by James Hunt
***
It’d been almost two months since they’d made love, the longest drought in their marriage. They hadn’t even gone that long after Matt and Chloe were born. But with the financial pressures and the stress and exhaustion that came with it, neither of them found themselves in the mood.
The ceiling fan twirled, shaking lightly in a rhythmic cadence. Owen lay naked and exposed, tiny beads of sweat over his body, while Claire had pulled one sheet up and over herself. She lay curled up in a ball. They’d spooned for a little bit after, but it became too hot to be sustainable. Owen wasn’t sure he’d be able to fall asleep in the heat, but with six months of sleepless nights behind him, fatigue won out over sweating.
And as the Cooley family slept, light creaks echoed in the house. Any rational person would have said it was just the old bones sagging from the weight of standing up for the past two hundred years.
But there was something else in the house. Something ancient. It was dark. It was evil. And it was hungry.
“AHHHHHHH!”
Owen jolted upright in bed, his tired eyes flitting around the room while his heart hammered against his chest. Claire woke in the same fright and Owen stumbled from bed, reaching for his shorts as he sprinted from the room. The screams came from upstairs. It was Matt.
Owen’s feet slipped on the steps up to the second floor, and he tripped over his own feet twice, giving Claire time to catch up. He ducked into Chloe’s room first on the way and saw his daughter sitting upright in bed with the covers pulled up to her chin, her sleepy eyes wide in the dark. “Are you all right?” He didn’t wait for an answer as his feet thumped heavily against the floorboards toward Matt’s room.
Without breaking stride, Owen shouldered open Matt’s door and saw his son flailing on the bed, arms and legs bouncing off the mattress, his throat raw from screaming.
“Matt!” Owen rushed to his son’s bedside and took hold of his shoulders, trying to keep him still. The boy’s eyes were shut, and when Owen wrapped his hand around Matt’s arms, he felt something slick against his fingers. He examined his palm, but it was too dark to see.
The bedroom light flicked on and Owen spun around to see Claire standing in the doorway in her robe, Chloe in her arms and their daughter’s face buried in her shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know.” Owen turned back to Matt, who’d calmed down and opened his eyes, the flailing done as he sucked in deep breaths. Owen pressed his hand onto Matt’s forehead, and his son’s skin was ice cold. He brushed the sweaty bangs off and as he did, he smeared blood onto his son’s skin. Owen looked down to Matt’s arm and saw the bite marks. “What the hell?”
Matt continued his hyperventilating breaths as Owen gently took hold of his son’s arm. Three sets of bite marks, two on his forearm and one on his bicep.
“What is that?” Claire asked, now hovering closer. “Is he bleeding?”
Owen turned around. “Put Chloe back to bed.” He didn’t want his daughter to see this. He turned back to his son. “Matt, what happened?”
“Someone—” Matt drew in a breath. “Was in here—” He exhaled. “I felt it.”
Owen’s stomach twisted into knots. He stood, looking around the room. He ripped open the closet to find it empty. He looked under the bed, nothing. He tugged at the window, locked. He turned back to his son, who was now examining his own wounds, his eyes as round as the full moon outside. Owen lifted his son’s chin and felt that his skin had thawed a little. “You’re sure someone was in here?”
Matt nodded, then started to cry, and Owen kissed the top of his head and gently squeezed his neck. “It’s all right. It’s okay, son.” He glanced back down at the bite marks, and as the adrenaline of the moment subsided, his mind slowly shifted gears. The commotion had woken everyone in the house. But not everyone was accounted for.
Owen left the bedroom, heading back down the balcony toward the stairs. “Roger!” His wife looked at him from Chloe’s bedroom on his way past, but he didn’t stop. “Roger!” Once he reached the bottom of the staircase, he walked back toward the den that they’d set up as Roger’s room in the right back corner of the house. When he opened the door, he found it empty.
Claire stepped out of Chloe’s room on the second floor and walked to the banister as Owen passed through the dining room to the front of the house. “Where are you going?”
“Stay with the kids.” The answer came out steelier than intended, but there was a rage boiling in him. The doctors had told them that the disease could cause Roger to become violent, to have what they referred to as “episodes,” but they didn’t mention anything like this.
Owen flung open the front door and was blasted with the thick, humid night air. He swatted away the tiny gnats buzzing around his head, tickling his cheek and neck. The U-Haul truck and van were still parked outside, and he scanned the driveway, looking for any shadowed figures in the night. “Roger!”
His voice echoed over the property, and Owen stepped out onto the gravel drive, tiny rocks poking his bare feet as he made his way to the side of the house, his head on a swivel.
He looked past the tall reeds of the clearing and saw those thick cypress trees and the hanging strands of Spanish moss on the field’s edge. It was there that he saw his father-in-law. “Roger!”
Owen jogged toward the old man, then broke into a sprint, his shins brushing against the long, thin strands of grass and reeds. His bare feet squished in the mud and the farther he ran from the house, the wetter the ground became. Water splashed up onto his shorts and bare stomach, and it slowed his pace. When he reached the old man he yanked Roger’s arm backward, harder than he intended.
“What the hell are you doing?” Owen asked.
Roger looked at Owen then down to his arm and tried to pull himself free. “Let me go.” He used his free arm to try and pry Owen’s grip off him, and he tugged more violently. “Stop! Let me go!”
“Roger, calm down.” Owen eventually muscled the old man still and looked into the pair of eyes that no longer recognized him. “What are you doing out here?”
Owen felt Roger’s muscles relax, and the panic subsided as he blinked. “I-I saw something.” He frowned, looking away. “I think.” He shut his eyes, and Owen released him. The old man held his head between his hands. “I can’t—” He grunted in frustration. “I can’t remember.”
“Were you in Matt’s room?” Owen asked, but his father-in-law kept his hands pressed against the sides of his head, mumbling to himself. “Roger!”
The old man looked up at Owen, squinting. “Who?”
Owen took hold of Roger’s hand, gentler than the forceful stop from earlier, and pulled him back toward the house. “C’mon. Let’s get you inside.”
Roger hesitated a moment, unsure if he should follow, and then turned back to look in the direction he had been walking. “I saw... something.”
Owen gave a more forceful tug, and Roger mumbled to himself on the way back. A memory surfaced in the sea of muddled confusion that was his mind. It was about his late wife, Rebecca, and how they were supposed to go and pick someone up from the airport. He didn’t want to be late, and he kept telling Rebecca that she looked fine.
Owen escorted Roger back to his room and into bed. The old man lay down, but he didn’t sleep, just kept talking to himself. Just before Owen left, Roger called out. “Matt. Is he okay?” His voice was weak and frightened.
Unsure of which Roger he was speaking to, the old man’s words from earlier that day whispered in Owen’s ear. Don’t let them see me when it starts to get bad.
“Good night, Roger.” Owen returned to the dining room, then trudged back up the stairs to the second floor.
Claire was in Chloe’s doorway, frowning. “Is he okay?”
Owen kept silent until his hands were around her waist, the feel of her soft robe underneath his fingertips calming. He wanted to tell her, but didn’t. “How’s Chloe?”
Claire pulled away
from him and crossed her arms. It wasn’t the answer she was looking for. “She’s fine. Already fast asleep again.”
“Good.” Owen walked back toward Matt’s room and Claire followed closely behind.
“Owen, what did my dad say?”
“We need to get Matt’s arms looked at,” Owen said, entering his son’s room, who was still wide awake and picking at the wounds on his skin. “Don’t touch that.” Owen shooed his son’s fingers from the bite marks and looked at his wife. “Did you unpack the emergency kit?”
Claire lingered, waiting for the question about her father to be answered, but when Owen didn’t budge, she dropped her arms at her sides. “Yeah, I’ll bring it up.” She left and Owen took a closer look at the bite marks.
They weren’t deep, just enough pressure to break the skin. The bleeding had stopped, but when Owen pressed close to the wounds, Matt winced. “It hurts?”
“Yeah,” Matt answered, his eyes locked on the marks. “It feels achy.”
Owen wanted to ask his son more about what he saw, but wasn’t sure if he would get the truth. Matt knew his grandpa was sick, so he might try and protect him.
“You don’t know who was in your room?” Owen asked.
“No.”
“Matt.” He waited for his son to look him in the eyes and then took hold of his boy’s hand. “It’s important you tell me everything that happened.” Matt gulped, and Owen paused a moment before he spoke again. “Do you know who was in your room?”
“I was sleeping, and then my arm started hurting, then I felt cold. Really cold. Like that time I fell through the lake when I was skating.”
Owen remembered. He was just as scared then as he was right now. “Anything else?”
“No.” Matt’s face scrunched in preparation for tears. “I’m sorry, Dad.”
Owen wrapped his son in a hug, holding on tight. “There’s nothing to be sorry about.” Matt cried into his chest, and Claire returned with the medical box. They cleaned Matt’s wounds, wrapped them, and then tucked him back into bed.
Both stayed in his room until he fell back asleep, and on his way out, Owen took one last look at his boy before closing the door.
In the hallway, Claire crossed her arms in defiance and kept her voice at a whisper. “Well? What did my dad say?”
“He didn’t remember,” Owen answered.
Claire paused, biting her lower lip and rubbing the sleeves of her robe as she hugged herself. “Do you think he did it?”
Owen drew in a breath, trying to find a way to tell her, but his omission of an answer told her more than she wanted to know.
Claire’s eyes watered, and she shook her head. “I just didn’t think he’d ever do something like that. I know the doctors said he might become aggressive, but this?” She arched her eyebrows in an expression of pained disbelief.
“Look, until we can figure something out, I don’t want him alone with the kids. I’ll start looking at places to take care of him tomorrow. Chuck might know of something.”
Claire hugged herself tighter, now unable to control the sobbing. “I just thought we’d have more time.”
Owen wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. “I know.” But if the past months had taught him anything, it was that time cared nothing of feelings or circumstances. Time didn’t discriminate or have prejudice, it simply marched forward, ignoring the pleas of anyone asking for it to slow down or speed up. It was a constant, steady force that never wavered. And for Roger Templeton, time was slowly devouring his mind.
