“We’re going to Alabama,” Evelyn cut in, seizing the rare moment of road safety to present her case. “It’s sort of an emergency trip and we’re on a really tight schedule. So I’m wondering…is it very far to the next gas station?”
“Let me see…” Jake glanced back to peg her with a thoughtful gaze, the van swerving dangerously to the left. “I’d say it’s ‘bout forty miles, give or take a little.”
“Forty miles?” The words were in Evelyn’s brain but they came from Brian’s mouth. His brows drawing together in a frown, as the smaller dog tried to crawl in his lap, its sharp nails leaving scuff marks on his already faded jeans.
“Gee, you know, I really hate for you to drive all that way this late at night,” he continued, with a glance at Evelyn. “Plus, we’re kind of in a hurry. Could you just drop us at the nearest residence–someone who might have a little extra fuel handy?”
The older man coughed, keeping his eyes trained on the road for a change when he spoke. “That’d be Young Norman’s place. It’s just a mile or so down the road here, but…he doesn’t encourage too many visitors.”
“We’d only stay a couple minutes,” Evelyn interrupted. “And–and we’d even walk back to our car.” She bit her lip as one of the dogs managed to pinch the skin through her left sandal.
“Oh, Norman would drive you back to your car. He’s not unfriendly, just kind of different.” After a moment of silence, he asked, “Sure you wouldn’t rather go into town? Nice big convenience store with all sorts of goodies to take on the road.”
“Oh, we’re sure,” they said, almost in unison, Evelyn beating him to it by a syllable or two. They exchanged glances again, this time with surprise. Her cheeks flushed as she looked away again, jerking her ankle out of Pip's reach. Her mind busy calculating how much time they’d already lost in the journey, thanks to the storm and the empty gas tank.
Jake cleared his throat. "Allrighty then.” He switched on the turn signal a few yards later, jerking the van down a long, narrow driveway. A scraggly tree line on either side of the path, marked with decaying wooden fence posts, twisting its way towards a two-story farmhouse.
Sheets of tin were nailed over the upstairs windows; a gate of rusty barbed wire blocked intruders from the top of the steps. The rusty weathervane rooster was lopsided on the roof, stirring faintly in the night breeze.
“Here, you go,” said Jake. “Light’s on in the kitchen, so Norman must be home. ’Course, where else would he be?” he added, with throaty laugh.
Did she imagine a slightly sinister edge to that chuckle? For a second, Evelyn hesitated even the chance to escape the strong odor of dog and the hippie flashback van. Feeling Brian’s knee prodding her forward, she slid towards the door, turning the handle to hop down on the packed dirt lawn below. Her skin crawled with the rusted squeak of the weather vane in the wind.
“Thanks a lot,” Brian said, reaching for his wallet. “We really appreciate the ride.”
The old man waved away the offer of payment. “No need for that. I’m just glad to help a nice, young couple like yourselves.” Glancing at the house, he coughed. “Guess it's time you make yourselves known.” Shifting into reverse, the van rambled in a backwards semicircle, then sped away in the night.
“What did that mean?” Evelyn whispered, as the van’s tail lights disappeared in a bobbing motion at the foot of the drive. "He gives me the creeps–"
“Well, I guess he assumed we were together so–”
“Not that,” she said, cutting him off with a fierce look. “The way he talks about this guy inside. The little warning right before he drove away and left us stranded at the local shack of suspicion.”
Brian snorted. “Come on. It’s an old farmhouse,” he answered, moving towards the porch of rotten timbers. “It’s a little rough, but I've seen worse.”
“Sure. In slasher films,” she said, hugging her arms despite the warm night air.
“Well, you can wait out here if you really want to.” This with nonchalance, like a man out for a causal evening stroll as he shoved open the rusted gate blocking the porch.
Evelyn followed him, avoiding the front steps which looked as if they’d been used for karate practice, leaving big gaps and cracks dotting the wooden surface. Rusty wind chimes dangled from a jagged hook; address numbers hung crookedly as if long forgotten.
He rapped on the door, a hollow sound in the night air. Stepping back, Evelyn caught her heel in a cracked board, nearly losing her balance. But this time she didn’t pull away when Brian’s hand reached to steady her. Silly as it was, she could feel her pulse pounding in her temples, her breath held as they waited for an answer.
On the other side, she heard shuffling sounds followed by the scrape of a chain lock against wood. The door creaked open to reveal a sullen man with features that resembled soft-molded dough, framed by pale, thinning hair. Young Norman, she presumed, though the nickname seemed a little outdated, given the multiple creases and lines that surrounded his eyes and mouth.
Gazing through the screen, his eyes flicked restlessly between them, his hands clutching a dishtowel with dark stains of a questionable nature on it. “Yes?”
“Uh, hi,” Brian said, his tone a little less certain than when he issued the dare back at the gate. “Sorry to bother you like this, but our car ran out of gas a couple miles down the road. We were hoping maybe we could buy some fuel off you.”
The chirping of crickets seemed ominous, as Norman carefully weighed the request, his fingers twisting the dishtowel into a cord. After a moment, a slow grin crept over his face. “Come on in,” he said, propping open the creaky screen door.
Chapter Seven
“Sorry about all the blood.”
Norman grinned sheepishly as he ran the dish towel over a countertop streaked with red. “You two caught me right in the middle of the dog’s mealtime. Tonight was steak, so I saved them all the fat and gristle from my own dinner.”
“No problem,” said Brian, who was leaning against the closed door between the dining and living areas. Guarding a backup exit, perhaps, in case things got messy.
At least that’s what Evelyn thought, as she sat huddled in a kitchen chair, a cup of untouched coffee at her elbow. Her frame tensing every few seconds at the sound of the two hounds beneath the table fighting over the remains of raw beef. Another dog, a Doberman pincher, lay motionless by the stove, its glassy gaze fixed on her with an unnerving intensity.
“This is…a very interesting kitchen” Evelyn said, making an effort to cover her cringing reaction. In truth, the dimly lit room might have done nicely for a scene in The Amityville Horror. Yellowed, peeling wallpaper and dingy lace curtains; a crazed, flickering lamp in the corner that reminded her of a motel’s vacancy sign. A motel she wouldn’t stop at no matter what the consequences, she thought with a shiver.
“Thanks,” said Norman, turning from the sink with a soapy carving knife. He waved it in her direction as he spoke, the suds spattering the floor and cabinets. “I can’t take any credit for it–the folks did it up; I haven’t touched it since they died.”
She guessed it must have been quite awhile since their untimely demises, judging from the grime on the pine floor boards and the gray film of dust on the curtains. “So you live here alone?” she asked, a stab of pity mingling with morbid curiosity.
“Yep. Just me and the hounds.”
“Doesn’t this fellow like leftovers?” Brian asked, reaching down to brush the coat of the Doberman stretched out by the stove.
Norman tossed a careless glance in the dog’s direction. “That’s Trigger. He passed away when I was ten."
Brian froze, then withdrew his hand from the posed dog.
“Taxidermy was darn expensive, but mother was sentimental.” Norman tossed the rag into the sink.
“Sure,” said Brian. He glanced at the dusty cuckoo clock on the wall, which probably didn’t work, judging from the cobwebs stretched across its mini shutters. “Uh, how about tha
t fuel? We don’t wanna take up your whole evening or anything.”
“Right.” Their host tucked the carving knife in the dish drain and reached for a clean towel. “It’s in the barn.”
“The barn?” Evelyn echoed, her elbow bumping the coffee mug with a dull clink! “I didn’t notice one when we pulled up.” Something about that seemed significant, like it should be accompanied by organ music. Instead, Norman grinned.
“No one does. Hard to see from the road. You wait here, though.” This with a glance at her white dress and shoes, which were still relatively neat despite the day's bizarre train of adventures.
“Yeah, wait here,” said Brian, glancing at her with a meaningful gleam in his dark eyes. As he brushed past, he leaned close to her ear and whispered, “If I’m not back in five minutes dial 911.”
She was tempted to kick at his departing form, but refrained from it for the sake of her dignity and for the presence of the dogs. After all, they–the living ones, that is–might not be satisfied with only one portion of raw meat for the night. Her fingers wrapped themselves tightly around her knees as the back door banged shut, leaving her alone with the sleeping hounds and Trigger’s unshakable stare.
Don’t be silly. It’s just a perfectly harmless guy with really, really bad housekeeping skills. That’s all.
Words that might be easier to believe if it weren’t for the flickering lamp and the sound of the faucet dripping in the dirty sink water. Maybe now would be a good time to check her messages, see if her editor had left any feedback on her article for the cubist portrait–or else a harsh reprimand for not showing up at its grand unveiling.
If only it could be Jared’s voice she heard on the other end; his familiar, deep tones telling her all this craziness was worth it to save him from a life of loneliness. To save their love, the relationship that had burned and cooled them both with its unpredictable waves. A line from the letter floating through her mind like a calming fragrance: “I want us to grow old together–and I’ll do whatever it takes to make it work.”
And so would she. Including thumbing rides on the roadside and braving rapid winds and creepy old farmhouses. Not to mention enduring the constant company of a smart aleck guide. Who, if he had any sense of chivalry at all, wouldn’t have delighted in abandoning her to the farmhouse’s squalid and scary surroundings, even for a few minutes.
Her eyes traced the shredded wallpaper, which was probably a floral pattern at one time, say thirty years ago. A collection of old, black and white family photos hung beneath the set of peeling cabinets. The faces of Norman’s long dead relatives staring out at her, unsmiling figures.
Eager to hear a human voice, even an automated one, Evelyn pulled her cell phone from the felt-lined handbag. Her finger reached for the home number on her contact list, only to pause at the sight of the low signal bar and the words ‘no reception’ flashing across the screen. With a groan, she flipped it closed again. Good thing Brian was only kidding about that 911 call.
Shouldn’t he be back by now? Her foot tapped restlessly against the chair. An involuntary gasp escaped her as the flickering corner lamp gave up the ghost, plunging her into sudden shadow. As if on cue, the dogs stopped tussling under the table, one of them releasing a low whimper.
“What is it?” Evelyn whispered, her ears straining to detect any odd sounds. Only to be rewarded with a series of unidentifiable creaky noises somewhere above. From the attic, no doubt. A locked room packed to the brim with forgotten, dusty objects; namely, the remains of Norman's previous victims.
A scraping, squealing noise joined in from somewhere outside. “It’s the weather vane,” she told herself, fighting back the symptoms of nervousness. “Just the weather vane.”
More creaking sounds, this time from somewhere in the next room; a faint ping!, like fingers tapping against the kitchen window pane. Branches she guessed, as one of the hounds began to growl. “It’s a windy night and the branches are blowing against the window and–”
The hounds broke into a volley of furious barks as the cuckoo clock above the stove came to life. Screaming, Evelyn rose from her chair as the scurrying dogs knocked it aside, her feet carrying her automatically to the screen door.
Not caring about the dangers of sagging boards, she traversed the porch at top speed, scaling a rickety railing as a shortcut. As she rounded the corner of the house, she spied the rustic barn, a faint light visible between its board’s multiple cracks and notches.
Her heart still slamming from the moment of fright, she paused with her hand on the door. A tentative push sent the door swinging open. Her ears caught the murmur of voices somewhere inside, but it was hard to tell if one belonged to her driver. “Brian?” she called, peering into the crowded, dimly lit interior. “Are you ready to go yet?”
Instinctively, her fingers dug inside the handbag for the bottle of travel hairspray she carried as a substitute for mace. A crazy thought, imagining Young Norman as a crazed, axe-wielding murderer, right?
“Brian?” she called again, creeping down the narrow aisle of farm equipment. Only to jerk back as something cold and smooth brushed against her cheek. A Steele hatchet suspended from a beam, one of many in a collection of sharp implements that gleamed in the moonlight. Row after row of saws and blades and pointy carving tools.
A butcher's shop. Right here in Norman's barn. The spooky lines from the hippie driver, the ominous statements in the kitchen–He's different. As she whirled around, she came face to face with a massive meat cleaver in the midst of a wall full of carving tools. A long shriek escaped her.
“Hey, what are you doing–” came a deep voice from the aisle ahead.
She whirled around, the hand clutching the hidden bottle of hairspray emerging with the trigger end facing forwards. A steady stream blasted the man before her; in a split second, she recognized Brian’s faded shirt and dark hair, one arm raised to block his eyes from the stinging cloud.
She gasped. "Brian, I'm sorry–" Behind him, she could see a perplexed Norman staring at her, a row of fuel containers lined up beside a farm generator.
Wiping a sleeve across his face, Brian held up his other hand, which gripped a jug of gasoline. “So I take it you’re ready to go then?”
*****
“Why didn’t the hippie driver just tell us he’s a butcher?”
Evelyn’s tone was defensive and a little bit shameful, as she yanked the seatbelt from its stuck position in the retractor.
Brian didn't respond. She could see a tightness in his lips as she glanced towards the driver's seat, the slight sheen of hairspray visible on his neck and collar. A reminder of a moment that had the capacity to be funny–if it wasn't so thoroughly humiliating for her.
She fought the urge to apologize again, to wipe away the sticky traces, in case he misinterpreted the touch as something more. Who knows, he might pretend to enjoy it just to rankle her. Another reason she didn’t feel too sorry about the incident, her chief punishment in the form of Norman's strange stares in the drive back to their car.
"Because I have a feeling butchery isn't what makes Norman strange–in case you didn't notice his house and yard. His family’s been in the meat business for three generations,” said Brian. “I’d almost finagled his foolproof secret for marinating when you showed up and blinded me.”
This last bit was said with an edge of cruelty, as he navigated the old Sedan down a narrow stretch of gravel road. Thanks to its full tank of gas, the car was up and running again with a few more creaks and groans than before.
Evelyn frowned and adjusted her blanket, a soft wool fabric dug from the depths of the car trunk. “Fine, blame me if it makes you feel better," she said.
"It does, since you're the one to blame," he answered. She skipped this opportunity to reply as she glanced under the blanket at the growing number of welts and inflamed spots on her arms. Bugs adored her, something she’d learned well enough on college spring break trip to New Orleans.
Even if they manage
d to stick to the schedule and roll into Kingsley tomorrow night, could she really face Jared looking like this? Frazzled and pale, with big circles under her eyes, and a dress full of wrinkles?
Brian glanced in her direction, his expression softening a little at the sight of her misery. “Hey, look, there’s probably some lotion in the glove compartment. You’re welcome to use it.”
“Thanks,” she muttered begrudgingly. Her fingers unlatching the compartment to release a flood of road maps, old gloves, magazines, handkerchiefs, and a compass, among other items. “Amazing,” she said, sifting through the pile still left inside. “It’s like the car version of a teenage boy’s closet.”
“Try and put everything back when you’re done. It may not be color coded or anything, but it does fit.”
She brushed aside a collection of old gum and candy wrappers, finally unearthing the lotion. Squeezing a quarter-sized portion onto her skin, she wrinkled her nose against the strong scent of antiseptic. “Ugh. What is this stuff, anyway?” With a vain attempt to read the ingredient list by the compartment’s faint light.
“How should I know? Some customer left it in the backseat a couple weeks ago.”
Evelyn squealed, her fingers pinching the bottle so tight it squirted lotion across the dashboard. “Are you out of your mind? You let me use some stranger’s personal hygiene product?” A shudder rippling through her as she capped the bottle and stuffed it back inside the glove box.
“Relax. They had a bunch of shopping bags, so it probably fell out of one of those. Anyway, I used it a couple times and survived, so–”
“So you thought I’d be fine with it,” she said, wiping up the spilled lotion with one of the handkerchiefs. “Well not everyone shares your low standards for cleanliness, Mr. Stoker. Something you might keep in mind for future restaurant visits from health inspectors.”
Late to the Wedding Page 5
