

  “We’re going to play a game, you and me, gonna make it last as long as we can. You don’t know me, but you’ll soon discover I win every time.”

  The man stood and moved silently through the house, turning off the lights one by one until nothing but darkness remained.

  “I owe you no explanation, Mr. Husk, so I won’t be giving you one,” said the voice from the void.

  A moment later, Rusty felt himself rising into the air, as if he were flying. It was a strange sensation, as though his entire body had sloughed away, leaving behind nothing more than a solitary head floating through space.

  Flashing orange and purple lights appeared as he drifted through the front door, past the empty rocking chair, down the front steps and through his front yard, over decorative gravestones with grasping hands before taking a sharp left into the dark driveway beside his house.

  A battered pickup sat waiting. The man threw Rusty into the back, his body landing with a clang on the metal bed. Footsteps crunched away. A door squeaked open and closed. A rumbling diesel engine growled to life.

  They drove beneath traffic lights, past billboards, picking up speed as they moved onto the highway. Stars blinked in the dark sky. A frigid breeze lashed his cheeks. Vibrations rattled up from the road straight into his skull, creating a tingle that descended into his throat but went no further.

  After what seemed like hours, the truck slowed and went through a succession of turns. A fine dust flowed into Rusty’s eyes, into his lungs, choking him as wheels crunched upon gravel. They were headed away from town, into the country, a fact made obvious by diminishing streetlights and bumpier roads.

  Rusty sensed something beside him, but was unable to turn his head to see what it was. The truck took a sharp turn, hitting a hole in the road, bouncing Rusty, knocking him onto his side.

  The sand in his eyes triggered a flow of involuntary tears, eventually clearing his vision. The object beside him jostled ever closer, until it was close enough for him to see what it was.

  It was Bertha. He hadn’t seen her without the pumpkin head since he’d sealed her up tight and dressed her in overalls and a flannel shirt, a full month ago. Her decomposing face was smashed against the transpar
ent vacuum-packed plastic, her gooey sunken eyes open wide. Those vacant orbs stared at him, the mouth beneath them splayed in an eternal scream.

  He wanted to push her away but discovered once again that he was helpless, unable to deter her relentless advance. Each bump in the road drew that vengeful countenance closer and closer, until at last her nose pressed into his cheek, those ghastly eyes glaring straight into his own. He attempted to knock her back with his forehead, but the brace around his neck was his master, unyielding.

  Unable to do much else, he closed his eyes and tried to escape inside his mind, seeking peace but finding only nightmares.

  Eventually, the truck slowed and rolled to a stop. The tailgate banged down. Rusty watched with relief as Bertha’s hideous face slid away into the night. Finally, that ordeal was over.

  But he was certain another had just begun.

  ***

  Rusty lived in the big steel shed, in the far corner, away from the door. His body was bound, upright, to an old wheelchair that had been freed from of a pile of rusty old medical equipment, apparently left over from a family member who’d once required extensive care.

  Rusty counted time for as long as he could, but eventually lost track as the relentless transition of darkness into light and light back into darkness blended into a single amorphous and never-ending day.

  The man—the Farmer as Rusty had come to know him—had retrieved the Halloween decorations from Rusty’s house, his tombstones and fog machines and glow-in-the-dark ghosts, and stacked them in the steel shed alongside him.

  Besides those decorations, his only company was a picture of the Farmer and Bertha. The photograph of the couple was clearly taken in happier times, but it now hung on the wall at eye-level directly in front of him. The brutal grip of the neck brace refused to let him look away from it, not even for an instant.

  At first, the sight of his possessions had made him hopeful. Surely his neighbors, especially Luther, would’ve spotted this man pilfering his property, would’ve realized he’d gone missing and called the police. But the cops never came and after a while that singular hope fell as lifeless as the decorations themselves.