The Devouring

by Simon Holt

  Tonight, in the multicolored gloom of the tree’s lights, Reggie thought again of her mother. She pictured her decorating someone else’s tree. She wondered if she was happy, or if she missed her family. She wondered if she was dead. Dead like Mrs. Bos-well. Dead and gone.

  The old woman’s cold cup of tea still sat on the coffee table. Reggie stared at it for a long time, then picked it up, tossed the tea in the sink, and put the mug in the dishwasher. She went upstairs to her bedroom.

  Reggie couldn’t sleep. Whenever she closed her eyes, the image of the dead woman’s face rose from the dark. Her mind raced. Why was Henry acting so strangely? And what had he really been doing walking around by himself? She had tried to bring it up again on their walk home, but Henry had just kicked a stick down the sidewalk, refusing to say a word. Reggie had marched along, as angry as she was relieved, and thanking God that Quinn had bumped into her little brother.

  She smiled in the dark. Quinn.

  There was a person she’d never expected would enter her realm of existence. Nothing made Reggie Halloway’s palms sweat, not even her first viewing of Psycho — but Quinn did. Was he really interested in her? He wasn’t the bigheaded jock she’d expected. He was smart, sweet, and a horror freak to boot. What parallel universe had she entered?

  Reggie twisted again in her bed, smacked her fist into the pillow, and tried to find a comfortable spot for her spinning head.

  Henry.

  He was mixed up, deeply troubled, doing battle with his own demons — and she didn’t know how to help him. Horror wasn’t something terrible she witnessed on a movie screen or read in a book anymore. It was real. It surrounded her, and nobody would face it until it was too late.

  Dad still acted like Mom was on some long business trip. Like she’d come through the front door any day now, tan, tired, but happy to be home, arms full of lame T-shirts and gift shop snow globes, eyes full of love for him, for her, and for Henry…

  Without realizing it, Reggie had pushed away her covers and sat up in bed, her knees pulled to her chest. She heard some-thing … music…

  “You better watch out, you better not cry…”

  Reggie looked at the clock. The red digital numbers glowed 12:41. Either some carolers were pulling an all-nighter or Dad was still awake with his scotch and playing the goofy Christmas album Mom loved.

  “You better not pout, I’m telling you why…”

  Reggie got out of bed, shivering as the cold air hugged her body. She grabbed her robe and went out into the hall.

  “Santa Claus is coming to town.”

  The wooden steps felt like marble beneath her bare feet. It was colder downstairs.

  “He’s making a list, he’s checking it twice…”

  The voices were coming from the front yard.

  “He’s gonna find out who’s naughty or nice…”

  Reggie pulled her robe snug and walked into the living room. It was dark except for the tree’s blinking lights. Dad was standing at the square picture window, holding Henry in his arms.

  “Dad, what’s going on?”

  Reggie came up beside them. Outside, five children sang, their caroling books obscuring their faces. White breath wafted from behind the books and snaked into the darkness. A light snow was falling, sticking to their coats and hats and scarves, sparkling in the glow of the porch lamp like magic dust. Henry yawned.

  “Santa Claus is coming to town.”

  Reggie shivered and moved closer to her father.

  “It’s almost one o’clock in the morning,” she said. “What are they doing here?”

  “We see you when you’re sleeping…”

  Reggie reached for her father’s hand.

  “We know when you’re awake…”

  “Daddy,” said Henry, “I don’t like them.”

  “I knew they’d come.” Dad bowed his head. “I’m so sorry, Regina.”

  The children’s voices turned raspy.

  “We know if you’ve been bad or good…”

  The carolers lowered their books.

  They were children, but not human — red and green veins crisscrossed their ashen skin, and their sunken eyes peered out, red as blood. Henry buried his head in his father’s chest.

  The smallest of them stepped forward and smiled; its fangs flashed like polished daggers.

  “We’re with you,” it hissed. “We’ll always be with you.”

  “Daddy!” Reggie wailed.

  With an ungodly screech, the demons crashed through the window, taloned hands outstretched, and knocked Reggie into the Christmas tree. The tree toppled, ornaments bursting into a thousand gleaming pieces. The shards ripped into her flesh, and blood poured from dozens of tiny wounds in her arms, neck, and cheeks. All around her, the brightly wrapped presents split open like living organs, spilling out fetid, rusty-red ooze.

  Dad didn’t fight the demons as they ripped Henry from his arms; he simply dropped to his knees and hung his head.

  “Don’t let them get me!” Henry screamed. “Reggie, help!”

  Reggie stumbled to her knees.

  “Daddy!” she cried. “Help him! Save him!”

  Blood dripped down her forehead as she lurched for Henry, but the wiry branches of the Christmas tree wrapped around her wrists and ankles like chains and yanked her backward.

  The creatures turned on her. Saliva dripped from their fangs as they approached. Fear, like death’s icy grip, froze her in place. One of the demons smiled and brushed her bloody cheek with a long, grotesque finger.

  “You’re weak, scared. You’re a cripple,” it hissed. “You’re all cripples.”

  The spot where the demon’s finger had touched Reggie’s face ached with a sharp and wicked cold. She felt the blood congeal on her skin. Flesh cracked like thin ice. She looked down in horror as puzzle-sized pieces of her fell to the floor and splintered. In moments her face was no more than a white skull.

  “Reggie!” Henry cried.

  Amid his screams, Reggie heard faint music — a calliope tune that sounded familiar. The demon children chanted as they dragged Henry out of the broken picture window.

  Once he’s gone, there’s no way back.

  Once he’s in, there’s no way out.

  Left to linger in the black,

  Lost to endless fear and doubt…

  Henry’s fading cry mingled with the horrible chorus.

  “No way out … no way out … no way out…”

  Reggie shot up in bed. The terror swelled in her windpipe. The air couldn’t get past it to her lungs.

  Gradually, her ragged gasps slowed. She leaped out of bed — she had to make sure that Henry was okay.

  Reggie tiptoed across the hall and peeked into Henry’s room. General Squeak screeched at the sudden intrusion and scampered around in the dark.

  “Henry?” Reggie called. “Henry, wake up!”

  She flicked on the light. The quilt was askew, the hapless, mauled Kappy lay sprawled on the floor, but Henry was gone. She ransacked the sheets of the empty bed and swung open the closet door. Nothing. She ran down the hall to the bathroom, turned the light on, and pulled back the shower curtain. Nothing. The guest room. Nothing. Back toward Dad’s room.

  Where was he? Was she still dreaming? Had he been scared by the dark, and gone to sleep by Dad?

  She peeked into the master bedroom. Her father snored low and deep. She tiptoed to the far side of the king-size bed and patted the comforter, but Dad was sleeping alone.

  Reggie sprinted back into the hall and down the stairs. The smell of smoke poked at her nose.

  She paused, and, hearing the crackling of burning wood in the fireplace, headed toward the den. The room was dark but for the amber glow of the fire, which cast Henry’s shadow, long and distorted, on the wall. He knelt in front of the fireplace, a checkered afghan draped across his back. Reggie stepped down the two stone stairs into the room. Henry spoke without turning around.

  “Needed to warm up, Sis. That’s all.�
� His voice was icy calm as he prodded the embers with a poker. “Dad never fixed the cracks in my window. The cold still gets in.”

  Reggie inched forward. Though he spoke softly, his voice sounded … older.

  “You’re not supposed to be doing that, Henry. You know what Dad says about messing around with fire.”

  “Dad doesn’t care. I could burn the whole house down and he wouldn’t even get out of bed.”

  “Come on.” Reggie squatted beside her brother, tilting her head to view him in profile. Shadows from the fire played on his skin. “You don’t mean that. Dad loves us. He loves you. He’s here for us a hundred percent.”

  “Dad’s old and lost and afraid. You can smell the fear on him. Like rotting fruit.”

  “Why did you leave the house today, Henry? Were you afraid? It’s okay. Tell me the truth.”

  Henry’s arctic blue eyes sparkled.

  “No, I wasn’t afraid of anything.”

  Reggie clutched his arm. Its coldness shocked her.

  “Henry, I want to help you. Talk to me.”

  “I don’t need help. I’m fine,” he said simply. He stretched a hand to the fire and waved his fingers above the bright, wagging tongues, smiling like a child with new friends. He stretched his arm farther, his hand lower, stroking the flames.

  “Henry! No!”

  Reggie lunged at him, and they went tumbling away from the fire. Henry dropped the poker and it clanged onto the floor; the tip landed on the oval carpet and the wool smoldered. Reggie looked down at him.

  “Are you nuts?”

  Henry stared at the blaze. The flames flickered in his eyes.

  “I just wanted to see how hot it was.”

  Henry looked at his hand. It was red, and the tips of his fingers had already blistered. He examined it like a new toy.

  “It feels … funny.”

  “Henry, we’ve got to run that under cold water. I don’t know what is going on in your head lately, but you know what fire —”

  Their father stormed into the den.

  “What the hell is going on?”

  He stamped out the rug with his bare foot, leaving a blackened circle the size of a quarter, then picked up the poker and slammed it back into its stand. He grabbed Reggie by the collar, lifted her off Henry, and dropped her on the other side of the hearth.

  “Who lit this damned fire?” he hollered.

  “Henry did,” said Reggie. “I was just trying to stop him from burning himself.”

  “Me?” cried Henry. “I didn’t do it! I don’t even know how to make a fire! The smoke smell woke me up. She said I’d be sorry if I told on her, and she pushed me at the fire.” He thrust his hand up at Dad. “See?”

  “He’s — he’s lying!” Reggie stuttered, stunned. “He started it! I came downstairs because he wasn’t in bed! I was worried about him!”

  Dad’s lips curdled. “Worried? You were beating up on him!”

  “No, I wasn’t! I was trying to stop him from hurting himself!”

  “Regina!” Dad bellowed. “There will be no lying in this house. Are we clear?”

  He was boiling. But he wasn’t the only one.

  “You are so wrong about this, Dad!”

  Dad suddenly swatted the fire screen with his arm and knocked it over. “I thought I could depend on you, Regina. I thought this family mattered —”

  Dad was looking at his daughter but he was seeing someone else.

  “Don’t you dare,” she seethed. “I’m not her.”

  Dad’s anger deflated before Reggie’s eyes. He looked at the floor, because he couldn’t bear to look at his daughter.

  Henry squeezed Dad’s leg.

  “We know you love us, Dad. You’re here for us a hundred percent.” Henry peered out at Reggie. A grin flitted across his face. She fumed, but she knew she’d lost.

  “Can I go to my room now?” she said.

  Dad nodded. Reggie glared at Henry and marched out. She heard Dad behind her.

  “And as for you, little man, let’s fix up that hand and get you in bed. I’ll bring you an extra blanket. You’re freezing.”

  7

  Dad left for work before dawn Christmas Eve morning. He had a new development contract for a subdivision of low-income housing in the poor, ghostly town of Wennemack, a half-hour’s drive from Cutter’s Wedge. The ground was frozen solid and no foundation work would begin until the end of March, but her father was a meticulous planner who would take a small crew to new sites months in advance and map out every step a dozen times before spring arrived. He’d promised his crew an early finish so they could go home for Christmas Eve dinner with their families. Reggie wondered if he felt the same obligation to his own family.

  From bed Reggie smelled the burnt coffee wafting up the stairs. Her dad drank mud-like coffee, black, thick, and sugarless, a bitter but familiar aroma that evoked the comfort of predictable routine. That felt like a lifetime ago to Reggie now.

  Dad had confined her to the house for the day, and even though he was gone until tonight, she was pretty much under house arrest. He’d call home every hour or so, making sure she picked up. She’d violated the rules once before and it cost her an entire month of cell phone, friends, and freedom. Even if she snuck out for an hour and made it back before the next check-in, Henry would snitch for sure.

  Henry. He’d turned on her last night.

  They’d fought countless times before; argued, yelled, wrestled, argued, slapped, smacked. Henry had tattled, baited, blamed, annoyed, meddled, and eavesdropped on her like any little brother. But he’d never lied. Not until last night.

  Reggie pulled on a pair of maroon cords and her favorite gray hoodie as she thought through a plan of attack. With Dad gone for the day and just her and Henry in the house, maybe she could get through to him. She’d make Henry’s favorite breakfast, chocolate-chip waffles, and then they could get down to it and really talk. Tomorrow was their first Christmas without Mom, and Reggie knew that was at the core of all this. How couldn’t it be?

  Reggie headed for the bathroom to pee and wash her face, but stopped in the hallway. It was still and cold. Something felt different.

  She walked toward Henry’s room. The door was open, and she realized why the silence bothered her; there was no incessant scritching of tiny claws on glass, no high-pitched twittering or rusty cheeps from that obnoxious spinning wheel. Dawn to late morning was General Squeak’s most active time, when he would run and skitter and scratch about until he curled up and fell asleep around noon. But not this morning.

  Reggie pushed the door open and peeked in. Henry was still asleep, his brown curls spread across his pillow. He had a heavy wool blanket over his thick down comforter, even though Dad had cranked up the heat that morning. Henry had to be sweltering, but his covers rose and fell in perfect calm.

  The floor of the hamster cage was littered with pine shavings and gnawed corncobs. Clear plastic tubes of various colors and widths sprawled into terrarium compartments that each housed some silly piece of rodent furniture: a truck, a lounge chair, and a play tunnel.

  Reggie tiptoed to the cage and looked for General Squeak, but the hamster was nowhere to be found. The wheel on the bottom level was on its side, and the small water dish was knocked over. The door latch was unlocked.

  Henry occasionally left the cage open by mistake, and his inquisitive pet had escaped a few times before. Its favorite destination was the bathroom at the end of the hall, and once there it took whatever delight hamsters take in chewing on empty toilet paper rolls, snotty tissues, and used dental floss. The last time Reggie found the fugitive hamster, it had squirmed into the bathroom cabinet and gnawed through a box of her tampons.

  She crept back out of Henry’s room and headed for the bathroom, half expecting to find it up on the sink, where it would have left a lovely pile of hamster turds on Dad’s shaving kit.

  No such bad luck; the bathroom was vacant. But the toilet gurgled and choked at her.

  “
Damn it, I thought Dad was going to fix this,” Reggie muttered. She jiggled the handle and flushed. The water level swelled. Up and up it swirled, threatening to rise above the porcelain rim.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.” She grabbed the plunger and shoved it in. “Merry Christmas Eve, Reggie!”

  The drain opened and sucked in a huge glop of water. The toilet chugged a couple of times but then stopped, the returning water unable to rise more than a few inches above the hole. Reggie cursed silently as the shallow water rippled. Then a small, leathery strip slid into view beneath the water’s surface. At first Reggie mistook it for a clump of hair. She looked closer and slapped her hand over her mouth.

  A tail.

  Reggie found rubber gloves under the sink and snapped them on. Now she could see that a hind leg had emerged from the hole.

  “Oh, no…”

  She plunged her hand in and grabbed the hamster’s slimy leg. Reggie felt the tiniest crack of bone within the already mangled limb. She pulled. Ribs poked through the skin like broken toothpicks.

  The hamster was practically shapeless, little more than a drenched pile of hair and flesh. Reggie stood and stroked the hamster’s fur.

  For two years she had watched Henry nurture the annoying ball of squeaks and peeps, had watched it roll across the living room floor in its stupid plastic ball, had come to see the dumb thing whenever it climbed inside a plastic television Henry had bought with his birthday money.

  “Look, Reggie!” Henry would giggle. “It’s the General Squeak Show!”

  How do I tell him? Reggie asked herself.

  The ringing phone made her start, and General Squeak’s broken body slipped from her hand and dropped to the floor with a splat. She heard Henry scamper into her father’s bedroom, where he answered the phone. Reggie picked up the crushed hamster, pumped two foamy dollops of scented soap onto the rodent’s body, and ran it under the faucet.