Voices From The Other Side

by Brandon Massey

  He shrugged. What did she expect him to say? He didn’t have the answer. Did he ever?

  “What species is it?” she asked, squinting at the tree. “I’ve never seen anything like it, and I’ve been gardening for years.”

  Paul stuck his hands in his pockets and looked at the ground.

  Christine sighed, clearly exasperated. “Do I have to solve all the problems in this family? I’m already the sole breadwinner, for God’s sake.”

  Paul winced.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.” She touched his arm. “We’ve all been stressed lately, what with the move and adjusting to living here. Something bizarre like this tree showing up only makes things worse.”

  “What should we do?” Paul asked. “I think we can probably leave it out here. It’s weird, but it’s only a tree. I know it stinks, but we don’t spend much time out here anyway.”

  “Are you serious? We’re not allowing this filthy thing to stand on our property. We’re going to get it chopped down. I’ll call around this afternoon to get some quotes.”

  “Quotes? You’re talking about spending money to handle this?”

  “Of course, I am. We don’t have the tools or the skills to do it ourselves.”

  “But we don’t have the money to pay some folks to cut down a tree,” Paul said. “The truck needs new brakes. Then we’ve got to pay for Jamila’s braces next week—”

  “I’ll take care of it somehow,” Christine said. She massaged the back of her neck. “Don’t I always?”

  Her words, though delivered with weariness, not malice, stabbed at his heart. But she was right. She always took care of it, whatever “it” happened to be at any given time. They had first met in college twenty years ago, and Paul had wanted to ask her on a date but had been terrified of rejection—and Christine, sharing a mutual interest in him, took the lead and asked him on a date. When they married, Paul had been reluctant to move out of his parents’ house, preferring to stay there indefinitely and not risk living on their own until they were ready—but Christine found a cheap apartment for them and arranged the move. Paul’s father had run a successful construction business, and Paul had been content to keep a low-profile management position and let his younger brother assume the role as his dad’s right-hand man—but Christine had relentlessly pushed Paul to work for more responsibility and respect, and when his father died, six months ago, Paul had risen to a leadership role nearly equal to his brother’s.

  He loved Christine, but sometimes he despised himself for being incapable of accomplishing anything without her guiding hand. His woman was his crutch. She deserved a stronger, more decisive man. So did his kids.

  But he was forty-one years old. Stuck in his ways. Surely, God had sent him Christine because He knew Paul needed someone like her in his life.

  Christine returned to the house, leaving him alone outside.

  Paul looked at the deadwood.

  He wondered, if God had sent him Christine, who had sent him the tree?

  Disturbed by the question, he quickly went inside the house.

  That night, Paul had a nightmare. In the dream, his younger brother, Glen, aimed a shotgun at Paul and his family and forced them to board a flimsy sailboat. Soon after they climbed on the boat and pushed away from the shore, they found themselves caught in a storm, lightning cracking on the dark horizon, the turbulent waters heaving their vessel into the air, and then a wave reached overboard like a giant hand and grabbed Christine . . .

  Paul woke covered with icy sweat.

  Only a dream, he told himself. Relax.

  He reached toward the nightstand to get the bottle of water that he kept there. His mouth was sandpaper-dry.

  When he took the first sip, he heard a sound that caused a fresh coating of sweat to break out on his forehead: a piercing, animal-like cry. It came from somewhere outside.

  They didn’t have any pets, but his neighbor had a horse he kept in a stable, and the shriek sounded as though it could have come from there.

  Whatever it was, the creature was in agony. It bleated once, then fell silent.

  Paul got up and shuffled to the window. He didn’t see anything out of the ordinary—except for the deadwood. It hulked in the darkness like an evil skyscraper.

  Fear nibbled at his guts.

  Whatever happened, it’s none of my business, he thought. Go back to bed.

  Instead of returning to bed, he slipped on his robe and slippers. He grabbed a flashlight, too.

  Outdoors, the warm night was silent and still. Normally, crickets and other creatures were abuzz. Tonight, they were eerily quiet.

  He switched on the flashlight and walked across the lawn. He moved toward the wooden fence that separated his property from his neighbor’s. His neighbor’s stable was near the back of the yard. Paul shone the light beam over there.

  A horse lay on the ground. Slaughtered.

  The flashlight trembled in his hand.

  What had happened? Who had done this?

  Suddenly, a large, shadowy figure darted from behind the stables. It leaped over the fence, landed on Paul’s property and scrambled through the darkness, headed toward the giant tree.

  Paul tried to capture it in the light, but it moved too fast. In seconds, it had scurried up the trunk and vanished in the concealing leaves.

  I didn’t just see that. I imagined it. In fact, I’m dreaming right now. In reality, I’m curled up underneath the covers, snoring.

  His heart boomed.

  No one else had come outside. His neighbors, hard drinkers that they were, were probably in a drunken stupor. His wife and kids were hard sleepers, too.

  The night belonged to him . . . and the thing that had crawled up into the tree.

  Common sense cautioned him to go back inside the house. Curiosity and a sense of duty compelled him to move forward across the yard. If everyone else was asleep, then it was up to him to check this out.

  Besides, if he were really dreaming, no harm could come to him. You couldn’t get hurt in a dream. Right?

  As he neared the tree, the stench made his nostrils dilate.

  This is no dream, and you know it, he thought. A dream could not possibly be this vivid.

  When he accepted that he was, in fact, awake, a powerful compulsion to run seized him. He wanted to drop the flashlight and run like hell back inside.

  But he didn’t. He was so close. He only wanted to peek. One quick look.

  He only wished he’d brought the shotgun. A lifelong hunter, his father had kept a collection of firearms in the gun cabinet in the den.

  Too late to worry about that.

  He edged underneath the leafy boughs. He slowly raised the flashlight.

  Something wet and fleshy plopped onto his face.

  He shouted, backed away. He tore the thing off his face and flung it to the ground.

  It looked like a strand of steaming, bloody intestines.

  From the slain horse . . .

  He stumbled away, dropped to his knees and vomited.

  The thing in the tree, it had killed the horse. It had chewed on the horse’s guts and spat them on him, a gesture of utter contempt and arrogance.

  The creature wasn’t stupid. It was smart enough to mock him. And it was intelligent enough to use the cover of the night to hide its murderous activities.

  Paul wiped his lips and backpedaled across the yard, keeping his gaze on the tree, ready to bolt if something rushed him.

  Inside the house, he locked the door. He bolted the windows, too.

  He stared at the deadwood, out there in the darkness.

  Be honest, Paul. It’s not an ordinary animal hiding up in those branches. Both the tree and the thing living up in it are not of this world.

  It was an incredible explanation, but the only one that made some sort of sense to him. He was not the kind of man who spent time wondering about the existence of extraterrestrials, but he never discounted the possibility of alien life. There were billions of wo
rlds in the universe. Why couldn’t aliens exist? Why couldn’t they visit Earth? It seemed flatly impossible that every supposed UFO sighting and every single alien abduction throughout history could be dismissed as figments of human imagination.

  He could not debunk what he had seen with his own eyes. There was an otherworldly creature in his backyard, and it was a killer. It had all begun with the explosion and the flare of green light that he had witnessed a few nights ago; that was when it had landed on Earth. How considerate of it to make its new home in his yard.

  But what was he going to do about it?

  He thought of Christine and realized, with a rush of anxiety, that this was one problem that his wife would be unable to solve for him.

  The next morning, Christine awoke Paul. Her eyes were troubled.

  “Eddie stopped by,” she said. “Someone killed his horse.”

  Paul had barely slept at all last night and was instantly alert. “Really? That’s terrible. Did he call the police?”

  “He did, but he wanted to know if we heard anything last night. You know I sleep like the dead, but you’re a light sleeper. Did you hear anything?”

  “No,” Paul said quickly. “Nothing.”

  Christine sighed. “It’s such a shame. Who would do something like that to a harmless animal? Eddie said the horse was literally disemboweled. That’s so sick. Jesus, whoever did it is sick.”

  Paul’s stomach roiled at the memory of the animal’s innards slapping against his face. “Could it have been a wolf? Something like that?”

  “Eddie doesn’t think so. The stable doors were locked. A wolf couldn’t unlock the stable and drag a horse outside. It’s the work of something a lot smarter than a wolf. It had to be a man. Someone psychotic.”

  “You’re right,” he said. “I’m sure they’ll catch whoever’s responsible.”

  “I hope so.” She shivered.

  He didn’t enjoy lying to her, but he didn’t see any alternative. What could he tell her? The truth? Honey, last night I saw an alien climb that ugly tree, and it spat the horse’s guts in my face. Sure. Christine already thought—correctly so—that losing his job had worn down his nerves. If he told her the truth, she might decide he’d suffered a nervous breakdown. Lying was his only recourse.

  “When are those folks going to come chop down that tree?” Paul said. “Didn’t you say tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow, yes,” she said. “No one could come any earlier to handle such a big tree.”

  “No one can come today?” he said.

  She shook her head. “I already asked, Paul. Tomorrow is the earliest they can do it. You know I want that eyesore cleared out of here, wherever it came from. That damn thing makes me uncomfortable.”

  With good reason, Paul thought. You don’t know the half of it.

  “Why are you so interested in the tree being cut today?” she said. “The last time I brought up the subject, you tried to talk me out of getting it removed at all.”

  “I guess I’ve accepted that you know what’s best.”

  “Okay, Paul.” She smiled, but it was a sad expression. He knew what she was thinking. My poor, sweet husband always relies on me so much, and I wish he wouldn’t, just once.

  This time, he was going to surprise her. As soon as she and the kids left (they were going to spend the day in Memphis, as usual), he was going to handle that tree himself.

  Paul gripped the old but sharp ax in his hands. He faced the tree, like a warrior confronting a mortal enemy.

  Sunlight glinted off the shiny, blue-green leaves. Spotlighted in the golden rays, the unusual tree exuded a bizarre sort of beauty. But Paul was not fooled. The alien predator, probably slumbering, was hidden in the branches, waiting for night to arrive.

  Paul wore a disposable mask, which he’d found among Christine’s pottery tools, over his mouth and nose to protect him from the tree’s nauseating odor. As he approached, he glanced upward to make sure that nothing dropped down on him. He didn’t see anything.

  He focused on a section of the trunk that was about waist-high. He swung the ax toward it with all his might.

  It was like whipping a plastic bat against a concrete wall. The blade bounced away from the tree with a loud ringing noise, and the recoil flung the ax out of Paul’s hands.

  He stepped away, his hands trembling. He saw that he hadn’t so much as chipped the bark.

  It had to be superstrong wood or something. Cutting down the tree wasn’t going to be that easy.

  Time for plan B.

  He went to the garage and returned with a can full of gasoline. He saturated the trunk with the fuel, splashing it across the bark in great arcs.

  Then, standing several feet away, he lit a match and tossed it at the tree.

  There was a loud whump and a burst of flames that baked the sweat on his face.

  “Gonna burn you down, sucker,” Paul said.

  But incredibly, as quickly as the flames blazed to life, they began to die. As if the tree were made of fire-retardant material. It actually looked like the alien wood absorbed the flames, as absurd as it seemed.

  Within a minute, the fire sputtered out. The trunk was not even smoking, not even singed.

  “This isn’t possible,” Paul said.

  He didn’t have a plan C. He’d tried to take matters into his own hands, and he had failed. This problem, like most of life’s important problems, was beyond him.

  Head lowered, he grabbed the gasoline can and the ax, and shuffled back to the garage.

  A sparkling, black BMW X5 roared down the gravel driveway. Paul had to jump out of the way to keep from getting run over by the vehicle.

  This is the last thing I need right now. Damn.

  Glen got out of the BMW. Casually dressed in a golf shirt, slacks and Kangol cap, he’d likely spent all morning on the links and left the work of running the company to one of his yes-men, Paul thought.

  “Hey, big bro, what’s happening?” Glen said. “Doing yard work?”

  “Something like that,” Paul said.

  “More power to you. My landscaping crew takes care of that work for me. I make too much money to waste time with manual labor.”

  “Why are you here?” Paul said. “Since you’re such a rich-and-important man?”

  “Watch the sarcasm. It doesn’t suit you. And you know better than to talk to me like that.”

  Paul had a shamefully wicked notion: he could tie Glen to the tree trunk, and the carnivorous creature would find a hearty meal waiting for it this evening.

  The thought made him laugh.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Glen said. “Did I make a joke?”

  “Never mind, I’ve had a long night,” Paul said.

  “Whatever. I’m beginning to think that living out here in the boonies is doing something to you, man.”

  “Why are you visiting, Glen? I know it’s not because you’re concerned about my mental health. Get to the point.”

  Paul rarely was so direct with his brother, or with anyone, for that matter. The words sounded strange coming out of him. But it felt good to speak his mind. It felt real good.

  Glen blinked. “Well, damn. Someone ate his Wheaties this morning, didn’t he?” Leaning against the SUV, he looked taken aback. “Anyway, I’ll be brief. I’m selling the business.”

  “You’re what?”

  Glen smiled, once again in control, wearing his arrogance like a favorite suit. “You heard it right, big bro. I’m putting Simmons Construction up for sale. I’m in discussions with several interested buyers. I’m gonna make a killing on this deal.”

  “You . . . you can’t do that. You don’t have full ownership.”

  “You’re right, I don’t. We own it jointly, fifty-fifty—even though I sent you packing a few months ago.” Glen grinned at the memory of that coup. Paul still wondered what had been wrong with him when he’d allowed himself to be fired from a family business that he’d helped develop with their father. Well, no, he didn’t won
der what had been wrong with him; he understood very well what had happened and was loathe to admit it. Glen had bullied him, and he couldn’t handle the pressure. Plain and simple. Glen had strong-armed him right out the door, and he’d planned it so masterfully that not even Christine and their attorney had been able to get Paul back inside.

  “So I dropped by today,” Glen said, “to tell you to sign over your share of the company to me. Then I can wrap up the sale.”

  “You planned this all along,” Paul said. “Fire me, lean on me to give up my ownership, then sell the company. I bet you couldn’t wait until Pops died, could you? You selfish bastard.”

  “Who do you think you’re talking to?” Glen said. He hitched up his belt. “I’ll kick your ass all over this place, Paul. Don’t push me.”

  He glared at Paul. Paul returned the stony stare without blinking.

  God help me, I want to bust him in the mouth. I really, really do.

  He’d never hit Glen in his life. Glen, only a year younger, had always been taller, stronger, meaner. Avoiding scuffles with him had been a matter of survival.

  But there was a dangerous creature in his backyard, and that was a hell of a lot more frightening than his greedy, self-centered brother.

  Finally, Glen took a step backward.

  “I don’t have time to fool around with you,” Glen said. He flung an envelope at Paul’s feet. “Those are the terms of what you’ll get once the sales transaction is complete. Read it over, whatever. I expect to see you at my office tomorrow morning at nine o’clock sharp to complete the transfer of ownership. Understood?”

  Paul didn’t bother to pick up the document. “It’s time for you to leave, Glen.”

  Glen shook his head sadly. “Man, you need to get your shit together, get back into the city and be around folks. Living out here’s driving you outta your mind.” Glen opened the door of the SUV. “Tell Christine and the kids I said hello. Remember, tomorrow at nine sharp.”