by Ray Garton
He slammed the door. “Who drew on the door?" he growled, turning around. "Who the hell drew on the front -"
"I did." Robby stepped from the hall looking ill.
"You did? Well, what the hell is it?"
Robby looked over his shoulder, all around him, then gestured for George to follow him back to his bedroom. There, Robby told him everything.
* * * *
Karen was making a stew.
She'd been up for nearly an hour and she still did not feel awake. She wasn't sure if what she'd seen when she first woke – the empty hole where the bedroom window used to be, covered by fluttering curtains – had been real or the lingering echo of a dream she'd been having, and she hadn't gone back into the bedroom to check. She didn't care. She didn't care that her family hadn't had breakfast yet, or that she was missing another day of work and Jen and Robby were missing school. She could not even make herself care much that an entire family that used to live down the street was now dead. All she cared about at the moment was making a stew that would last for a while so she wouldn't have to worry about cooking. And… Lorelle.
Since she woke, Karen had been unable to think a thought that did not involve Lorelle… the touch of her hand… her tongue… the hot moist brush of her breath on Karen's skin…
What they had done in bed beside George last night was as vivid in her mind as if it had happened minutes ago.
She stabbed a long carrot into the top of the Cuisinart and watched as the spinning blades sliced it into thin orange coins, feeling an undercurrent of satisfaction as the carrot danced a blade-spinning jig and its pieces clattered against the transparent plastic.
The window over the sink looked out on the long rectangular back yard where trees swayed in an icy wind and steel-gray clouds swept across the sky.
Beneath the whir of the Cuisinart the telephone rang, but it was white noise to Karen, unimportant. On the third ring, George shouted, "Answer the goddamned phone, Karen!"
She switched off the Cuisinart and stared blinking at the telephone as if she'd never seen it before. The six steps across the kitchen felt like a long journey with bricks tied to her ankles and, when she lifted it, the receiver felt heavy as lead.
"Hello?"
"Karen." The voice was warm honey oozing into Karen's ear and she leaned heavily against the wall and closed her eyes.
"Hello, Lorelle."
"I hope I'm not calling at a bad time."
"No."
"I just noticed your car was home. Are you sick?"
"I'm feeling a little, you know, under the weather." She tried to keep her voice from trembling, but hearing Lorelle brought to life memories of last night when Lorelle woke her with a gentle kiss. The sensations and smells and tastes rushed back vividly as if she were experiencing them all again.
"Do you feel too bad to come over for a while?" Lorelle asked. "Just a little while. For a visit." There was a smile in her voice.
Karen suddenly felt self-conscious, clumsy. "Well, I'm ma-making some stew, but I could, you know, finish that later, or just finish it up ruh-really quick and cuh-come over, unless you want me to -"
"That would be fine. I'll be waiting." She replaced the receiver softly at her end.
Karen licked her dry lips and hung up the telephone, walked slowly back to the counter and quickly began feeding more vegetables into the spinning blades of the Cuisinart. She dumped the chopped vegetables into a pot, quickly chopped the meat she'd thawed in the microwave, slicing her thumb open in the process, then put it all on the stove.
It was three-forty.
Leaving her mess untouched and her bleeding thumb unbandaged, Karen got her coat from the hall closet and, trembling with anticipation, put it on over her baggy sweats and slipped on a pair of tennis shoes. As she passed the living room doorway, she saw Jen on the sofa, her knees curled up to her chest, hands tucked beneath her nightshirt, arms moving slightly. Karen started to tell Jen she was going across the street for a little while, but didn’t bother. The girl's eyes were closed anyway and she was oblivious even to the television.
Karen opened the front door and saw it. She frowned for a long moment, not sure what she was looking at, then realized it didn't matter what it was. Someone had defaced their front door, but it wasn’t important. She would clean it off when she got back. She wanted nothing to hold her up now. She stepped out onto the porch and started to pull the door shut when it was jerked from her hand.
“Where are you going?" Robby asked urgently. He stood in the doorway, eyes wide, leaning toward her as if he were about to tell her something horrible.
"Juh-just… I-I was just… " Think fast, Karen told herself. "I was just going across the street to get some seasonings from Lorelle. I'm making a stew."
George appeared behind him looking agitated, a little angry. "What now, Robby?" he grumbled.
"Don't go, Mom."
"Why?"
"Just don't go. You can get 'em at the store, can't you? You'll need more later anyway, won't you? Probably. I'll go with you."
Karen sighed, annoyed, and said, "I don't want to go to the store, Robby. That's why I'm getting some from her."
"Don't."
"What's wrong with you?"
George gripped Robby's shoulder and spun him around. "That's what I want to know. What's wrong with you, what are you on? Drugs? Have you been doing drugs?"
"No, Dad, really, I told you what's -"
"Okay, that's enough," George said in that tone he used when he was deciding how to discipline one of the kids. "Clean this shit off the door. Now. Then you and I are going to have a talk and this time you're going to listen."
"No, Dad, please don't -"
"You clean it off right now or there'll be hell to pay and you'll wish you'd -"
"No."
"What?" George's voice was soft, level. "What did you say?"
Robby looked and sounded near tears, his lips trembling as he whispered, "I won't clean it off."
Karen watched as George's face was overcome by a look of anger so powerful that it seemed to alter his features. He began shouting at Robby, using obscenities uncharacteristic of him, and Karen stepped toward them and snapped, "What is going on here?"
"Shut up!" George barked. "Just shut up and go get your fucking seasonings, okay, just go!" Then he turned to Robby again and continued shouting.
Karen imagined how they must look to the neighbors – the three of them shouting on their front porch on a damp cloudy day, George and Robby in their bathrobes, she in her sweats, all three of them looking deathly pale and exhausted; and for the first time that day she forgot about Lorelle and wanted to cry, wanted to scream.
"Stop it," she said tremulously, quietly at first, then louder. "Stop it." And louder still. "Please stop it!"
George stopped, glared at her, and started to speak, but someone from down the street spoke first.
"Take it inside, for crying out loud!" a voice called from across the street. "Somebody's trying to sleep!"
George looked down the street at the Weyland house. Paul Weyland's face was leaning close to the screen over the bedroom window.
"It's my fucking porch, Weyland," George roared, "and I'll yell on it if I want to! Keep your goddamned dog off my lawn and maybe I'll be quiet! How would you like it if I came over and shit in your yard"
The window slammed shut.
Karen began to feel nauseated and tears stung her eyes.
"George, please," she whispered, "Leave him alone and let's just go inside, okay? Let's go inside."
"What? You're not going over to Lorelle's?" George snapped. His mouth curled into a malignant grin. "According to Robby, here, you're going over there to fuck her. You want me to leave him alone? Fine. I will. I'll just let him go on thinking that you and I are fucking the neighbor. Okay? That’s okay with you?"
A clump of ice formed in Karen's gut, then shattered, its pieces tumbling through her veins.
They stood there for a small eternity
, their eyes darting back and forth between one another. Then George's eyes held on her and he grinned.
"Welllll," he said, dragging the word out into a long whispery drawl, his head bobbing up and down slowly. "Maybe Robby's not on drugs after all. Are you? Fucking her?"
Karen tried to gather her thoughts but they only tumbled around noisily in her mind, words heaping one on top of another in an orgy of confusion.
This happened? How? Did? How happened this how did it my god how happened this Jesus Christ how did this happen my god Jesus Christ HOW DID THIS HAPPEN?
Her tears spilled and her throat felt thick, as if something were oozing up from her stomach. She knew that nothing she could say would make any difference. She saw in George's eyes an anger that had reached such a height even words meant to comfort him would only serve to feed his fury. She had seen that look before – only a couple of times, because George seldom got angry – but never like this, never so fiery and dangerous.
Karen turned and walked back into the house, her vision a kaleidoscope of tear-blurred colors, picking up her pace when she heard George's heavy footsteps following her.
"So is it true?" he snapped, and she could hear a cold smile in his voice.
Karen could not respond. She headed for the bathroom.
"Answer me."
As she opened the bathroom door, he clutched her elbow and spun her around. She stiffened and stared at the floor.
"What the hell's going on here?" he hissed through clenched teeth. "Robby's spouting some crap about demons and Jen's acting like-like-like I don't know what and now you're giving me this-this – what is this anyway, are you – is there something… going on… be… tween… "
She lifted her eyes to his and saw in his face – slack-jawed and drunk-looking – that he knew.
"Son of a bitch," he breathed, then laughed coldly, hatefully. "So… how did Robby know, do you think? Huh? Maybe -" Another laugh, louder this time. " – maybe he's fucking her, too." His laughter grew louder still and more rapid-fire, like a machine gun. A strip of sweat glowed on his upper lip and a bead of it rolled slowly down his cheek. "Wouldn't that be a hoot? Huh? Wouldn't it?" He leaned back against the wall and shook his head vigorously and his laughter faded to quiet hiccups, then he sucked in a deep breath and released another booming round of laughs trying to speak at the same time. "I-I-I ha-haven't… slept well… need some sluh-sleep I g-guess.”
Karen backed into the bathroom a step, frightened. George's sickly pale face was turning a rosy red and his cheeks seemed to swell as he kept laughing… laughing and laughing… until he leaned forward and put his face in his hands and was silent. His shoulders jerked slightly, but the loud belly laughs were gone. His fingers curled, their tips pressing into his face.
Frowning, Karen wiped her teary eyes with a knuckle and stepped toward him. She pressed a fist into her abdomen where she was feeling a heavy churning sickness – a combination of dread and guilt and pity – and reached her other hand out, slowly placing it on his shoulder.
"Don't," George mumbled into his palms, then straightened and lowered his hands. His face was deep red and puffy and the laughter was gone. "Don't… duh-don't -" His fist moved like a striking snake, slicing the air between them and hitting the wall with a thunderous whump, rattling a collage frame on the wall and sending it crashing to the floor. " – touch me!"
George moved toward her suddenly, his bottom lip curling down past his lower gum and his shoulders hunched like a melodrama villain. Karen fell backwards into the bathroom with a sharp cry and slammed the door, fumbling with the lock until it clicked.
George pounded on the door with both fists and screamed, "You open this fucking door and open it right now, you hear me? Do you hear me, you fucking dyke?"
He stopped for just a moment to listen for a response, then began to slam himself against the door as -
* * * *
Robby rushed back into the house.
He'd been standing on the porch, enjoying the cold and the quiet, staring at the three angels' names. Then he'd heard his dad shouting, followed by the pounding, and he'd hurried inside.
The noise had stopped by the time Robby reached the hall, which was empty. From the other end, he heard his dad's voice:
"Kitty-kitty… heeere kitty-kitty-kitty… c'mon, puss-puss-puss, kitty-kitty."
From the bathroom: "George don't you dare hurt that cat!"
"Come out and stop me." He came out of the master bedroom and went into the guest room. "Heeere kitty-kitty-kitty… "
“Mom?" Robby said quietly outside the bathroom.
"Robby? Robby, please, do me a favor. Take your sister and… and just go out for a while, okay? Will you do that for me?"
"No, Mom."
"Puss-puss-puss? Kitty-kitty-kitty?”
"Go to a movie, okay? There's money in the ceramic elephant in the kitchen. You can take the car."
“No, mom, I'm not leaving while he's like this."
"Oh, h-he-he's just up-upset." Her voice sounded thick with tears. "He'll be fine after while."
"C'mon, Monroe… where are ya, fella… kitty-kitty-kitty… "
"He's not just upset and he won't be fine." Robby hissed. "Nobody's gonna be fine. Mom, this is happening to everyone on Deerfield, I think. I think this is probably what happened to the Garry's."
“Robby," she gasped at him for suggesting such a thing. "Your father is just a little -"
"It's her, Mother, and you know it."
"I… Robby, you're… I don't know what you're talking about."
"Come out and talk to me. Please."
"No."
"Because you're afraid of him. See? It's her, Mother, she's sucking the life out of all of us, sucking out everything that's good and -"
A piercing snarl sounded from the guest room.
"Gotcha!" George shouted with a laugh.
"Leave him alone!" Karen shouted from the bathroom.
George stepped out of the guest room carrying Monroe by the nape of the neck. The tip of his tongue poked from the corner of his broad grin.
“Dad?" Robby said.
He pushed Robby aside as he walked by briskly.
"Damn you, George!" The lock rattled, the door opened and she stepped into the hall. "Leave that cat alone!"
His laugh faded as he rounded the corner toward the kitchen.
She followed him.
Jen's door opened and she peeked out cautiously. "What's -"
"Just stay in there for a while, okay?" Robby said, then followed his parents. He was halfway to the kitchen when he heard the Cuisinart come on.
Karen screamed.
Robby stumbled to a halt in the kitchen as George backhanded Karen in the face, slamming her against the refrigerator. She slid to the floor as George removed the plastic top of the Cuisinart and held the squirming cat over the opening.
"Dad, stop it!" Robby shouted as he dove forward, wrapped his arms around George's waist and tried to pull him away from the counter.
George swung his elbow back hard and caught Robby's chin. Robby hit the floor hard and slid backward over the tile. His teeth had closed on the inside of his lip and he could already taste blood.
George pushed the cat's behind into the transparent plastic casing. Monroe was too fat, though, and stopped within an inch of the spinning blades.
Karen screamed incoherently, reaching out to George imploringly.
"You don't need it anymore!" George roared. "You've found another pussy!"
Robby got to his feet as Jen came in still wearing her crop-top and panties. She screamed shrilly, relentlessly.
Robby went for his dad's shoulders, screaming in his ear, "Dad, will you stop and look at what you're doing, think about what you're -"
George shook Robby off, turned and backhanded him with a fist. His knuckles hit Robby just below his left eye and returned him to the kitchen floor.
Turning his back on the others, George used both hands to push on the cat. The animal fou
ght and clawed and spat and released a long, piercing yowl.
Karen and Jen continued to scream.
None of them heard the front door open, but they all heard the booming voice.
"George Pritchard!"
The screaming stopped.
All four heads turned to see Pastor Quillerman standing in the kitchen doorway.
None of them moved.
Pastor Quillerman crossed the kitchen and jerked the Cuisinart’s plug out of the wall, glaring at George.
"I think," he said, his voice a low rumble, "that we should talk."
Chapter 18
Into Temptation
For a while that morning, bars of sunlight had managed to pierce the blanket of clouds overhead. It had even looked, briefly, like the clouds were going to break up and give way to blue sky. But it wasn't long before the sunlight was swallowed up and the sky was once again a low ceiling of grimy steel.
The street was thick with reporters from all the local television stations and some from Sacramento and San Francisco, even a couple of networks – CNN and MSNBC.
Although it was the reason they had all come to the neighborhood, there was very little activity at the Garry house. A police officer had arrived earlier that morning with a man and woman – presumably relatives, because they looked grief-stricken, but they wouldn't speak to any of the reporters – and had taken them through the house. Then they'd gone, leaving the house dark and empty once again.
But the Pritchard house had captured their interest. They all knew it was the home of Robby Pritchard, who had discovered the carnage down the street, and who had been the killer's best friend. But there was more.
There was all the angry shouting that had been taking place there, and that gaping hole in the side of the Pritchard house that had seemed to be as much a mystery to Mr. Pritchard that morning as it was to all of them. And those three strange words written in the circle on the front door. What language was that? Or were they names, perhaps? And what significance did they have on the front door? Who was that man who'd limped into the house without knocking earlier? And what about all the screaming they'd heard in there just a little while ago? Was there some connection between the Garry killings and the Pritchard family? Were the killings cult-related, perhaps? Were the boys involved in devil worship?
