Down the Psycho Path

by Dan Dillard

  “Beautiful,” she said.

  He couldn’t move. So many pains, pinching, burning, some of them grinding. His mind wanted to wander, but the pain kept him present, kept him from forming a plan of escape, attack, anything. He wanted to lie back down, but the pain was becoming sharper, more encompassing. He wanted to sit forward, but the pain was there as well. As his eyes finally cleared, he saw his legs were bleeding, covered in something he couldn’t comprehend. Pa-chunk, he thought. Dear God.

   He saw cardboard boxes, a stack of them next to where she was seated. Several were open, empty, discarded. In heavy print, gold and white and burgundy, they each read: Arrow 250, ½” Heavy Duty Staples. There were four empty that he could see. Four more in the stack. Dina set the staple gun down and stood up. She closed the closet door behind her. A full length mirror hung on the door, and in it, he saw himself. He glittered, silver bars and red trickles.

  “See? Beautiful,” she said.

  He could only guess by her voice and her small grin that her pulse was steady and slow as a marathon runner at rest. From his navel up to his shoulders, he was covered in the tiny fasteners. They moved across his thighs to his left knee, where she had stopped.

  “You said you’d call,” she said just before he passed out.

  THE PASSING OF GRADY STARNES

  The trees, saplings mostly, mixed with some wiry brush, hugged the path where he walked, but he dared not step inside. Anything that had ventured to grow in the path had been trudged under wheel or muddy boot these last fifty-odd years. That day, Grady trudged with renewed contempt for the world. He pushed his wheelbarrow and bitched like an old pro.

  The path led from his home, a moldy, rundown shack that sat so far off the two-lane, you could only see it when winter had crushed all the foliage in her shiny, blue grip, to a circular plot of land that Grady had cleared for one purpose, and only one purpose. He was trudging along toward that purpose that day.

  “Goddamnit. Goddamnit all to hell,” he said.

  That day, it was hot. It was muggy, and it smelled of stinking clay and mildewed leaves and diesel from the highway. The wheel of the cart squeaked once every revolution, and groaned when he would hit a bump. Even the wind was ruthless, taking the day off. The silence left when the leaves weren’t rattling was cruel.

  “Can’t you just leave a man alone? Goddamnit to hell.”

  He stopped and let the heavy cart rest, wringing his hardened hands on an old black, Harley-Davidson bandana that was hanging from his back pocket. Grady looked up through the crowding trees at the peeks and pokes of blue sky. With a wipe of his forehead, he gripped the wooden handles of the cart and lifted it again, his old knees screaming for a moment, then calming down. The shovel slid inside the cart, leaning against something dead, something that had begun to decay, something terrible. In the distance, the sounds of conversation were heard.

  The voices became loud and angry, and their volume was growing. It took ten more steps before Grady heard them. He stopped the cart again, only fifty yards short of his destination. There were eight, maybe ten, maybe more voices in the distance and before long he heard the sounds of trudging feet and snapping twigs to match them. Grady took a quick look down the path, toward the end—almost in sight—then back toward the sound of the mob. He eyeballed the old shovel and his heart began to race.

  Picking up the handles of the wheelbarrow, he started to walk, then trot, pushing with all his strength. Sweat poured from his brow and stained the armpits and chest of his old grey t-shirt. His boots clomped and stamped in the hardened clay, cracked in the heat like an alien landscape.

  “It wasn’t me!” he shouted. “It ain’t never been me!”

  He kept running, ten yards…eight…five…

  “That’s my little girl,” a man screamed.

  The first blow came across Grady’s neck as his left boot entered the clearing. He fell, knocking the cart to the side and spilling the shovel and the body of a little girl, maybe ten years old. She was dirty, covered in the dark soil you’d find in a well kept garden. Her yellow sundress flipped up to show a tiny pair of panties, stained with blood. More blows rained down on Grady’s head, his arms, his legs. The vigilante mob of angry fathers from all over the area finally had their man.

  When they stopped, smiles of crazy on their faces, catching their breath, Grady wheezed.

  “Wasn’t…me…” he said. After one last exhale he was gone.

  The men looked around at Grady’s clearing. It covered half an acre or more. Graves were lined up in neat rows, each with a small marker. Each marker had only the date and the letters RIP carved in them. The dates went back to the 1960’s.

  “My God,” one man said.

  Some shook their heads. Others wept. Each wandered into the graveyard, looking for the date that might have been their child’s interment. They looked for closure to a long and agonizing wound. The mob had dispersed.

  What brought them back together was a shrill laugh. It was so loud, it echoed in the hills surrounding them. It hushed the voices of the birds and even the insects. It cackled on with crazed intensity for more than a minute, long enough that the men had formed back into a group, their weapons at the ready. They walked back down the path, then trotted, then jogged, then the able-bodied men sprinted. Sprinted until they reached the old shack and saw the source of the laughter.

  The spring-heeled demon jumped up to the roof, vomiting fire up into the sky before tossing back its head to laugh. It mocked them. It licked blood from its claws and then jumped back to the ground, darting into the woods so fast, they had no human hope of catching up. On the ground, in Grady Starnes’ small patch of vegetables, lay the body of another little girl, maybe ten years old. She had on a tiny purple tank top and cutoff denim shorts. Her face was dark with wet blood. It contrasted her eyes as they looked up in terror.

  THE PERFECT MAN

  Rachel had waited her entire life for that day. The morning sun shone through her window like an old friend and she thought of their plans for that day and smiled even before her eyes were open. It was their two year anniversary. Two years since their first date, and Brandon promised something special. She knew it was a proposal, knew it would be romantic, a picnic in a field of wildflowers somewhere or a ride in a boat or maybe a horse drawn carriage. He was always romantic, like a storybook. Even with all his flaws, he was her perfect man.

  “Rachel Theresa Hamilton,” she said.

  It sounded so classic, a name with which she could introduce herself to anyone. Her current name, her future maiden name as she liked to tell her friends, was Schultzey, Rachel Schultzey, and she hated it. She often apologized to her father about hating that name, not that she wasn’t proud of her family, or his name, but that it sounded like something one might name their dog, or a nickname for the old man who sat at the end of the bar every evening getting soused. She would drop it when she got married, that was a for sure decision she’d made as a young teen, when things like that had started to matter.

  She was twenty-four now. Life had taken twists and turns and brought her to Brandon, Brandon to her, them to each other. All of it leading to that day. That day’s proposal would lead to her a wedding and to children and so much hope and potential she could do nothing but hug herself into the pile of sleep-warm blankets and grin. Her phone lay next to her on the end table, a bottle of water next to that. She sat up, unscrewed the cap and took a drink, then exchanged the bottle for the phone and checked her email. There was only one that interested her. It was from him.

  Meet me here.

  All my love, B.

  That was all it said. In her morning fog and giddiness, it took her a moment to realize the here in the email was a hyperlink. She pressed the word on the small screen and a map opened up. A treasure map. He was playing a game. It was something he often did, setting her up for little scavenger hunts to find love notes, or a bottle of wine and two glasses. Often he would be hiding nearby and would step out at the
last moment to complete the surprise. She loved it all. He was ten years older than she was and wasn’t the handsomest of men and he did like to yell at times, but he’d never struck her or grabbed her or forced her against her will into anything. He cared for her, he listened, and he would be a good father.

  His outbursts were rare things, understandable things. Things that she could overlook. He was old fashioned. He wanted to take care of her, to be the traditional man. He wanted her to be the traditional woman. He had very specific beliefs on the subject and had been up front with her about them. Rachel didn’t know at first, didn’t see herself being the housewife and baking and having lunch with other housewives. She couldn’t imagine turning into her mother, but she loved the idea of being someone’s mother. She loved babies.

  As time went on she began to like the idea of Brandon being the man’s man. She liked the idea of not having to work, the free time, the lack of decision making. It suited her. Not that she was lazy. She had a bachelor’s degree and kept a neat little apartment, read a lot, exercised, and she did work at first. She worked for a small magazine doing layout and design and made a nice paycheck of her own, but when Brandon told her he would take care of her, all of that dissolved into a prim little microcosm that felt like the 1950’s to her. He had paid her bills for the last six months.

  She looked at the map, recognizing the street names and knew where he was going to be waiting, or where the next clue would be found. It was the field on the east side of town, just past the community college. It was where their first date had taken place, a picnic on a blanket with wine, cheese and fruit. They lay in the field and talked and stared up at the clouds as the warm breeze of summer blew across them.

  “I absolutely love this place, Brandon,” she’d said.

  “I thought you might. It’s like a slice of untouched nature right here in our little city. The hills keep the traffic noise down, like it wasn’t even there,” he said.

  She’d fallen in love with him that day.

  *****

  Rachel brushed her teeth and washed her face before going for her morning jog. Her route wound through the apartment complex, waving at familiar faces , and out onto Harper Street where she passed several of the downtown shops, getting lost in the smell of coffee and fresh baked breads. She took her pulse as she ran in place at a stoplight, waiting for traffic to shift and wiped drops of sweat from her forehead as the light changed. After forty-five minutes and about four miles, she was back at her apartment for a lukewarm bottle of water and a hot shower.

  The rest of her day consisted of nervous anticipation, changing outfits and finally double and triple checking her hair. Thinking back on that first date, she copied that look, placing her shoulder length brown hair into a ponytail and wearing the fifth dress she had tried on. A comfortable, but pretty dress, not too revealing.

  “Rachel Hamilton,” she said again, leaving out the middle name. “Mrs. Brandon Hamilton.” It flowed nicely and sounded right coming out of her mouth. “I’m Rachel Hamilton, nice to meet you. This is my husband Brandon and I’m Rachel. We’re the Hamiltons, and these are our children.” That sounded corny, but still gave her a warm feeling, a right feeling. She tried the words on several more times because they were as important as her dress.

  The picnic field was only a few blocks from her house and even at the risk of breaking a sweat, she walked it. The late afternoon air reminded her of those sleep-warm blankets and kept her grinning. The restaurants on Harper no longer smelled of coffee and bread, but garlic and the aromas of Mexican cooking, grilled meats and cigarette smoke coming from the outdoor seating. A young man smiled at her and made her feel like her clothing choice was the right one.

  As she crossed the last street, heading North, before the community college, she wondered about the ring. Would he know the heart-shaped cut was her favorite, that she preferred white gold or platinum? None of that really mattered, because she would be Mrs. Brandon Hamilton and they would have children no matter what the ring looked like. Finally, she left the sidewalk and turned onto the mowed lawn of the small campus, rising up into the west and holding her hand to shield her eyes from the sun, still a few hours from setting.

  Rachel crested the hill and started down into the valley between a thatch of trees and onto a dirt path worn by students walking and biking to class from some of the outlying rental houses. She turned again, going up over another small hill, hearing the road noise behind her as she reached its peak and hearing it disappear as she found her way to the second valley. At the bottom of that valley, she saw a blanket spread with a basket in the center. A smile widened across her face as she moved from a walk to a trot.

  The blanket was pale blue and had crease marks as if it had only just been taken out of the package. The basket sat in the center–a real picnic basket–not a cooler like he had brought to their first meeting. She ran her finger along its edge for a moment before undoing the woven wicker latch that held it shut. Before pulling up that flap, she looked around, trying to catch a glimpse of Brandon hiding behind a tree, or ducked behind one of the limestone boulders that dotted the field. He wasn’t anywhere in sight. Rachel giggled.

  The flap raised, she peeked inside to find another message. It was hand written on a napkin in blue ink.

  Hungry? I am. I’m starving.

  Find me and you’ll be well fed.

  Our life, our love begins anew.

  To me you shall soon be wed,

  And to the South, I wait for you.

  Find the apple tree and turn,

  Facing toward the setting sun.

  In the distance is a home,

  Inside of which we’ll soon be one.

  Rachel squealed. The sound was that of a small child who just got exactly what they wanted for Christmas. She pulled the napkin out and clutched it to her chest, then stood, checking for the sun, finding her direction and moving South at an excited clip.

  One hill led to another. She checked the sun making sure she was still going north, and after thirty minutes of walking, she finally saw the tree. It had to be the tree.

  “Thank God,” she said.

  Her legs were starting to burn and she was breathing a bit heavier, not like when she ran, but headed that way. Beads of perspiration grew on her temples, her upper lip and in the warm pockets of her armpits. She looked west as she approached the apple tree, searching for a house, a home, her future, but there was nothing she could see and so she continued on. The tree was immense when she found herself standing underneath it and it was the only soldier left standing in that huge expanse of a field. Fruit hung from the branches and expended apples lay on the ground in rotten lumps. She looked toward the sun, shielding her eyes again, and saw nothing but blowing grasses, weeds and wildflowers in the late summer breeze.

  She walked on, heading into the light and heat of the star, pausing on every tenth step or so to look closely at the horizon in front of her, waiting for an old farmhouse or some sprawling mansion to pop up—a gift for her and for them. It would be the perfect token, to have bought land out there and built them a dream home without her knowing.

  Perfect.

  There was no dream house, not that she could see. Maybe he’s waiting in the field ahead for me, waiting at the spot where our house will be, ready to break ground and he’s going to let me pick out the finishes. That would be perfect. But as she kept on, trudging forward, her legs burning, her heart racing with exertion and anticipation, her level of hope sky high, she saw nothing…but she did hear something. Something faint, a whining, high-pitched sound. It was coming from in front of her, due west.

  Rachel cocked her ear and followed the sound. Whimpering, the sound a puppy makes. She quickened her pace again. There was still no house in the distance. Another set of rolling hills, but surely they wouldn’t conceal a house. More whimpers. Not one puppy, but three, maybe four. More steps, more whines, a dozen? Her heart hurt for the noise, but also leaped a little as she loved ba
by animals, loved all babies. She wanted more than anything to be a mother. Has he gotten me a puppy? A whole litter?

  One of the whimpers turned into a shriek, a sound of pain and terror and it set the others to whimpering even louder. She jolted at the first noise, then tears came to her eyes as the chorus of whimpers grew. Rachel hurried into the sun, looking, then finally finding the source of the sounds. In the field, dug into the hillside and mostly obscured by the tall grasses was some sort of bunker. From the air, it would’ve looked like the rest of the grassy field, but she saw the entrance, and for the first time that day, her joy was gone and her heart beat out of fear.

  “Hello?” she said.

  Her walking slowed to a creep, her eyes wide and her mouth slightly open as if preparing for a scream. The bunker was only fifty yards away and the sound of puppies crying out filled her ears.

  “Hello?” she said again.

  This wasn’t the home Brandon wrote about. It couldn’t be. It must be farther on across that next set of hills, or maybe I turned the wrong way. Maybe there was another apple tree. It takes more than one to bear fruit. Why are these puppies out here? Maybe their momma gave birth to them in that old bunker and then they got stuck or maybe she died giving birth and the young are alone and helpless.

  All these things crossed her mind but the last one set her to action. She rushed to the door, a metal plate no more bolted to its hinges than it was rusted to them. The earth and weeds had grown up and over the door and hung down in front of it. Rachel pulled on the handle, rough from corrosion and when she pulled her hands away, they were dusted orange. She rubbed them together and grabbed it again before giving three hard tugs. The third tug came with a grunt, but broke loose the hinges and the door gave a terrible groan that reverberated through its metal body. That groan echoed into the passage beyond and dozens of puppy voices responded.