The Awakening

by McBean, Brett

  Like it was hypnotized by their presence, the dog stared at them for what felt to Toby like the longest time.

  “I think we’re done for,” Warrick whispered, and if Toby didn’t know any better, he would’ve sworn that Warrick actually sounded amused, like he was on the brink of laughter.

  How could he be finding this funny? Toby thought. If we’re caught, our night is ruined.

  “Come on, Sheeba,” Mrs. Klein called. “There’s nothing there, girl. Come on.”

  Yeah, listen to your mom, Toby thought.

  The dog seemed to be thinking its next move over. It broke from its statue-like state and took a few steps towards them, growling as if saying, Yeah, I see you. I know you’re there. I just have to decide whether or not to be bothered enough with you to start barking.

  Toby drew in breath. He could see it now—the campout would be finished once Mrs. Klein told his parents of their nocturnal activities. Frankie and Warrick would be sent home and he would be punished—worse once the alcohol and cigarettes were found.

  Toby felt ill. The night, possibly the entire summer, was going to be ruined, all because of a stupid little dog.

  But the dog turned away and bounded back inside; either it was too scared, or too dumb, to bother with them. Either way Toby was relieved.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Toby snapped once both the dog and Mrs. Klein were inside, the porch light off. “If we had been discovered, we would’ve been toast.”

  “Or dog food,” Frankie said, snickering.

  “Relax, Fairchild. We weren’t, so don’t worry.”

  “Still, you’re an idiot for speaking,” Toby said, heart hammering.

  “Whatever. I’m going over.”

  Toby heard Warrick’s shoes scraping along the wooden fence as he climbed. There was some grunting, then a soft thud as he dropped to the other side.

  This time Toby didn’t delay. He scaled the fence, dropped to the ground on the other side, glad to be out of the Kleins’ backyard.

  Frankie was last to struggle over the fence. “I wish we’d just walked the front way,” he panted. “Would’ve been so much easier.”

  “And less dangerous,” Toby added.

  “Well we’re here, aren’t we?”

  The area along this side of Mr. Joseph’s house was thick with shadows. Toby saw two windows: the one closest to the front was dark; the other, nearer to the back where they were, glowed with dull light from behind a yellow curtain.

  “Hey, this is spooky,” Frankie whispered.

  Toby agreed.

  It somehow would’ve been less unsettling if the old man lived in some monstrous castle—at least that would’ve been appropriate—but there was something unnerving about such a strange man living in such an ordinary house.

  Warrick crept up to the lighted window.

  “Can ya see anything?” Frankie said.

  “Yeah, a meathook, a bunch of chickens in cages, and Leatherface sawing some poor dude in half,” Warrick replied.

  “Don’t say things like that,” Frankie whined. “I’m already scared enough. Toby, you go see.”

  Toby didn’t particularly want to, but he also didn’t want to look like a chicken, so he sighed, said, “Okay, move aside Warrick,” and stepped forward.

  Warrick moved and when Toby peered in through the window via a narrow gap in the curtains, he saw part of a kitchen. The kitchen looked small and very basic, with a stove that looked like something out of an old Western movie, a fat, round refrigerator, and a sink scattered with dishes. Moving his head to the left, he saw the right portion of the kitchen: a small wooden table, two rickety chairs and a doorway leading into darkness. He left the window. “It’s just a scummy old kitchen,” he told Frankie. “No meathooks or psychopaths.”

  “Well, no meathooks,” Warrick said.

  “Funny,” Toby said. “So, what now?”

  “We go into the backyard.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m guessing his trashcan is back there somewhere. I wanna look inside it. You never know what you might find. Also, we might be able to see into other parts of his house, see if that homeless nigger’s in there.”

  “Stop saying that word,” Toby said.

  “What, homeless?”

  Toby shook his head.

  “What about his shed,” Frankie said. “Maybe the bum’s hiding in there?”

  “Yeah, good one, Wilmont. We’ll check that out, too.”

  “You’re both crazy,” Toby said. “I’m not going down there and looking through stanky bins and breaking into sheds.”

  Warrick shrugged and switched on his flashlight. The sudden blinding light hit Toby’s eyes. He squeezed them shut and turned his head away. “Get the light away, turd-brain. Jesus!”

  The light went away, and Toby opened his eyes. “God, you’re an idiot,” he huffed. “I thought you said no flashlights unless absolutely necessary? What if the old man saw the light?”

  “He’d probably slit our throats and suck out all the blood,” Frankie said.

  “Nice, Wilmont,” Warrick said, grinning. “Just the image I want in my head when we’re about to go into his backyard.”

  “Who’s we?” Toby said. “I’m not going down there. This is as far as I go.”

  “Then don’t,” Warrick said. “Frankie’s coming with me, aren’t ya, Frankie?”

  Frankie’s eyes were glassy in the glow of the flashlight. “Yeah, count me in,” he said.

  Toby looked at Frankie. It’s just the alcohol, it’s making him silly.

  “Great. You can stand watch for us then, Fairchild. If you see the old man come into the kitchen, come and get us.”

  “Whatever,” Toby said.

  Frankie followed Warrick down into the backyard. Soon they, along with Warrick’s flashlight, were out of sight, leaving Toby alone and feeling exposed.

  What’s happening to Frankie? he thought. We used to do everything together.

  He knew he shouldn’t take Frankie going with Warrick personally—he knew it was just the alcohol influencing his decision. Still, it didn’t stop Toby from feeling disheartened.

  He was thinking about Frankie when he heard the sound of running water coming from inside Mr. Joseph’s house. Toby crept up to the kitchen window and peered inside. The old man was at the sink, filling a tea kettle with water. The kettle was one of those old fashioned metal ones, the kind his grandmother used to have. He once asked her why she didn’t just use an electric kettle like everyone else—she had simply chuckled and kissed him on the cheek.

  Done with filling the kettle, the old man placed it on the stovetop, put the lid on, then switched on the front gas burner. From the pantry he got a box of tea and heaped three spoonfuls into a white ceramic teapot sitting on the counter. Then he moved over to the table, where he eased himself slowly into one of the chairs almost opposite the window and sat staring at seemingly nothing. Toby had never really looked closely at the old man, even though he had been living across the street from him his entire life. Like most people in Belford, Toby had only ever given Mr. Joseph the occasional backwards or sideways glance. Toby noticed him, occasionally stared at him, but had never really taken the time to actually see him.

  But now, as he peered in at the old man, Toby saw past the crooked neck and nasty scar and saw for the first time the short, curly hair, like he had a bunch of cotton wool sitting on top of his head; the sparsely wrinkled face and thin lips. One could almost call it a gentle face, a kind face.

  Except for his eyes.

  There didn’t seem to be any life in those eyes; no light, no sparkle—just two dark holes. He was reminded of the stranger’s eyes. Toby shivered, despite it being a humid night.

  After a few minutes, Mr. Joseph got out of the chair, slowly, like molasses pouring out of a jar, and shuffled over to the stove, where he poured boiling water from the kettle into the teapot. He stood waiting for a full minute before taking a cup down from the rack and filling it with
tea from the teapot. He brought the cup to his lips, took a sip, and then turned to the sink and dumped the rest of the tea down the drain. He set the cup on the counter, reached down and opened a cupboard under the sink. He came up with a bottle of alcohol. He took it over to the table, sat down, and sunk back a long mouthful of the liquor.

  Afterwards, he sat motionless, his gaze burning a hole through the table. Finally, he stood, hobbled back over to the counter and opened the top drawer. He pulled out a gun.

  Toby sucked in breath.

  Mr. Joseph stuck the barrel of the revolver into his mouth.

  “Oh my God,” Toby squeaked.

  He had to do something—run and get help, bang on the window, smash the window, something, anything; but he couldn’t move. He was frozen to the spot, terrified.

  I can’t just stand here and watch a man blow his brains out! Do something!

  Mr. Joseph closed his eyes. It was crazy, but at that moment, Toby thought he looked almost... calm, happy.

  But that was crazy, wasn’t it? Surely just a trick of the light, or Toby’s imagination.

  A sudden crash startled Toby. He gasped, and for one horrifying moment thought the old man had pulled the trigger. But the crash had been too soft, too distant and Mr. Joseph was still standing with his head intact.

  As Toby’s heart-rate returned to a relatively normal pace, he watched Mr. Joseph take the gun barrel out of his mouth and place the revolver on the counter. Then he started towards the back door.

  Yes, that’s where the crash had come from, Toby now realized. The backyard.

  Frankie and Warrick!

  From off to his left, Toby heard the sound of feet slapping against the dry, hard ground.

  “Did he hear us?” Warrick panted when he and Frankie reached Toby. “What’s he doing?”

  “He’s going to the back door,” Toby told them.

  “Oh shit!” Warrick exclaimed. “Run!”

  They all raced down the narrow pathway that ran alongside the house until they reached the sidewalk.

  “Hold on, guys,” Frankie said.

  Toby skidded to a halt and turned around. “What?”

  Toby watched Frankie bend down and scrounge around on the ground.

  When Frankie straightened, Toby saw, clenched in his hand, a small rock. Toby groaned.

  “Go for it,” Warrick said, grinning like a demented skeleton.

  Frankie drew his right arm back and then hurled the rock at the left-side front window. The rock smashed the glass, sounding like an explosion in the still night.

  Toby winced.

  Warrick searched the ground, found another, smaller rock, and threw it at the right-side window. “Take that, you fucking freak,” he cackled.

  In his mind, Toby saw a desperately sad Mr. Joseph looking crookedly at the broken windows. The image abruptly changed to the old man with the black metal gun stuck in his mouth like a deadly lollipop, empty eyes closed, and then...

  “Come on,” Frankie said.

  Toby shook the image away.

  “Hurry!” Frankie said, and took off after Warrick, who was already halfway across the street.

  Toby followed.

  When they joined Warrick in front of Toby’s house, Toby saw that the front family room light was still on. “Be as quiet as possible,” he told Frankie and Warrick. “My parents are still up, and if they catch us, we’ll be toast.”

  With Toby leading the way, they crept down the side of his house, down to the backyard. Toby was relieved to see that neither parent was standing by the back door with their arms folded, a hard stare on their face. The three boys hurried over to the tree house ladder. Toby went up first, climbing it with blistering speed. When he reached the top, he threw the trap door open and scurried inside.

  Soon Frankie and Warrick were back up inside the tree house. “Bolt it,” Toby said, sitting against one of the walls.

  Frankie, the last one in, bolted the trap door, then he leaned against the wall opposite Toby. Warrick rested against the wall between them, opposite the trap door.

  “Wow, what a rush,” Warrick said. “I’d love to see the old pervert’s face when he sees the broken windows.” Warrick grabbed the non-spiked bottle of Coke and took a long, thirsty drink. He then passed it to Frankie.

  “So what the hell happened in the backyard?” Toby asked. When Frankie offered him the bottle, Toby grabbed it and guzzled the soda.

  “Warrick saw a human arm,” Frankie said.

  Toby frowned. “What did you say?”

  “In the old man’s trashcan,” Warrick said. “I was searching in there amongst all the rubbish and I pulled out an arm.”

  A laugh escaped Toby; a nervous laugh, but a laugh all the same. “You’re kidding me? You expect me to believe that?” There was no way, after witnessing the old man contemplating blowing his brains out, that Toby could believe there was an arm in his trashcan. Maybe yesterday he would’ve believed it; but not now.

  “No shit,” Frankie said. “A real human arm.”

  “A mangled human arm,” Warrick said. “It had bits of flesh hanging from it and you could actually see some bone. Man it was disgusting.”

  “And this was in his trash? Just thrown in there like some empty soda bottle?”

  “Yeah,” Warrick said.

  “We was so freaked out that we knocked the trashcan over,” Frankie said.

  “You knocked the trashcan over,” Warrick said. “You should’ve seen your face, Wilmont. The moment I told you what I’d found, you looked like you had crapped your pants.”

  “So you didn’t see this arm?” Toby asked Frankie.

  “Well, no, not exactly. I was at the shed, trying to see inside. But I couldn’t. Suddenly Warrick cries, ‘Shit, there’s an arm,’ and I guess I knocked into the trashcan as I bolted.”

  “Well, at least we now know what was in the bum’s bag,” Warrick said with a chuckle. He stood and looked out the window that overlooked Pineview. “I can’t see him,” Warrick said. “Reckon he heard the windows being broken?”

  “I’m sure he already knows about the broken windows,” Toby said. “Bet you he’s already called the cops, too.”

  “Oh shit,” Frankie groaned. “We’re screwed if he calls the cops.”

  “Relax, Wilmont,” Warrick said, sitting back against the wall. “He ain’t gonna call the cops. He has an arm in his trashcan for Christ’s sake. And a murderer in his house.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Frankie said. “But what if he gets rid of the arm, hides the bum in the cellar or something, then calls the cops?”

  Warrick chuckled, shook his head. “You’re a riot, Wilmont.”

  “Well it’s bullshit about the arm, there is no murderer hiding in Mr. Joseph’s house, and breaking his windows was a stupid thing to do.” Toby stood up.

  “What?” Frankie said, a puzzled expression on his face. “He deserved it. Fucking freak.”

  Whether or not Warrick thought he saw an arm, or was just plain lying, Toby wasn’t sure. Not that it mattered. After what Toby had witnessed tonight, seeing somebody moments from death, it really put things into perspective. He was upset at Frankie and Warrick for what they had done. If only they knew the truth about Mr. Joseph. But Toby couldn’t tell them. Maybe one day he would tell Frankie, when they were older and living in a dorm room together, sinking back a few brewskies. Maybe then he would tell him about what he had seen tonight. But not now, not tonight.

  Toby started for the trap door.

  “Hey, where are you going?” Frankie said.

  “I have to take another leak,” Toby lied. In truth he needed some time away from these two.

  As he unlatched then lifted the trap door and began climbing down the ladder, he couldn’t shake the thought that at any moment he could hear the distant pop of a gunshot.

  And only Toby would know what the sound meant.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Toby stepped into the shower and immersed himself under the
hot spray. After five minutes of standing perfectly still and letting the water cascade over his lean body, Toby grabbed the soap and began lathering up.

  Having a long, hot shower always worked wonders whenever he wasn’t feeling well. And this morning he was feeling terrible: monster headache, queasy stomach—he had already thrown up twice. He had woken early with a breathless start, mouth like sandpaper and tasting of old sweaty socks, the noise of a loud blast ringing in his ears, remnants from a dream (one that he couldn’t remember anything about—other than it ended with a gunshot). Moments later he crawled out of the stuffy, crowded confines of the tent, sunlight pushing through the open flaps, and puked in some bushes. The second occasion was about an hour later, in the bathroom. Frankie had also puked upon waking, but not Warrick, although he did look pale and he complained of a headache.

  After returning to the tree house from his brief respite, the three of them had sat and talked and drank for a while longer. Toby had vague memories of stumbling down the ladder and slithering into the tent. But he had no idea what time that was. He also couldn’t remember whether Frankie and Warrick went with him, or if they came later. But they were there, lying cramped inside the two-man tent, when he woke feeling like a train wreck.

  I’m never drinking again, Toby thought as he soaped his chest. That was the first and last time.

  Why people drank to excess when in the morning you felt this terrible defied logic, in Toby’s opinion.

  Something else that defied logic was how Frankie could be downstairs gobbling down a large plate of waffles. Just the mere thought of food sent Toby’s stomach in a spin.

  At least Warrick had left; that was something to be grateful for. He had left about half an hour ago, after scarfing down a glass of orange juice and a Krispy Kreme for breakfast. The empty beer cans, bottle of Jack Daniel’s and pack of Marlboros went with him.

  So far it seemed his parents hadn’t cottoned on about the smoking and drinking. Or if they had, they hadn’t let it be known.

  Probably waiting until Frankie leaves, and then they’ll start in on the yelling.

  That was the last thing Toby needed; his head would probably explode if his parents raised their voices any louder than a whisper.