by Rick Hautala
“I know ... a lot of things about you,” the old crone whispered as she looked down at the floor. apparently in deep thought.
Elizabeth’s eyes were also drawn to the floor where, only faintly, she could see ... something. Oddly, it looked like a large shopping bag, the kind the department stores hand out at Christmas time.
The curtains in the bedroom windows seemingly shifted back and forth to the heavy sigh of ragged breathing, but Elizabeth wasn’t at all certain if it was the old woman’s or her own.
The whimper in Elizabeth’s throat began to build steadily, and she knew that it would become a full-scale scream if this ... this vision didn’t go away. This was impossible! her mind shrilled. This can’t be happening!
Peering up at Elizabeth, the old woman’s face glowed like an eerie gray blotch on the darkness. Her skin was a tangled network of dark wrinkles that deepened as she looked at Elizabeth and smiled. At least half of her front teeth were rotted and missing, but it was her eyes that caught and held Elizabeth’s attention; they glowed with a deep, lambent red, like hot coals fanning to life on a hearth.
“Come over here, Elizabeth,” the ancient woman said. Her voice was as cracked and rotten as her teeth. It whispered like a sightless moth in the darkness. “Come over here and sit down.”
Saying that, she reached down to the floor and raised her shopping bag up level with her glowing eyes. Opening the mouth of the bag wide, she held it out in Elizabeth’s direction. The paper crinkled like a blazing fire.
“See what I have ... ?” the crone said. “See what I’ve got for you?” Her voice had an irritating whine now, like an engine, racing futilely as it rose in intensity.
Elizabeth’s mind was swirling as she craned her neck and, against her will, peered into the blackness inside the bag. Without any sense of motion, she found herself being drawn toward the old woman, being pulled inexorably toward the open bag and whatever was inside it.
“No ... I ... “
That was all Elizabeth could say; nothing more than a strangled cry as the icy blackness inside the bag drew her helplessly toward it ... into it, as though it wanted to swallow her.
She screamed, and the room, the woman, and the shopping bag she was holding instantly transformed into Elizabeth’s own dimly lit bedroom. With one convulsive grunt, Elizabeth found herself sitting up in bed. Her face was bathed with sweat, and both of her hands were pressed hard over her mouth. Her eyes were wide open and staring, horrified, at the black rectangle of her closed bedroom door, its shape a visual echo of the closet doors she had seen in her dream and of the gaping mouth of the old crone’s shopping bag.
Slowly lowering her hands, Elizabeth took a deep breath. A jab of pain slid like a knife in under her ribs, but she barely noticed that compared to the sense of dread and horror she still felt from the nightmare. After several shallow, shuddering breaths, she felt her panic increasing, rather than lessening. It quickly spiked to needle-sharp intensity, and another sharp scream threatened to rip out of her mouth. Only with effort could she force her mind to accept fully that it had only been a dream.
Elizabeth reached for the bed-stand light and flipped the switch. Warm, lemon yellow light instantly filled the room, making her eyes sting, but that pain didn’t measure up to a tenth of the numbing fright she could still feel coiling like a black snake around her heart. Glancing at the clock by her bedside, she saw that it was almost three o’clock in the morning. The last thing she wanted to do, other than return to that frightening house and its occupant, was to wake up her mother and father. At thirty-eight years old, she told herself, she was much too old to wake up from a nightmare, afraid of the dark.
As her heartbeat slowed down and her breathing seemed deeper, calmer, Elizabeth snapped the bed-stand light off and settled back into bed. In the darkness, she tried to find the courage to smile contentedly to herself and let herself feel cozy and safe in her old bedroom. Just knowing that her mother and father were nearby if she needed them, to tell her things were all right, should have made her feel better; but alone with her thoughts and the disturbing memory of the nightmare, she felt no real security or internal strength.
Maybe, she told herself, she had been silly to expect that coming home would change anything ... silly because, no matter what she told or didn’t tell her parents about what had happened between her and Doug before she showed up this evening on their doorstep, she knew deep inside that she hadn’t left many — or any — of her problems behind when she left her husband back in New Hampshire.
Wiggling her head deep into the well of the pillow, Elizabeth closed her eyes so tightly that spiraling patterns drifted in front of her eyes. She wished with every fiber of her being that traces of the nightmare she’d just had-or thoughts about how much she should tell her parents she had been through this past year and a half-wouldn’t disturb her sleep the rest of the night. For better or worse, in sickness or in health, just like those vows she had taken — and broken — with Doug, here she was, back home again. And no matter how many reasons she might have to do it, she vowed she absolutely wouldn’t disturb her parents’ sleep just because she’d had a nightmare.
2.
The sun was up but hiding behind a thick bank of fog when Elizabeth went outside for an early morning walk. Her father was already at work in the bam, so she avoided heading out that way to see him, if only to clear her own mind before the inevitable intense discussion about what had happened between her and Doug. Last night, when she had arrived at her parents’ door so late, she had only hinted at the situation, and she realized that, in the days ahead, both her father and mother, in their own ways, would grill her on the impending divorce she had announced.
Elizabeth’s lungs filled with the cool, moist air as she measured a brisk pace down the driveway and turned right, heading up Brook Road toward town. She couldn’t possibly tally how many times she had walked down this road to town while growing up here in Bristol Mills, Maine. Unlike most of her friends, she had not been allowed to get a car in high school, so, partly as a defense, she had made a virtue of walking the three miles to downtown, where everyone hung out at what was now the 7-Eleven. Back then, the store had been called Frank’s Variety. As an adult, she had maintained walking as her exercise of choice, and even though she had slacked off over the past few years — the last year and a half, especially — now that she was back home, she was determined to become an avid walker, if only for her physical health. Her mental health ... ? Well, that was something else.
The steady slap-slap of her feet on the pavement and the wind blowing into her face did a lot to remove the last vestiges of her nightmare. Although unnerving traces of its frightening memory still lingered, right now she was intent on letting her mind dwell only on more pleasant thoughts-on memories of her childhood, of happier times, and on positive thoughts about her future, such as being able to spend more time getting to know, really know, adult to adult, her parents and her two aunts, Junia and Elspeth, who still lived in town across the street from the 7-Eleven. Over the past year and a half she had worked quite intensively with Dr. Gavreau, trying to fit the pieces back into her life. She wasn’t going to let bad thoughts — and certainly not silly nightmares — ruin the good things she had begun to feel about herself.
But as she walked down Brook Road, sucking the moist morning air into her lungs in greedy gulps, the muffling fog and the chill in the air all worked against her positive thoughts. It didn’t take long to realize why; she was less than a half mile from the intersection of Brook Road and the Old County Road, and, looking ahead and to her left through the gray fog that blanketed the road and surrounding woods, she could just barely distinguish the black iron fence that surrounded Oak Grove Cemetery.
“Oh, boy ...” Elizabeth muttered, as she involuntarily slowed her pace and stared ahead at the twining tendrils of fog. The sun, no stronger than a forty-watt light bulb, was trying with little success to force its way through the mist. She shivered and let her brea
th out with a long, heavy sigh.
The closer she got to the cemetery, the more Elizabeth could feel her tension mount. It was the same icy tension she had felt last night in her nightmare. Beyond the cemetery fence off to her left, the sloping hill was littered with tombstones. Even the closest ones were no more than vague lumps, looming out of the morning mist. The silent rows of stone vanished behind a gauzy gray curtain at the top of the hill. She couldn’t see them, but she knew they were up there.
A chill deeper than the morning air gripped her shoulders and shook her. She remembered how cold she had been in the abandoned house of her nightmare.
“Don’t be stupid,” she commanded herself as she wove across the road to the opposite side. She wanted to put as much distance as possible between herself and the cemetery, but she was unable to tear her gaze away from the heavy iron grillwork of the headhigh fence, or from the slouch-shouldered tombstones. She tried to think only about how the cemetery had made her feel as a child. Sure, it was spooky, and just about every Halloween someone pulled some kind of trick out there; but she and her friends had actually enjoyed playing around up there and pulling a few of their own scary pranks.
“But not anymore ... “Elizabeth said aloud, feeling the words like hot coals in her throat. “Sure as shit, not anymore!”
The cemetery gate was open, and, as Elizabeth walked slowly past it. she couldn’t stop her eyes from traveling up the twin-rutted dirt road and over the crest of the hill to where everything dissolved into dimensionless gray. What was she expecting to see? She wondered. Or what horror might be out there, hidden behind that curtain of fog?
The knot in her stomach tightened when, as clearly as if someone had spoken the words beside her, she thought, It all changes once someone you know — and love — is buried up there!
Flicking her eyes ahead, Elizabeth could see the octagonal shape of the stop sign at the intersection. She told herself, if she could just force herself to keep going, to get past the cemetery and head into town, everything would be all right. On her way back, she could take another route, maybe cut through old man Bishop’s yard, like she had as a kid. Or even if she came back this way, the sun would probably have burned off the fog by then, and she would see that she was just letting her fears and guilt and regret carry her away ... just like her nightmare had last night.
Elizabeth’s sneakers scuffed in the dirt by the roadside as she slowed her pace even more and looked over at the cemetery. Her eyes were transfixed by the eerie view, and her mind filled with a bottomless blackness as she tried to imagine the density of the darkness seen by the people she loved who were buried up there. It was infinitely deeper than the fog or night... and she knew that darkness would never end!
“ ... No,” she said, no more than a whimper.
She knew she wasn’t dreaming this; it was just as real and solid as those mist shrouded gravestones, just as cold and unyielding as that black iron fence.
All around her, the fog muffled the few morning sounds she could hear-a car, passing by on Route 22 ... a robin, singing in the woods behind the cemetery. She had the sudden, panicked thought that, even if she screamed for all she was worth, the sound of her voice would fall fiat and never carry beyond the radius of what she could see. And whatever horrors the fog hid would be unleashed!
All Elizabeth could focus on were the heavy iron bars of the cemetery fence, and the silent gray gravestones. The density and the claustrophobia pressed in on her mind, and, before she had made a conscious decision, she had wheeled around on one foot and started walking briskly back down the road toward her parents’ house. Even before the cemetery was out of sight behind her, she could feel the weight of some unseen presence at her back, closing the distance between them. With her fists knotted into tight balls and her legs pumping madly, she started running as fast as she could down the road. Mist speckled her face with moisture that mingled with cold sweat as she ran ... ran as if some ghoulish, sheet-draped figure from the cemetery was close at her heels.
3.
Elizabeth’s mother, Rebecca, a frail, white-haired woman of nearly sixty years, stood at the stove, surrounded by the sounds and smells of frying bacon and eggs. She glanced over when Elizabeth entered the kitchen and sat down heavily at the table in her accustomed seat. Rebecca’s clear blue eyes let show only a small amount of the concern she was feeling.
“So, did you sleep well last night?” she asked casually as she turned back to tend her cooking.
Fresh out of the shower, and feeling much better — as well as a bit foolish for letting her imagination get so hyped up on her walk — Elizabeth simply shrugged and grunted a response that could have been taken as either yes or no.
“Your old bed wasn’t too uncomfortable for you, was it?” Rebecca asked.
Elizabeth shrugged again. “It was good enough for me when I was a kid. It’s good enough for me now.”
Rebecca almost said something about Elizabeth using the double bed in her sister Pam’s room, but, remembering that that was where Elizabeth and Doug would sleep when they visited, she let it drop. Instead, she said, “You know, the aunts might have something they’re not using. You might want to give them a call. Better yet, why don’t you drop over for a visit? They’d be hurt if they found out you were back home and hadn’t come right over. “
“I was thinking I might swing by there later today or tomorrow,” Elizabeth replied. “I just want to get settled, first. They’ll understand. How have they both been, anyway?”
“Oh, they’re the same as always, I suppose,” Rebecca replied. “Older — like the rest of us. I think Elspeth’s getting noticeably weaker. She’s not on top of things the way she used to be, and she seems to sleep an awful lot of the time. But then, what can you expect at eighty-two? And Junia — well, Junia is Junia. She’s still as bright and chipper as the morning, even at her age, but I —”
“What?” Elizabeth asked, when her mother seemed unwilling to continue.
“Well . . I dunno,” Rebecca went on. “I just think she’s been getting sort of ... weird lately. Too wrapped up in all that astrology stuff she reads all the time.”
Elizabeth shrugged. “She was always interested in astrology, doing charts for people in the family and all. It’s just a harmless pastime.”
“Oh, I know,” Rebecca said. “It’s just that ... I just think too much of anything like that isn’t healthy.”
“Well, anyway — I plan to stop by soon,” Elizabeth said. “Maybe I will ask them if they have a better mattress.”
“I didn’t think you slept very well last night,” Rebecca said. “I thought I heard you talking in your sleep.” After blotting the bacon with a paper towel, she flipped the eggs onto a plate and brought them over to the table and placed them in front of Elizabeth. Just as the plate touched the table, two slices of toast popped up. Rebecca went back to the counter to get them. “This was gonna be your father’s, but I can make him some more. There’s coffee in the pot and orange juice in the fridge. “
“Umm ... thanks,” Elizabeth said, not making a move to get either for herself or to start eating.
While her mother busied herself at the stove, preparing another breakfast, Elizabeth let her gaze drift out the picture window at the expanse of backyard. The sun had, indeed, burned the fog off while she was in the shower. Warm, yellow May sunlight lit up the silvery grass and the thin line of trees that bordered the field, and, in the distance through the trees, she could just catch a glimpse of the Nonesuch River, which was the southern border of the town of Bristol Mills as well as of her parents’ property. On the tall maple tree beside the bam, where a grayed and fraying length of rope from Elizabeth’s and Pam’s childhood swing still hung, the leaf buds swelled as big as ripe, Bing cherries.
Up close to the house, off to the left at an angle, she could see the opened double doorway of the cow bam. Every now and then, the dark silhouette of her father would shift past. She knew that he had most likely already put in two
or three hours of work before breakfast, just as he always had. Age wasn’t going to slow him down, by Jesus! As much as Elizabeth had hated all the hours she had been required to work in that bam when she was growing up — hours she would much rather have been off, playing with her friends — she couldn’t help but remember with fondness the barn’s shadowed coolness permeated by the sweet smell of cow manure and hay chaff.
“I hope you weren’t ... “ her mother started to say, but then she let the rest of her comment drop as her eyes slid uneasily back and forth from the stove to her daughter. “What I mean is ... well, I wonder if everything’s all right?”
Elizabeth wanted to say Everything’s just peachy-keen, but that wasn’t what came out.
“No, I — uh, I just had a bad dream. That’s all. Probably I was just burned out after such a long drive.”
She wondered how her mother was viewing her. Did she see her for what she really was, a woman of thirty-eight years who was married and had had a daughter? Or did she see her as a ten year-old girl who had cried out in the night, terrified by some childish nightmare? Straightening her shoulders, she looked squarely at her mother and added, “Of course everything’s all right ... I mean — given the circumstances.”
Rebecca cleared her throat and, folding her arms across her chest, rubbed her forearms vigorously with her hands before she continued. “Well ... Doug called while you were out for your walk this morning.”
Instantly, Elizabeth’s neck and back felt doused with cold water.
“What did he ... have to say?” she said, once she was finally able to force the words out.
Rebecca began flipping over the strips of bacon with a fork, as though keeping busy could spare her from going any further with this conversation.
“What did he say?” Elizabeth repeated, more insistently.
“Your father picked up the phone in the bam and talked to him,” Rebecca said. Her voice was nervous and hushed. “Doug said he was concerned for you. He said he was worried about your mental health and that he was afraid —”
