Nights Towns: Three Novels, a Box Set

by Douglas Clegg

  2

  We met like illicit lovers—in the cool of the evening. She would bring Sloan’s truck around and I’d ritually ask where he was, and she would tell me one of several things in reply. She had no idea. Off with some woman. Drinking with his buddies. Sleeping off a drunk. Crying himself to sleep. Each time we met, I didn’t plan on laying with her in the back of the truck under the stars, nor did I think of anyone other than Alison when I was with her, but she had gotten me addicted to her—Wendy had somehow drugged me with her very physicality, and when I closed my eyes, when I was in her full embrace, I was somewhere else. I was no longer the son of a bully, nor was I the guy who wasn’t quite good enough at sports, not quite good enough at academics, not quite good enough socially. I was the king of the world when I was with Wendy. When I caught those glimpses of the Other inside her, the monster, the creature of dark and rotting caverns, it could not block out those other pleasures I felt.

  And then the inevitable occurred.

  Sloan found us together.

  Or, rather, he came home.

  3

  I was in his bed, and she was with me. I felt as I always did afterward—confused and empty and angry. Like a wild beast pulled from mating, I wanted to lash out. I felt that she controlled my sex, she controlled how and when and where, and I was a victim to her. My inner rage grew with each meeting we had—each meeting that was a mating also. Anger fueled anger. My father, of course, was my primary target, for hadn’t he ruined us? Our lives? My mother’s happiness? My sister’s joy? My own life, as little as it seemed to matter? Joe Chandler was a man I would gladly bury alive under a ton of scorpions, just to watch his fear. He was my father, and I loved him, and I wanted to kill him, I told Wendy. She held me in the dark—it was a hot summer evening, and the trailer had but one fan whirring. Our sweat was like fire itself. My anger blossomed like red flowers in her arms.

  “Let out what’s inside you,” she whispered, softly, like a loving mother to her son. “Let it all go. Release it. If you’re ever going to be happy, unleash it.”

  Now, many years later, I can look back on those moments as the most terrifying of my life, for while I knew that what I was doing—this uncontrolled erotic lust for Wendy Swan—was somehow wrong, it was her control that frightened me the most. She always knew what to say, how to insinuate a thought into my mind, how to take a hacksaw and raggedly cut through whatever boundaries I had. And I felt less like a man, more like an animal, each time she called me to her side.

  I was about to draw away from her, to reach for my clothes, ashamed of myself and furious at my need for her.

  The small trailer door opened. Sloan dragged his ass in, drunk, a flop of his unruly hair covering most of his eyes, the brown stink of whiskey permeating his aura. He stood there pointing the same gun that he’d used to shoot his own dog.

  I was just in my briefs, reaching for my shirt, when I felt the bullet. No, I was not hit. It was a feeling as if there were an earthquake just under the trailer, and my skin seemed to shake as the sound of the gun’s firing burst around me. In memory, it seems as if it were all in slow motion—the shirt in my hand—Wendy’s face in the shadow, almost a smile—Sloan’s hand shaking with the Smith & Wesson—a sound like whispering, the whispering, the whispering of thousands of people, or perhaps it was of bats flying in a cave—for that’s what I remember, even in the trailer in Nitro, it was as if everything about Wendy happened in a cave—

  And then I saw where the bullet had gone. It was as if Wendy’s face was no more, and in its place a ripe melon had burst, its juice and seeds sprayed across a pillow above a woman’s torso.

  I remember nothing else from that night that makes sense. The world had become violent for me. I remember no more logic in life after that.

  I was lost. I stood there, looking up at Sloan, thinking he would shoot me next.

  Instead, he dropped the gun to the floor. Its clattering was muted by the memory-echo of the blast in my head. He had a funny look on his face. Not maniacal, not haunted. Just funny. Like he had opened a Christmas present expecting one thing and had found something he had not imagined. A moment later, he turned and ran, leaving me on the bed in my underwear, still holding the hand of a woman who had only moments before been in my arms.

  I can write all this with complete coldness, for now I know what she was about. Now I understand her plan.

  But then the rage bloomed within me. Dressing quickly, I ran out into the night after him, grabbing up his gun, wanting to make him pay for this. People from nearby trailers had come running at the noise, but I pushed past them, allowing their shouts and screams to be drowned out by the deafening tide of fury that rose within me. The rage was beyond anything sensible or true. I had no tears for Wendy, and my shock just served to bury that personality known as “Peter Chandler” even further down within my brain. Something else emerged, something I can only call animal instinct, and all it knew was the kill.

  I chased Sloan out into the Wash. My legs felt light, my body almost like the wind as I moved. I had begun to see better in the night, to smell things that I had never noticed before: the sage and mesquite, to hear the restless chirps of small birds nestled along an ocotillo cactus, to taste the dry air thick with dust. Sloan outran me fairly easily, but I found myself moving in a nearly liquid blur toward him—it felt like I moved as the wind. Finally, he slowed down as the night engulfed us both. Each breath felt as if it would ignite my lungs; my eyes blurred, unsure of what they could register. I could see the shiny yellow light of his eyes, and how somehow he had changed in the dark. His face had elongated, his eyes narrowed and moved more toward the side of his skull. Their yellow shine was a trick of the night and of my own vision, I was sure then. He looked as if he’d been beaten up, his jaw broken and hanging. Spittle flew from his lips as he shouted, with some difficulty, “Shoot me, Peter! Please just fuckin’ shoot me! Look what she did to me! Look what she does! She ain’t dead! She’s a fuckin’ monster!”

  And then, he turned and ran again. I watched him go. I let him go. I sat down on the ground and covered my eyes, wanting to destroy the real world with my imagination. In days, my life had changed from boredom and family fucked-upness to the world of murder and sexual slavery. I nearly laughed, then wept, at how insane it all felt. How I could not possibly have seen yellow eyes in Sloan’s face, yellow eyes like an otherworldly snake, a jaw that had stretched, teeth that seemed canine...and then I opened my eyes to the world again. I lay back on the rocky earth and looked up at the stars. They seemed so distant and beautiful, and I knew whatever lived on other planets did not care about one boy looking up at them from the desert. There was no end to the desert sky, but my world began and ended there that night. I began shivering. I stared at the stars and wished the world away.

  I brushed off the dirt and stood. For a moment, I thought I saw a flash of light—a shooting star?—in the distance beyond the hills of No Man’s Land. I took strange comfort from this, as if it were a sign from the universe that my life had been noticed. I suddenly felt overwhelming sorrow for Wendy. I was not good enough for anyone. My father had always been right. I was just not good enough for the world.

  In this mood, I went back home. I blocked the rest. Oh yes, it comes back to me in bits and glimpses. But it’s gone from me now. The police must’ve asked some questions. The neighbors must’ve mentioned that Sloan had the gun and most likely did the shooting. I probably lied and said I was there visiting. I probably told them that Sloan shot her. I was a believable, nice boy; Sloan was not. There was not much discussion. My father, no doubt, beat the crap out of me for being involved with the white trash of Nitro. My mother probably wept and took her sleeping pills while my little sister rocked back and forth, staring at nothing. I kept the gun for protection, telling no one I had it.

  But she was dead.

  Yes, she was.

  She had been killed.

  I was there.

  But that was just her beginning.r />
  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  The Death of Wendy Swan

  1

  “Peter, I’ve been having dreams for days. Nightmares. They’re coming,” Than said into the phone.

  Peter hesitated. Then, “What are you talking about?”

  “Demons. Bonyface was right. They’re all here. I’ve seen something. Something I can’t talk about on the phone. He comes into my room in my dreams. He has fishhooks in his mouth.”

  “Christ.”

  “It’s a demon. But it’s The Juicer. He’s trying to warn me. And other things, too, man. I’ve been reading these books about how demons—”

  Peter cut him off. “That’s crazy.”

  “It is not. What’s up with you? I thought we were friends.”

  A pause on the line.

  “Than, look. We are friends. I can’t talk right now.”

  “I used to be your best friend. As of like last week.”

  “You still are.”

  “No I’m not,” Than said, hanging up the phone.

  2

  Than had checked out all the books he could find on demons and nightmares and such from the library in Yucca Valley; he had read them straight through and enjoyed the medieval woodblock prints in some of them. With titles like Fallen Angels and Raising Hell, the books seemed a treasure trove of all things demonic. Days passed; Than remained indoors, near the air conditioning, living off ham sandwiches and Cokes with the occasional half-pack of Oreos, poring over the books and making special notes whenever he saw anything about a Hand of Glory or a demon. One afternoon after getting his haircut, he wandered down Pinon Street and saw the Bone rooting through a garbage can. He wanted to say something to the old man, but Bonyface cackled a little too weirdly for his tastes. Another time, when Than was going through the dump behind Peter’s house, he saw the Bone napping among the piles of tires. He went and stood over him, looking down at the gnarled face. When the Bone opened his eyes, Than almost shrieked.

  “You been dreaming, heh, boy? You got something special. You got an understanding of demons,” Bonyface said, but Than was already running down the narrow path between the old mattresses and the torn plastic trash bags.

  When he next saw Bonyface, it was out among the mesquite, just off one of the side roads that led up into the hills. The sun was blazing hot, and the old man was gathering dried sticks from among the brush.

  “Well, boy,” the Bone said. “I see you come to find me again.” Than, covered head-to-toe with a sweat that seemed to soak into his bones, said, “I want to know about the demons. And that hand you had.”

  “If you do,” the Bone cautioned, “there won’t be any way for you to go back.”

  “Go back where?”

  “Back to the world you call comfort. It changes you, boy. This and the demon juice. It gets in ya and it opens your—your freakin’ eyes to all of it. But there ain’t no going back.”

  Than nodded. “I’ve had nightmares.”

  “Ah,” the Bone laughed. “He came for you.”

  “He?”

  “The Juicer. It was his hand I showed you. The Hand of Glory. A murderer’s hand! A man who had tasted the blood of innocence and left his hand, filled to bustin’ with demon juice.” Bonyface nodded, passing his sticks to the boy. “Take these and come with me. We’ll make a fire over there, in the caverns.” He pointed to the hills. “I’ll show you what this damn demon is so scared spitless about.”

  “It’s too hot for a fire,” Than said.

  “It’s too dark in this world not to have one,” the Bone replied. And so Nathaniel Campus began his education into the nature of demons, with the help of the man who had once been known as Lucas Boniface.

  3

  The cavern had a low ceiling, and Bonyface used one of the sticks to bat away at the sleepy tarantulas and scurrying scorpions—tiny as these were, they scared the bejesus out of Than. The Bone led him to a small circle of stones at the edge of what seemed like a great well of darkness. The Bone could’ve used his breath to light the sticks, but instead resorted to a match. With a small fire begun, he took Than by the hand and told him, “I ain’t her daddy, but I once knew her mama real good. She’s the one brought demons into this place.”

  “What—what does she—what does Wendy have to do with this? She got killed. Something at the trailers.” Than watched the firelight dance across the cavern wall.

  “Boy, she’s why The Juicer come back,” the Bone said, almost solemnly. “I got it in my blood she’d come on back one day. I knew it like I know my stink. But we have this.” He raised the hand above the fire. “The demon juice.” He thrust the hand against his lips and began suckling one of the fingers.

  Than watched in disgust, his lips curling. “That’s so gross.”

  The Bone wiped his mouth of the last drops of the blood. He had a grin that was nearly a grimace. “It’s the only way,” he gasped, catching his breath. “You had the nightmares. It’s already inside ya. You gotta drink.”

  “Please, no,” Than said almost politely, his hands trembling. But something within him wanted to know what was happening, why he had his bad dreams, why Peter no longer spoke for more than a few minutes at a time to him, why he felt that he was somehow doomed. He took the hand and pressed an edge of a finger to his lips.

  It didn’t taste the way he had expected. It was more like honey. “What happens now?” he asked.

  “We prepare for the demon,” the Bone said. “There’s lotsa ways o’ killin’ a demon. Ceremonies. Rituals. All kindsa ways. Now, boy, in all my studies, I’ve only found one way to make damn sure that a demon don’t return in the flesh. It’s nasty. It’s ugly. But it’s gotta be done.”

  Then he told him.

  Than Campusky’s apprenticeship began. Bonyface gave him more books to read; taught him the place in the body where the most vital demon organ resided; told him the story of how the demon within Wendy Swan came to be, and how it was returned to her as the Bone himself had once foretold.

  4

  “You watch way too much TV, Ed,” Alison Hunt said to her brother, who sat hunched over the small black-and-white Zenith that their father kept in his office. Ed Junior didn’t look up from the TV, but made a shushing noise. She could hear Harv still over in the far garage bay banging and clanging at a bent fender; her father was out talking to one of the old farts from town who’d come in for a fill-up.

  “Home.” Ed Junior pointed to the small screen.

  Alison glanced at the set. It was KCBS, the Los Angeles station. What the hell were they doing in Nitro? The camera panned back to reveal the Rattlesnake Wash against the sunset. “Ed, turn it up, turn it up.”

  Her brother, who was slow in all his movements, had trouble hitting the volume control right, but eventually the sound came up. The reporter said, “The alleged killer is still at large in this small desert community...”

  “It’s one of the trailer parks,” Alison gasped. “Jesus. That truck blows up there two weeks ago and now this. No wonder they call it Nitro.”

  A husky woman in a muumuu was crying, although the reporter kept jabbing the microphone into her face.

  Alison pivoted around and shouted, “Hey, Harv, you hear about this murder?” The clanging stopped, and Harv yelled back, “Yep. I even met the guy who did it twice. Worked on his truck. Friggin’ unbelievable.”

  “She was pretty,” Ed Junior said when he saw the picture of Wendy Swan on the television screen. He shook his head. “Sad.” He leaned forward and switched channels.

  5

  “Dad’s at it again,” Harv whispered to her when he came in to wash up. He didn’t need to elaborate—it was code-talk for drinking, and Alison wondered if her father was going to come home again or just sleep it off at the cantina or on the back porch. She looked out through the filthy office window, watching her father slap the guy he was talking with on the back, and then pick up his can of beer from where it rested on top of the gas pump.

  “I hat
e this place.” Alison shook her head. “I can’t wait ’til I’m eighteen and can get out of here.”

  “Maybe I’ll get out soon.” Harv gave her a grin. “You can come sleep on my couch.”

  She snorted. “Your floor, more likely.”

  “You talk to your friend?”

  She almost blushed, and shook her head. “He’s supposed to call.”

  “I thought you were more liberated than that.”

  She didn’t dignify the stupid comment with a response. “Don’t you get sick of it, Harv? Dad and Mom and pretending all the time. You’re stuck running this place, but you don’t even get paid.”

  “I get paid.” Harv sounded hurt.

  “You know what I mean. Paid the way you should. He’s drunk every day and we never see him after eight and before noon, and I guess I can’t even blame Mom for her...” She couldn’t even say it: afternoon delights.

  “Just shut up, Al, shut up.” Harv shook his hands in the air to dry them, and then wiped them across his face. He stomped back out to the bays.

  “Scissors rock paper,” Ed Junior said, raising his eyebrows.

  “I don’t feel like playing right now.” Alison calmed down enough to see the tear in Ed’s eye. She felt bad as soon as the words were out of her mouth. She loved Ed Junior all the more since the car wreck that had caused his brain damage. He was older than she, but he would now forever be her little brother, never get beyond the age of five or six in his head, while his body aged.

  The accident had sucked. That was the best she could think of it.

  Alison closed her eyes. Too intense. Too close. Think wall. Think wall. High yellow wall. Smooth plaster across wall. WALL. But the wall couldn’t hold: the memory came back to her again, like it was still happening, like she’d trapped it behind the wall so it would always remain fresh and perfect, always there waiting for her memory to be jogged. Strapped into the backseat, staring out the big rear window of the station wagon, she’d been careful not to touch the metal platform around the vinyl seat because it was too HOT too HOT. She was six, and they had sat outside the Coyote Cantina for two hours in the heat, she and Ed Junior, who was twelve and restless.