Lurk

by Adam Vine

  This wasn’t my Sunny Hill, but another.

  I heard voices echoing through the fruit trees. I stepped through a gap in the trees and saw two guys and three girls jumping on a huge trampoline. One of the guys was black, the other white, both well-built and wearing early nineties clothes. The girls were also dressed in clothing at least twenty years out of fashion.

  They looked familiar. I had the vague sense they were the students from the pictures, who I had informally dubbed the ’93 Sunny Hill Crew. But I couldn’t see their faces. Only their voices were clear.

  “Hey, it's Digger Drew," one of the girls said. She had red hair.

  "Not digging enough," said another, this one's was chestnut brown.

  “Surprised the fat-ass can dig at all,” the last one said, a raven-haired girl with pale skin.

  "Jeez, guys. Leave him alone,” the white guy said. What was his name? Andy?

  The black guy shook his head, jumped, and touched his toes. “He’s not ready.”

  “Not yet. Too bad,” said the redhead.

  “He will be,” said the black-haired girl.

  The black guy repeated, “He’s not ready,” and the trampoline started to drift away back through the gap in the trees. Or was I falling?

  Suddenly I was underground, pressure closing in on all sides of me. My mouth was filled with dirt. I couldn’t breathe. Every time I tried, the space closed a little tighter. I pawed at the dirt with my hands, but the more I strained, the less freedom I had to move. It was everywhere, crushing, smothering me.

  I heard Andy say, far away and muffled, “You gotta dig deeper.”

  ***

  I woke up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, but confused, and somehow cold. I started to get up, when I realized what had woken me up. Someone was crying. I held my breath, looking around the room for the source of the noise.

  Someone was looking in my window.

  A dark shape, backlit by the soft under-glow of the clouds outside, was staring in at me. I didn't turn the light on. I thought it would expose me, and besides, I was too scared. I thought I was going to die.

  The person looking in my window moved.

  Every muscle in my body tensed. Instead of turning on the light and screaming bloody murder like I should’ve, I remained frozen and stared at that black shape, that hood pulled up over a shadowy husk of face slicked black with mud, the eyes two pools of flint-chipped darkness.

  Time hung.

  I tried to convince myself that it was only some vaguely anthropomorphic shape, like a coat on a coat hanger or a weird branch. But there weren't any trees outside my window, and I didn't own a coat-rack.

  Then the shape was gone and my window was empty, only clear glass harassed by the rain and the empty, freezing night. My heart sped and my lungs constricted. Someone was watching me sleep. Someone was outside my window. My bedroom is on the second floor.

  I grabbed the flashlight off my bedside table. I was so scared I had to consciously will my feet to move. I stumbled haphazardly towards the back door of the house, wielding the Maglite like a club. I told myself I could probably brain someone to death if I had to.

  My next realization made me feel physically ill. It was seeing the open blinds in the kitchen that did it. They weren't trying to break in. They already did.

  It wasn’t Jay and Bea who opened the windows and tracked mud everywhere. It was the basement lurker. At some point in the night, he had snuck into our house, probably while we were doing the Housecleaning in the living room, and opened all our windows so he could watch us better.

  He had been inside our house, while we were home.

  My thoughts jumped to Mr. DeLucio, but I dismissed him immediately. While he was a creep, I didn't think he had the balls to do something like this. Mr. DeLucio was more of a coward than I was. I also told myself I would've known his face if I had seen it staring in my window. Then again, I thought uneasily, the face outside my window had only been a mask of shadow and mud.

  I heard the muffled crash of beer bottles falling over in the garage, and the wild echo of Popeye barking.

  I ran out to the deck. Bea and Jay were already there. I smelled marijuana. Bea mouthed at me, “What the fuck?” but I didn’t have time to reply. I hustled to the ledge to see what had made the noise. A loud bang echoed from inside the garage. Someone’s trying to kick down the basement door.

  Bea made eye contact with me and saw the Maglite. Her face twisted from surprised shock to a frightened grimace. I looked down from the balcony to the door of the garage.

  It was open. But not empty. A man in a black hooded sweatshirt was standing slouched in the doorframe, doing his best to hide in the shadows of the garage. But we all saw him.

  I turned the flashlight on and pointed it at his face. Popeye barked furiously from the edge of the stairs.

  The lurker was too fast. He bolted up the driveway towards the road.

  “Hey!” Bea shouted. “Come back here, fucker!”

  She ran down the stairs and after the hooded man. I tried to follow, but they were both long gone by the time I got to the street.

  The cul-de-sac was empty except for our neighbors' cars. Mr. DeLucio's house was dark. I kept the flashlight up in what I thought was a fighting stance.

  A hand grabbed my shoulder, and I whirled around, almost smashing Jay in the face. He looked at the Maglite, then back at me, raising an eyebrow. Jay's shotgun was balanced over his right shoulder. “Did she run after him?” he said.

  “Yep,” I said.

  Jay sighed. “That girl is insane.” Popeye caught up to us, panting heavily.

  A few minutes later, Bea appeared, huffing and puffing up Sunny Hill Drive. She was holding the side of her face and there was something bundled under her arm.

  “I got... that.... sonuvabitch (huff),” she said when she reached us. “Chased him.... all the way... to Walnut (wheeze)... punched me. He… hurt his leg… I... (huff huff) got this.”

  She tossed me the thing under her arm. It was the man's hooded sweater. The sweater was caked with dried mud and it smelled like old trash.

  I guess all that running finally paid off. Maybe I should start jogging. The punch she took had been a good one. I hoped she wouldn’t get a black eye.

  “Did you see his face?” I said.

  Bea doubled over, taking long, slow breaths. She shook her head no.

  “You've got steel balls, Bumble,” Jay said.

  She wheezed, and nodded yes.

  “Were you scared?”

  She wheezed, and nodded again.

  “You know you're a bad ass, right?”

  She opened her throat like she was going to vomit, didn't, and nodded yes.

  When Bea got her breath back, she said, “I thought he was going to… (huff huff)… try to (wheeze)… kill me...”

  Jay hugged her and held her close, kissing the top of her head. “Well, we're glad he didn't.”

  Popeye whined and pawed at Bea’s legs.

  “This isn't the time to be joking around,” I said.

  Jay pointed the butt of the shotgun at me. “I'm serious. I'd be scared too if I saw an enraged Bumble charging at me at the speed of light.”

  Jay let go of Bea and cupped his hands around his mouth. “You hear that, jerkoff? If you come back here, we’re gonna blast you.” He raised his shotgun in the air.

  Way to be macho, Jay. Wave that shotgun around like a badass a little more. Hell, fire off a couple shells towards those houses to show Bea just how manly you are. Sometimes, Jay could be a real tool. “Put that away before the neighbors see,” I said.

  “He’s not coming back,” Bea said.

  She was right. His hair was on that sweater, and his skin, and the mud. What was with the mud, anyway? Just where had this guy even been? He hadn't been under our house, at least not tonight. We’d caught him trying to break into the basement.

  Unless the mud was old...

  “We’re still going surfing tomorrow,�
� Bea said.

  ***

  Officer Skoakland appeared at our door with a mouth full of tobacco a little after four in the morning. There were dark circles under his eyes as if he hadn’t slept in days, but on the whole, he was much friendlier than the first time.

  “Miss Beatriz! Drew-buddy! How can I protect and serve you guys this fine, Santa Cruzian evening?”

  It didn’t take long to convince Officer Skoakland we had a burglar. Once Bea gave him the jerkoff’s sweater, old Skullcracker Skoakland was all business. He recorded every detail of what we told him in his little cop notepad, then put the sweater in an evidence bag and promised he'd update us if and when they found something.

  Bea looked like she was about ready to pass out, so she went back to the co-op to crash before Officer Skoakland left our house.

  The two of us stood alone in the front hall, sharing an awkward silence. Eventually he broke it by spitting into his little cup, then saying, “You like her, don’t you?”

  I tried playing dumb, but Officer Skoakland sighed and rolled the crease of his brow though his thumb and forefinger. “Come on, kid. I’ve been in this game a long time. She’s pretty. Got killer legs, too. Sorry. I hope you don’t think I’m being too unprofessional. I’m sort of an unprofessional guy. But I’m about ninety-nine percent sure you noticed ‘em, too.” He winked at me. Actually winked. It was weird.

  “Yeah, they’re nice,” I said.

  “You bang her yet?”

  “What?”

  Officer Skoakland frowned. “Hey, calm down. Just making small talk,” he paused. “Seriously though, have you?”

  I shook my head no.

  “You’re not…” Officer Skoakland held his hand up in front of his mouth. “Ho he he he. No. Really, buddy? You? But you’re such a good looking guy!” He slapped me on the shoulder. Hard.

  That laugh again. Where have I heard that laugh before?

  I folded my arms over my chest. “What exactly are we talking about, officer?”

  “Come on.” He put his hand back on my shoulder and left it there. It was cold and heavy as an extra-large frozen pizza. “Come on,” he said again, really dragging it out. “Drew. Buddy. Are you a virgin?”

  My cheeks flushed. I dipped my chin. I didn’t think it was an appropriate question for an officer of the law to be asking in the middle of an urgent investigation where me and my friends’ lives might be in danger.

  But, I couldn’t deny it. Officer Skoakland had me pinned.

  Eventually I let go a small nod.

  Officer Skoakland’s giggle turned into a full-blown howl. “Drew! Really? You should be getting laid every night in a place like this. This house is awesome. You know what gave it away?”

  I shook my head.

  “Poker face, Drew. Work on it for me, okay? You gotta be cool as ice – especially around her. Be like Steve McQueen in every fuckin’ thing he’s ever been in.”

  I looked down at my gut. “You sound like you’re pretty good with women.”

  Skoakland spat. “My ex-wife would tell you otherwise, but I do alright.”

  The grin faded and his eyes trailed along the ceiling beams of the front hall, recollecting in that way people do when a fond memory resurfaces from somewhere deep in their past. “Man, I used to crush so much pussy back when I…”

  His voice trailed off.

  “When you were what?” I said.

  His eyes fell to the floor and he shook his head quickly, waving it off. “When I was your age. God, that was a long time ago! College. What a trip,” he said.

  “Shit. Look at the time. Drew, don’t worry about a thing. I’m personally going to make sure this guy doesn’t screw with either of you again. If he does, I’ll shoot him.”

  He stuck his hand out. I shook it. His meaty paw swallowed my hand, and he pumped it so hard that it felt like he was going to rip my arm off. I tried not to wince.

  Without thinking, I said, “Uh... you want a beer?”

  Officer Skoakland gave me a long, estimating look. “C’mon, buddy. I’m on duty.” He paused, dabbed the sweat from his forehead with the edge of his sleeve – I didn’t know why he was sweating, because it was freezing. His grin returned.

  “Actually, why the fuck not? I’ve been working for the past twelve hours. Besides, what are you gonna do? Call the cops? Sure. I’ll take a beer for the road.”

  I brought us beers from the kitchen and opened them on the front porch, claiming I didn’t want to wake up my sleeping roommates.

  “To killer legs,” Officer Skoakland said. We clinked bottles.

  Two beers later, he was gone.

  Jay came outside after. He was wearing his sleeping bag like a nun’s habit, with one end pulled over his head to keep warm. “What was that?” Jay whispered.

  “I think he was trying to be my friend,” I said.

  ***

  It was hard to fall back asleep that night. I tossed and turned until dawn. I couldn’t shake the thought that our house was no longer safe.

  The next thing I knew, I was sitting Indian style on the floor with the shoebox next to me, looking through the Polaroids again. The faces of the now-familiar '93 Sunny Hill Crew paraded in front of my wired-open gaze: Andy, Apple, Rebecca, Gloria, and Marty.

  The pictures had reverted to their original versions. I sorted through the whole pile and couldn't find any of the Polaroids I had watched change earlier that day. My brain was a bus station at rush hour, lines all full and departing every half-second in every possible direction. Was it all just hallucinatory wish fulfillment, based on my desire to be more important in the eyes of my friends, combined with my obsessive love of horror movies? That seemed like the most reasonable option.

  But what if it wasn’t?

  What if putting the pictures back inside the box “aged” them back to their original form? What if letting them outside the box was what updated them in the first place, a process that had some kind of warming-up period, which was why we didn't see it happen the first night, when Bea and I dug them up?

  What if the pictures only changed when they wanted to? Or even worse, when they were exposed to a new crew?

  The sleeping evil in horror movies always plays by a fixed set of rules: Pennywise the Clown in Stephen King’s It, for example – who wasn’t a clown at all, but an ancient, child-eating shape-shifter – woke up every twenty-seven years, then once it had eaten its fill, the monster went back to sleep. That was how the heroes of the story, a group of pre-teens called the Losers’ Club, defeated It. They didn’t kill It. They simply put It back to sleep.

  The thought of the pictures having a will of their own, changing how and when they wanted, made me shiver. If that was true, was I the only one who could see it? If that was true, what did the pictures want me to see?

  The pictures answered my questions immediately. I was holding a picture of Rebecca from 1993. She was sitting in our living room with curlers in her hair and a joint in her mouth, flipping the photographer the bird.

  As I studied her face and clothes, her body began to change. Her face turned older, her skin changed from youthful and soft to middle-aged and full of wrinkles, her teeth from sparkling white to gold punctuated by rotten brown, her pallor from pink to gray to pale blue, her breasts from full and round to withered and drooping.

  The picture settled into its final form. Rebecca was dead.

  The final image showed Rebecca lying naked in the county morgue. The living room of Sunny Hill had dulled to cold turquoise, the color of those ceramic tiles you see in older hospitals. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted slightly in their last opening. Her hair looked brittle.

  A cold lump grew in my throat. Rebecca hadn't been dead more than a day. They hadn't cut her open to perform the autopsy yet.

  The new caption on the photo read: Addiction.

  I threw the picture back in the box with a gasp, jammed on the lid, and climbed quickly back into bed.

  Two things struck me before I finally
fell sleep. The first was that three members of the ’93 Sunny Hill Crew were dead. The second was this: if there’s one thing you learn from watching horror movies, it’s that when a group of friends starts dying in terrible ways, it’s never a coincidence.

  I picked up my iPhone and made a note so I wouldn’t forget what I’d seen.

  My last memory before drifting off was the sound of Jay’s ice cream truck pulling out of our driveway and into the street.

  ***

  I woke up a few hours later feeling like the dead. The stress of someone breaking into our house, coupled with all the substances I’d abused over the past two nights, was finally catching up to me. I rolled over and tried to fall back asleep, but I couldn’t get the image of that shadowy, mud-smeared face out of my mind.

  My iPhone was still sitting on top of the loose pile of my jeans and t-shirt. I picked it up to see if I had any messages. There weren’t any, but I had left my notes app open. I vaguely remembered making a note after seeing the picture of Rebecca lying dead in the morgue, so I wouldn’t forget or be able to convince myself it didn’t happen. The most recent note in my phone – marked 4:49 AM – said something completely different than what I remembered writing.

  It read: They see you.

  I dropped my phone. I remembered making a note, just not that one. The problem was I didn’t remember what the original note had said.

  I put my clothes on and went through the box of pictures again to find the Polaroid of Rebecca’s corpse. I couldn’t find it.

  I picked up my phone, gripping it tighter this time so it wouldn’t fly out of my shaking hands, and was putting it back in my pocket when my fingers grazed a sharp, familiar edge, shoved deep down against the side of my leg. I’d completely forgotten about the Polaroid I’d taken of Bea on the couch. I got butterflies in my stomach taking it out.

  The butterflies turned into a sweating heat and a heavy shake in my hands. I looked twice – no, three times – to determine if what I was seeing wasn’t just my eyes playing tricks on me, or some delusion caused by the alcohol still pumping through my blood.