by Tim Waggoner
Harris fell silent then and began cutting into Barry’s neck. He worked with complete concentration, seemingly unconcerned with Kevin’s presence. Perhaps he’d forgotten that Kevin had even existed. Kevin kept his gaze fastened on the old man as he stepped away from the van. He managed to take his phone from his pocket and call for an Intervention Team before hot vomit rushed up his throat. He barely managed to bend over in time to keep from throwing up all over himself. As he stood there, bent over, stomach heaving, he thought he heard the old man humming to himself as he worked.
* * *
Joan was sitting at the kitchen counter, sipping another mug of coffee, her fourth since waking. She’d stuck to decaf, but it hadn’t helped. She was so wired, she felt like electric current buzzed through her veins.
At 6:11 Jon came shuffling into the kitchen. On weekdays he set his phone alarm for six, but he always overslept it. He wore a pair of black shorts and a white T-shirt, both of which were loose on him. He was one of those people who remained naturally thin no matter what they ate, and if Joan could’ve killed him and taken this ability for herself, she’d have been tempted to give it some serious thought. His curly black hair was tousled, but then it always looked that way, regardless of what he did to it. His eyes were barely open as he made his way to the coffeemaker. He didn’t wake easily, and he was usually halfway into his second cup before he started developing real signs of life. Joan normally didn’t say much to him until he’d had the chance to caffeinate himself, but today wasn’t a normal day.
“We have a basement,” she said.
Jon didn’t look her way until he’d started his coffee brewing.
“Wha?” His eyes weren’t any more open than before, and his speech was barely intelligible. But she’d waited long enough for him to get up and she wasn’t going to wait any longer.
“We have a basement,” she repeated.
For several seconds Jon looked at her, the only sound the motorized hum of the Keurig as it pissed coffee into his mug. His eyes opened a bit wider and his voice became clearer, although his words were still fuzzy around the edges.
“I’m pretty sure we don’t.”
Joan set down her coffee, slid off the stool, and walked over to her husband. She took hold of his hand and led him to the basement door. She’d left it open with the light on, so Jon could see the wooden stairs angling downward. He looked at her, marginally more awake than he had been a moment ago.
“Where the hell did that come from?”
* * *
“I have to say, it’s the cleanest damn basement I ever saw.”
Joan had to agree with him. The basement was unfinished, the floor and walls bare concrete. There were plain wooden shelves along one wall, fluorescent lights hanging from the ceiling, a small sump pump beneath the stairs, and that was it. The floor was clear, as were the shelves. There wasn’t even any dust on them.
“I can’t believe our Realtor didn’t know about this,” Jon said. “Isn’t there some kind of record for houses? Like blueprints filed with the town when they’re built?”
“I have no idea,” Joan said. “Why would anyone hide it? It’s not the biggest basement, but it’s nice enough.”
“Maybe they wanted to make sure no one discovered the bodies.”
Jon considered himself to be a funny guy, and he had a bad habit of making jokes—usually tasteless ones—when he couldn’t think of anything else to say. Normally she ignored them, but after the dream she’d had last night, she could’ve done without the thought that she was standing over hidden graves.
She must’ve done something to indicate her displeasure—pursed her lips, tightened her shoulders—because Jon slipped an arm around her waist and said, “Look at it this way: we just got ourselves a bonus room. And since you found it, you should be the one who gets to decide what to use it for.”
She turned toward him and put her arms around him. He could be a jerk sometimes, but he could also be awfully sweet when he wanted to. She kissed him, but she hadn’t brushed her teeth and her mouth tasted like stale coffee. His lips tightened and then he pulled his face away from hers and gently pushed her back. She knew she shouldn’t take this as a rejection. Jon wasn’t always comfortable with displays of affection, especially when he didn’t initiate them, and any little thing that was wrong—like her mouth not being its freshest—could turn him off. But every time he did something like this, she couldn’t help feeling stung, at least a little. She let go of him and turned away so he wouldn’t see the disappointment and hurt in her eyes. She pretended to look around and survey the basement.
“I have no idea what to do with it,” she said.
“You’ll think of something. We’ll have to get new knobs for the door. And some molding to go around it.”
Jon liked having projects to do around the house. He said it gave him a sense of satisfaction to leave his “mark” on the place, as if he were a dog pissing on a tree.
“Knock yourself out.” She faced him once more and gave him a smile.
He smiled back. “I’ll pick up some supplies at the store after my shift. I’d better go take some measurements.”
He started up the stairs, moving with an eager energy, fully awake now. She wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d bounded up the steps two at a time. She didn’t follow him, though. She remained standing in the middle of the basement, thinking.
Why would someone remove the doorknobs and molding and wallpaper over the door? If whoever it was had really wanted to hide the basement, wouldn’t it have made more sense to plaster over the door? It was like whoever had done it hadn’t wanted to hide the door too well, hadn’t wanted to make it too difficult to find.
Maybe they wanted to make sure no one else found it before you did.
It was a ridiculous thought, but one she couldn’t shake.
She and Jon had bought the house from Wes and Allison Bishop. Allison had worked at the same counseling center as Joan, and they’d become friends. Allison specialized in family counseling, and she and Joan often shared clients. They hadn’t been best friends, but they’d gotten to know each other well during the three years and change they’d worked together. But then Allison’s grandmother died and left her only grandchild a house and twenty acres of property in Indiana. Allison and Wes had considered selling the land, but both of them had grown up in that area—which consisted primarily of farmland—and they’d decided to move there, take up residence in Grandma’s house and start a small farm. Joan knew next to nothing about farming, but she had the impression it was a hell of a tough life and success was far from certain. Still, she’d wished her friend the best of luck.
It wasn’t long after Allison announced she and Wes were moving that she suggested Joan and Jon buy their house from them. Joan and Jon had been over to the Bishops’ several times for dinner, drinks, or just to hang out. It was a cozy little house in a good neighborhood near the high school. And Allison had known how much finally having her own home would mean to Joan. More, she’d known why.
Allison and Wes had made it so easy for them. They gave them the house at the lowest price their bank would let them, and they all used the same Realtor to walk them through the process. On the day before the Bishops left for Indiana, Allison had asked Joan to meet her at a café for coffee. As they sipped their drinks, Allison had told her, I’m so glad you’re taking the house. It’s like it was meant to be. Symmetry, you know? Her voice had been warm, but for a brief instant her eyes had shone with something dark. It passed quickly, and Joan hadn’t been sure she’d really seen it. But she remembered that look now, and the memory made her feel cold inside. Had Allison known about the hidden door? Had she and Wes been the ones who’d wallpapered it over? Had that been the source of the darkness she’d seen in her friend’s gaze?
She hadn’t spoken to Allison in almost a week. Maybe it was time she gave her a call.
The basement had been cool when they’d first come down, but now it felt warmer to her, al
most uncomfortably so. And the air felt heavier, more humid, drawing a light sheen of moisture from her skin. A faint miasma of odors came to her: smoke, sweat, bare earth, and stronger than the rest—trees covered with green. But beneath that lay the ripe stink of rot, as if the trees were diseased. She’d smelled these things before, in her dream. In the village the residents had dubbed Placidity. She almost laughed. There’d been nothing placid about that dream. The mingled scents intensified for a few seconds, and then they diminished, but they didn’t fully dissipate.
Imagination, she told herself. Stress. Saying goodbye to Allison, moving into her home, having a bizarre dream, finding a hidden basement… That was a lot for anyone to deal with, and when you tossed in what had happened when she’d been nine…
She slammed the psychic door shut on that thought before it could fully form. The last thing she needed to do was skip down that particular memory lane, have a full-on PTSD panic attack, and end up shivering in bed all day.
Bottom line: the basement was just a basement, her dream was just a dream, and she didn’t have time to stand around down here all day. She needed to get ready for work.
She started up the stairs, but when she was halfway up, she thought she heard almost inaudible music, as if someone across the street had their stereo cranked up as loud as it would play. She could just make out the lyrics.
Eat the night, eat the night…
CHAPTER 3
She didn’t tell Jon about her dream while they were getting ready. He wasn’t the sort of person who enjoyed listening to other people’s dreams. Although now that she thought of it, was anyone? Sure, people found their own dreams endlessly fascinating and loved to talk about them, but listening to others’? Not as much fun. Still, Jon was a good sport about such things, and she knew he’d listen—or at least pretend to—while she related the details about her nocturnal visit to Placidity. But she said nothing to him about it, and she wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was because the dream was too strange to explain easily. Maybe it was because she was still trying to understand it herself. Or maybe she was afraid that Jon would tease her, make one of his lousy jokes.
Talk about losing face!
Maybe she’d feel differently later and tell him. Or maybe she wouldn’t. They both had more important things to do than play amateur dream analysis.
Jon usually was ready to leave before she was, and this morning was no exception. She was doing her makeup in front of the bathroom mirror when he came in wearing a light blue shirt, navy-blue tie, dark blue slacks, and smelling of aftershave. He kissed her on the back of her neck, which sent tingles rippling down her spine, as it always did.
“Love you, sexy,” he said, and then left. A couple moments later she heard the sound of the garage door rising and then shortly after the sound of it lowering. She pictured him backing his Toyota Tacoma pick-up down the driveway, edging too far left because he hadn’t adjusted to the driveway yet, the driver’s-side tires rolling over grass before he backed onto the street. If he kept it up, he’d kill the grass on the side of the driveway and they’d have to reseed.
Today she’d chosen to wear a white blouse, a charcoal-gray jacket and skirt, and black flats. The shoes weren’t especially attractive, but they were comfortable. A pair of small hoop earrings and simple gold chain necklace completed her ensemble, such as it was, and she headed for the kitchen. She grabbed her purse from the counter and made her way to the garage. She walked past the basement door, which yesterday had been nothing but a blank stretch of wall, and although she was tempted to open the door and look down one last time, she resisted. If she didn’t haul ass, she was going to be late, and Joan hated making any of her clients wait. The basement would be there when she got home. It wasn’t going anywhere.
She stepped into the garage, unlocked her Mazda, and climbed in. She thumbed the garage door remote attached to her visor, and then turned on the car’s engine. She’d left the radio on when she’d gotten home from work last night, and it came on now, blasting music at an insanely loud volume. Had she really been listening to it that loud? She quickly reached forward to turn it down but hesitated when she recognized the singer’s voice.
It was Mark Maegarr.
She told herself that it wasn’t possible, that Maegarr had been a character in a dream, someone her subconscious had invented. Whoever this was, he only sounded like Maegarr. The style of music was the same—driving hard rock—and although the song wasn’t “Eat the Night,” it was reminiscent of that tune in a number of ways. She’d never heard this song before, so she sat for a moment, engine idling, and listened to the lyrics. Although the words were growled as much as sung, she had no trouble making them out.
Black Heart
Nothing at the core
Black Heart
A night-dark sea and a bone-covered shore
Black Heart
I feel it inside
Black Heart
What do you have to hide?
She hadn’t heard the song, she was sure of it. So why were her lips forming the words to the lyrics? It was as if her body knew the song even if her mind didn’t. She continued mouthing the words, her hand hovering close to the radio’s off button, and a few moments later the song ended. She waited to see if the DJ was going to identify the song—she was sure it would be called “Black Heart”—as well as the artist. She couldn’t decide if she wanted that to happen of not.
“A classic from Slogeny there.” A woman’s voice.
Joan was surprised. She’d expected the DJ to be a man, probably because of the music. It hadn’t been exactly what she thought of as feminine.
“Too bad about how Maegarr went out, huh?” the woman said. “Not to mention all his followers. But that’s what happens when you go bat-shit crazy, right? At least he left us some kick-ass tunes. And speaking of such, here’s a classic from Nine Inch Nails.”
Joan stabbed the off button before the next song began. What the hell channel had that been? She usually listened to light rock, smooth jazz, or sometimes classical. Anything that helped her relax after what were often stressful days at work. But she didn’t care how the radio had gotten tuned to that station. She was too freaked out by the knowledge that Maegarr was real.
You probably heard his music at one point, and even though your conscious mind forgot about it, your unconscious mind didn’t. And last night he made a guest appearance in your dream. No big deal. She wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that “Eat the Night” was a real song. But what about the rest of what the woman had said? About something happening to Maegarr—something bad, Joan assumed. Something that had also happened to his followers. In her dream Maegarr had followers. The Congregation. And she’d been one of them. Or rather, Debbie had.
She glanced at the dashboard clock and realized she’d been sitting in the garage with the engine running for almost ten minutes. Good thing she’d already opened the garage door. Dying from carbon monoxide poisoning because she’d been daydreaming with the car running would’ve been embarrassing as hell.
She put the Mazda in reverse and began backing out of the garage. She didn’t realize it, but she was humming “Black Heart” under her breath.
* * *
At roughly the same time that Joan Lantz left for work, Kevin sat in the reception area of Maintenance’s Ash Creek office. It was located in a suite next to a dental practice. The building was generic and unremarkable, one of a dozen similar in the office park. There were several unmarked white vans parked out front, and a small sign bolted to the brick wall next to the door, which read simply MAINTENANCE, and in smaller letters beneath it, ASH CREEK DIVISION.
Inside, there was nothing remarkable about the suite, which was exactly the way Maintenance liked it. All the colors were bland and neutral—beige walls, dark green carpet, gray desks and cubicle dividers, black chairs. Everyone wore black shirts or blouses, black pants or skirts. No piercings or tattoos and little makeup or jewelry. None of the staff was particularly good
-looking, but none of them were butt-ugly, either. Nondescript was the best way to describe them. People who wouldn’t attract a first glance, let alone a second. Anonymity was one of Maintenance’s chief weapons. It was carefully cultivated and fervently guarded. And Management tended to frown on it when one of their people ended up beheaded by a crazed, naked old man out in the open. Praise Oblivion it hadn’t happened during the daytime, or Kevin’s ass would’ve been well and truly in a sling. As it was, the least he was going to get was a chewing-out. The worst… He didn’t want to think about that.
Maintenance was open around the clock, although they didn’t post office hours anywhere. They weren’t really a business, and they didn’t have an online presence or advertise their phone number. They didn’t advertise at all, as a matter of fact. They didn’t serve customers, and they didn’t want any. They served a Calling. The highest, as far as Kevin was concerned.
The Office Manager—her duties were too numerous and complex for her to be called a receptionist—sat at her desk, her attention fixed on the open laptop before her. Maintenance used portable devices whenever possible, in case the need arose to shut down their location and get the hell out in a hurry. Erika Labianco was rail-thin, skinny to the point of looking unhealthy. While it wasn’t official policy, Maintenance employees were discouraged from overconsumption, and that included food. The fact that Kevin carried a few extra pounds often put him on the receiving end of disapproving looks from his colleagues. No one could accuse Erika of overconsumption, though. She was in her early sixties, her hair a bright silver, and she was so thin, she looked like she suffered from stage-four cancer.
Kevin held a cardboard cup (made of 70% recycled material) filled with black coffee. He took a sip, but it was too hot and burned his tongue. He didn’t care, though. He was too wiped after everything that had happened last night, and all he wanted to do was head home to his crummy one-bedroom apartment and get some sleep. He needed as much caffeine as he could get as quickly as he could get it, if for no other reason than to steel himself for what was to come.
