He hung up the phone, shuffled down the hall towards the living room, and tried not to feel like a coward as he called to Emily. “Coming!”
Some hours later, when a number of their guests were leaving, Emily grabbed the phone to call a cab for Shawn Tilney; he had imbibed just a little too much of the Christmas spirits. Charlie tried to intercede, afraid of what might happen if she so much as touched the phone … but it was working perfectly.
Charlie had put away quite a bit of ‘holiday cheer’ himself by that time – a good deal more than he normally did – and he was far too warm and tired and confused to do much more than push the whole thing out of his mind.
They’ll be fine, he told himself over and over. I’m sure of it, they’ll be fine.
* * * * *
At 112 Ocean Avenue, Randy had finished dismantling the lock assembly on the boathouse door and slipped the main mechanism and the handle out of the carved wooden niche where it usually sat. He’d checked every piece as he went, but so far he couldn’t find anything that could begin to explain the bizarre opening and slamming of the door. He was working now with a unit Owen had designed and built that cradled a powerful flashlight in a spring-loaded rig and attached to a number of different places like doors, cabinets and sharp corners. Just as well, he thought. It’s getting darker by the damn minute.
Owen hadn’t returned yet, but it was already obvious to Randy that unless the problem really was a faulty lock – and he didn’t think it was – then they weren’t gonna be fixing this problem tonight. The light above the boathouse door might be enough for general use, but even Owen’s rig wasn’t enough to do close work. Besides, he thought. It’ll soon be cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey. And, anyway, it’s Christmas Eve, damn it.
The thought triggered an unconscious reflex, and he reached up and held the small crucifix hanging on a chain at his neck. There I go cussing again, Jesus, he thought and grinned. Still, I imagine I won’t be the only one doing that tonight. It’s a fair bet Father Lonigan will be handing out a large bunch of Hail Mary’s and Our Father’s after the holidays.
He checked again for Owen, but there was no one coming down the gravel path. There was nothing outside but deepening shadows and an ice-cold wind. The mild breeze did make him think of something, though. Maybe I’ll go inside and look again, he told himself. Maybe it had been some kind of freak wind off the river. He carefully laid out the pieces of the dismantled lock on an oilskin cloth, then swung open the door and stepped inside.
It was still light enough to make out the general shapes and shadows inside the structure, but Randy didn’t want to take any chances. He fumbled around and finally found the bank of three light switches a few feet inside the boathouse door. The first was for the outside light over the door that he’d switched on a short time ago. The second switch turned on a light hanging outside the riverside entrance to the boathouse. When he clicked the third switch a large single bulb hanging near the center of the structure came to life. Nothing fancy, just a high-wattage bulb with a painted green hood; but it did the job. Randy could see everything fairly well, even a nearby section of the river itself.
It was much like most boathouses, at least in this area. The slip held a nice-looking boat, something less than five years old, with twin outboard motors. The planked walkways around it were worn but solid; a couple of spare oars and a row of tools – hammers, saws, screwdrivers and such – hung on the weathered walls. Above the tools was a wooden shelf, two or three feet below the ceiling, stacked with what looked like recently used moving boxes. A large boathook and other boating tools dangled the length of the side wall, from the shelf to the wall above the door.
Randy stood inside the boathouse and swung the door open and shut a couple of times. He couldn’t help wondering about what he observed. I don’t get it. My hardest effort at slamming this damned thing barely shakes the structure at all. So how the hell did it make such a loud noise and shake the shit out of this place when Owen and I were standing by the corner of the house?
No explanation made sense. Instead, he turned his attention to the river. It looked normal enough. A little crap floating in it, but that was to be expected. The whine of a distant powerboat that had passed minutes before Randy entered was still fading off up river. A series of small wavelets from its wake lapped against the nearby shore and sent the Lutz boat bobbing back and forth, thudding against the plank walkways. Everything seemed pretty much as he expected ... and then he realized something else. This building’s facing across the river, but most heavy winds would come from the right, off the ocean. It was doubtful, he realized, that on all but a few rare blustery days, wind off the river could be the reason for the door’s bizarre behavior.
He’d seen enough. He shrugged, still at a loss, and decided to wait for Owen outside. He turned back to the door ... but when he pushed against it, it wouldn’t budge. He pushed a second time, not thinking all that much about it. It still wouldn’t move.
Now he frowned. “What the hell!”
He pushed at the door twice more, hard, with no effect. Then he began to get angry. “This is just crazy,” he said to no one in particular. He checked out the hole where the lock would normally be, then laid his hand flat against the wooden door and gave it a solid push. It wouldn’t budge, so he leaned his shoulder into it and drove it hard against the door. The entire wall shuddered, but the door didn’t move.
What did move, however, was the wickedly sharp boat hook hanging over his head. The heavy-duty gaff, its solid steel tip glittering, dropped from its rigging and plummeted straight down.
Randy took a step back to consider his next move, and the twenty-pound shaft swooped by, just inches from his nose, and slammed into the wooden floor, point first.
He stumbled back in shock. “Damn and blast!” he muttered, astonished, and stared up at the crisscross rigging. Then he looked down to the spot where the hook was firmly embedded. “Now that could have been bad,” he finally mumbled. “Real bad.”
At that moment he heard Owen calling from outside.
“Randy! Where are you?”
“In here,” Randy called back. “But the damned door’s stuck and I can’t get out.”
A short beat later Owen’s right forefinger poked through the hole where the lock had been and the door swung open with no hesitation.
“What door are you talking about?” Owen asked, staring at his partner.
“The one you just opened without a thought,” Randy said. “I couldn’t budge it. Damn near got skewed for even trying.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You’re not alone there, Owen.” Randy swung the door back and forth with no trouble. “But a few minutes ago this stupid thing was jammed shut so tight my full-body weight couldn’t move it an inch.” He stared again at the door a deep furrow creasing his forehead. “What the hell’s going on here?”
“I don’t know. But ...”
Owen stopped, his words hanging and Randy stared at him, confused. “What is it?”
Owen looked away trying to hide his nervousness; unsure if he should open up to his partner. He wasn’t exactly sure how he would even do that; but Randy just waited patiently.
Finally Owen decided he had no choice and he slowly turned back to face Randy and tried to explain as best he could.
“I should tell you what happened up at the house, before I left ...”
CHAPTER FOUR
“Damn, Owen!” Randy said. “That’s … that’s … ah …” He frowned, rubbed at his forehead, looked down at the ground and finally stared up at the old house. Anything but look his partner in the eye.
Even though they were standing outside the boathouse, even though the evening breeze was rising and cutting through his coat like a knife made from ice, for the first time since they got here Owen didn’t notice the cold. He had just told his partner about the weird feelings he’d been having since Charlie first told them about the job, about the paralytic fear
that had attacked him when they first set eyes on the boathouse, about everything that had happened on the porch: the screams, the noise, the boy with the blazing eyes. He had planned to ask Randy -- even beg him, if he had to – to just pack things up and get away from this place. But the way Randy looked while he was telling him – the way he looked now ...
Randy was stone-faced, absolutely expressionless. He didn’t speak or asks questions the entire time Owen spoke – the longest speech he’d given since high school, he realized bitterly – and now, even after he’d stopped, Randy just kept standing there, saying and doing nothing. And finally, when he did, there was a coolness, a distance in his voice that Owen had never heard before.
“Okay,” he said carefully. “Okay. So ... what did Charlie say we should do?”
Didn’t he hear anything I said? Owen wondered. Didn’t it mean anything to him?
Owen hesitated to say anything more. The phone call had been weird, too, to put it mildly, but Randy’s reaction was just ... No. I won’t mention it, he decided. Instead, he just shrugged. “Said we could change the lock, but we can’t bother anyone in the house for any reason.” He pulled the replacement lock out of his overcoat pocket and handed it to his partner, glad that he had thought to bring it with him from the truck. Randy took the lock and peeled away the clear plastic seal without another word.
Owen stood well away from him, his mind racing, trying to think of what he could say to make things right. I could tell him it was a joke, he thought. I could tell him my mind was just playing--
“Misters?”
It was a voice – a little girl’s voice. Both men stopped what they were doing and looked around – one to the left, one to the right.
“Please help me. I can’t find my Mommy!”
“Is that – is there someone’s in the boathouse?” Owen asked Randy. But the blank look on his partner’s face made it obvious: he had no idea, either
“Not when I was in there,” he said. “Unless they were hiding somewhere I couldn’t see.”
The little girl’s voice came again. “Misters!” she called, and again, it seemed to come from all around them, every direction at once. “Please help me! I don’t know where my Mommy is!”
The plaintive tone tore at Randy’s heart. “Come on,” he said, and turned to the boathouse door, completely forgetting the lock still clutched in his hand.
Owen watched him turn, but hesitated yet again. “Wait a second,” he said. “Randy, this doesn’t make any sense. Where could she have come from?”
Randy didn’t hear him, or pretended not to. Owen made a sound deep in his throat and followed his partner. There was nothing else he could think of.
The door opened easily and silently, as if there was nothing wrong with it at all. They stepped into the gathering darkness together.
Two steps inside the boathouse, Randy stopped so quickly Owen almost crashed into him. “I don’t get it,” Randy muttered; absently sliding the lock into his coat pocket as he scanned the room. “There’s no one here.” He shook his head and frowned. “I could have sworn what we heard came from in here.”
“Me, too.” Owen peered into every corner of the wooden shed. “But there doesn’t seem to be anywhere someone could be hidin--”
All three boathouse lights flickered off, then flickered back on. Then they did it again … and once again.
“What the--” Randy began … and then the lights flicked off and stayed that way.
It wasn’t total darkness. The last light of day and distant lights provided a faint glow but it scarcely mattered. Most of the boathouse interior was immediately thrown into deep darkness. Anything could be waiting there now.
“God damn it!” Randy sputtered.
“Randy, let’s just--”
The lights blazed on, brighter now than they’d been just seconds ago. At least that’s how it seemed to Owen. He had to raise a hand to shield his eyes from the sudden brightness ...
… and the source of the voice showed itself, not twenty feet away.
She stood at the end of the far walkway, staring out at the river, her back to them both: a little girl, her long curls partly tucked up under a loose bonnet. She wore a deep blue pinafore over a grey short-sleeved blouse. She was barefoot, and a rag doll dangled limply from her right hand.
“What the fuck?” Randy wasn’t a foul-mouthed man; he used to joke it was lazy and stupid, and he was only one of the above. But there was a ragged tone to his voice as he muttered. He had been pushed too far. He was starting to crack, and Owen could clearly see it. “Where in the name of God did she come from?” he said under this breath. “She wasn’t here a few minutes ago.”
“Something’s really not … not right about this,” Owen said. He took a step back towards the door. “I think we should get out of here--”
The little girl, still faced away from them, spoke again: “Please help me,” she said. It sounded so pathetic – so lost.
“Are you crazy, Owen? She’s a little girl and she needs our help. We’re not going to just leave her.”
Owen frowned at his words. Randy wasn’t thinking clearly. Something was confusing him. “Randy! Think it through. She wasn’t here a few seconds ago … where did she come from? This is all wrong--”
“--Do what you want,” Randy grated. “I’m gonna try and help, if I can.” He strode towards the end of the shed with a sudden, mad determination.
Owen didn’t move. “Look at the pool of water she’s standing in, Randy,” he said. There was a pleading tone in his own voice, just like the little girl’s, and he hated it. “Look at the weeds wrapped around her feet. She’s been in the water. She’s soaking wet in the freezing cold. None of this makes any sense.”
Randy stopped midway between the little child and his partner. “What are you saying? That this is just another ‘weird thing,’ like your whim-whams before we got here, or your tummy ache, or you tripping off a porch you weren’t even supposed to be standing on and blaming it on ghosts? That’s the problem here?” He turned back to the little girl with an angry, dismissive wave at his partner. “Fuck that, limp-dick. I’m going to help her find her mother.”
The words stung Owen. He clamped his mouth shut and watched Randy hurry down the walkway without another word.
“Oh, thank you, Mister,” the strange little girl whimpered. “Thank you.”
She must hear him coming, Owen thought distantly. So why hasn’t she turned around.
From a distance, from the back, she appeared to be six or seven years old, but now Randy was close enough to finally see more details: her dress was filthy and full of holes. Her hair – what he could see of it under the bonnet – was a knotted mess. And she was soaking wet. Water was dripping from her tattered hem to the wooden deck.
When he was about ten good steps away, she began to turn.
Her bonnet fell to the floor, but instead of releasing a tumble of little-girl curls bouncing playfully down her shoulders, it loosed ugly dark clumps, matted with dirt and dried blood.
It looked like the entire back of her head had been blown away by a large-bore rifle. Pieces of blackened bone and tissue, what must have been her skull and brain, glittered wetly in the tangled mess.
Randy skidded to a stop, but he couldn’t help looking at her. As she completed her turn, he heard himself make a high, keening sound – something like a groan, something like a strangled scream – as he clearly saw her face for the first time.
The flesh from her chin to the brow line was mottled with decay. Cheek bones poked dully through gooey slabs of dead tissue below her empty eyes. But no – not quite empty. The sockets were roiling with tiny pale maggots squirming to escape. The skin on her arms and fingers was split; shards of bone and rotting muscle glittered and pulsed there. She was a corpse, a rotting corpse, dead but still walking.
Walking and talking.
“Thank you, misssssster...”
“Holy Mary, Mother of God, protect us!” Randy made the
sign of the cross and clutched his crucifix, but he couldn’t back away. His legs wouldn’t move.
So I’m not crazy, Owen thought giddily, still standing just inside the door of the boathouse. Everything he’d seen, everything he’d felt had been real. Catholic like Randy, atheist like Owen himself had always been, it didn’t matter. It was real, and it was coming for them.
Coming for Randy, at least. He still stood just feet away from the dead thing, but every muscle in his body was locked. He was unable to move, unable to think.
The Rotting Girl had no such problem. She dropped the doll into the water and raised her arms, curling her fingers into bony claws and shuffling forward, straight for him.
“Misssssster...”
Owen moved without thinking. He lurched to one side and tried to pull an oar from its mounting on the wall, but when it refused to budge, he turned and charged forward anyway, straight towards the spot where Randy still stood frozen in shock.
The Rotting Girl and Owen both reached Randy at the same moment. She reached out, shattered fingers grasping for his shoulder, but Owen seized her hand and forced it away from his friend.
The Rotting Girl jerked back, trying to break free of his grasp, but Owen clutched tightly, clamping his fingers just below her wrist, and shuddering at the cold, slimy pulpiness of her flesh.
She jerked her arm to get away. I won’t let go, he told himself. She hissssed at him and jerked harder, but he still wouldn’t release her. She tugged harder. And harder –
The arm separated at the shoulder – just tore away. She spun off into the darkness and left Owen standing there holding the dead limb like a rotting tree branch. A thick, dark liquid – not blood, not river water – dripped slowly from the ragged end and plopped to the deck.
Then she was back. Out of the shadows, still focused on Randy, her one arm was up and grasping for him just as before. But as the Rotting Girl approached Randy a second time, leaning forward to show a mouth full of putrid teeth, Owen lashed out. He swung the corpse’s own limb at her like an oversized baseball bat, following through with all his might.
Amityville Horror Christmas Page 4
