Nightmare

by Erik Henry Vick

  NIGHTMARE

  THE BLOODLETTER SAGA

  I

  Erik Henry Vick

  For my nephew Drew.

  My son, why do you hide your face in fear?

  Father, do you not see the Erl-king?

  The Erl-king with crown and cape?

  —Erlkönig, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

  I hope you enjoy Nightmare. If so, please consider joining my Readers Group—details can be found at the end of the last chapter.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  1979

  A note before you get started: The complete contents of this book are also available as the first part of Demon King (https://ehv4.us/4demonking), Book One of The Bloodletter Collections (https://ehv4.us/4theblc).

  1

  At the bottom of the hill stood a white clapboard house, dressed with peeling paint and creeping ivy. Dark windows gaped like missing teeth. Over twenty bikes teetered in an unstable heap amidst the mini-tornadoes of whirling fall leaves in the backyard. The pile held all kinds of different bikes: BMX, ten-speeds, bombers, everything. Beyond the house, the gravel road faded into a two-rut track and wound away through the Thousand Acre Wood.

  Toby Burton stood at the top of the hill looking down at the house, unsure and anxious. The classifieds had said one ten-speed bike was available, not twenty, but maybe the guy fixed them up and sold them? That didn’t make much sense, though, because the ad listed twenty bucks as the price. Who would put time and effort into fixing up a bike and sell it so cheap? Unless he got them even cheaper. Maybe he bought them from a junkyard for twenty bucks a truckload.

  The twenty-dollar bill in his front pocket was heavy on his mind. He’d stolen the money out of his mom’s purse that morning. If he left that second, he could slip it back into her purse without her knowing.

  But he wanted a bike. Needed a bike.

  Toby dithered at the top of the hill, and the temperature dropped with the sun. Anxiety scribbled across his face, he checked the time again. He wasn’t allowed to be out past dark, though it would be a rare thing for his mom to notice when he came home.

  Everyone else had a bike. He was the only one in his grade left taking it on the arches. His mom had the money, but she didn’t want to spend it on him. Not that she thought of Toby much anymore—he was old news. The only thing she had time for now was her new boyfriend. Randy.

  Randy the hitter. He needed a bike to get away from Randy.

  The house at the bottom of the hill looked okay. It was just a house, like any of the others on the street. Maybe in worse repair, but nothing too far out of the norm for the shitburg town he lived in.

  “Just do it, Toby,” he whispered, but still he dithered. He had to decide. If he didn’t leave immediately, there would be no way to make it home before dark. Not without the bike.

  “Do it, do it, do it,” he said to himself.

  He set off down the hill with a confidence he didn’t feel, his stride long and lanky, hands flopping loose at his sides. It wouldn’t hurt to check out the bike. See if it was as advertised. No charge for looking, right?

  The house looked bigger at the bottom of the hill. More imposing. Empty windows stared at him from the second story. The gate of the little white picket fence shrieked as he opened it, sending chills shivering down his spine. He mounted the rotting wooden steps to the porch, watching the windows. The house had an old-fashioned door bell—the kind you had to pull. With a glance over his shoulder, Toby reached out and pulled the lever.

  The door banged open. A tall, thin man stood in the shadowy interior beyond the door, looking at Toby with rheumy eyes. His white hair stood up around him in a gossamer halo. Food had stained the front of his shirt in multiple places. He wore an old pair of chinos and black work boots. “Ayuh,” the old man said, in a creaky, scratchy voice.

  “Huh-hello, mister. I’m here about the bike.”

  The old man grinned with half of his mouth, but his eyes were hard and cold. “Ad says to come after suppah.”

  Toby shrugged. “I’m not allowed out after dark.”

  The old man made a clicking noise in the back of his mouth and jerked his chin to the side, like a weird bird. “Mayhap I’m not allowed out before dark, whaddaya think about that?”

  Toby shrugged and looked at his feet. There was a weird scent coming from the open doorway. He’d smelled nothing like it before, and whatever it was, it was foul. “S-sorry, mister.”

  He turned to leave, and a hand fell on his shoulder. He glanced at it sideways. The old man’s hand was inky-black and shriveled like the pictures of that mummy they’d seen in school. The bones of the man’s hand pressed against his skin and his skin was loose, drooping. His fingers ended in sharp claws. Toby’s mind yelled Run! as loud as it could, and he lurched in the man’s grasp and tried to bolt for the street.

  “Now, now, sonny-boy,” crooned the old man. “Nothing here to be scared of. Nothing too far out of the norm for this little town, eh?”

  Toby looked at the man’s hand. It was back to normal, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Now, that’s better, son,” said the old man with a pat on the shoulder. “You wanted to know about that bike, right? Might as well take a look-see since you came all the way over here from Mill Lane. Can’t hurt to check it out, can it? See if the bike is as advertised. No charge for looking, right, boyo?”

  Toby stood staring out at the empty street, the old man standing behind him in the way Toby imagined a father would. The longer he stood, the man’s warm hand resting on his shoulder, the less afraid he became. He grew more and more confident as the minutes ticked by.

  “C’mon, son, let’s do it,” whispered the old man. “It’s right back here in the yard. Through the house is fastest.”

  Toby glanced back at the growing shadows on the street. Going inside seemed to be a questionable idea.

  “Just do it, Toby,” said the old man. “Do it, do it, do it.”

  With a rueful grin, Toby turned and walked into the house.

  2

  After Toby missed the third straight day of school, Benny Cartwright knew something was wrong. Toby cut a lot, but never so many days in a row—that only got the truant officer on your case. When the three o’clock bell rang, Benny was first through the door.

  He ducked the ubiquitous pick-up game of football after school, waved at his friends, and pedaled over to Mill Lane. Benny didn’t go in for the BMX bikes like some of the sixth graders. No, he liked racing bikes, and on his last birthday, his dad had given him a sweet Raleigh Record Ace. It was bright yellow with black accents and white handle-bar tape. It was still a little too big for him, but he made do. It must have been expensive, his dad had special ordered it from the Raleigh dealer over in Genosgwa.

  He’d never been invited to Toby’s house, but he knew where it was. In a town that small, everyone knew where everything was. Benny stood his bike at the curb on the kickstand and ran to the front door. The house was in horrible shape—a bit of the siding next to the front door had gone missing during the last windstorm, and the Tyvek had been left exposed. One of the windows was broken and covered with plywood. Even from where Benny stood, the reek of garbage and rotten food was overpowering. Gritting his teeth, he pressed the doorbell. Nothing happened, no chime, no bell. Benny scoffed and knocked on the door hard.

  Toby’s mom opened the door, cigarette clenched between her teeth, skin sallow and dirty. She was wear
ing a housecoat and had her hair up in a do-rag. “I’m not buying anything for that school,” she said.

  “No, ma’am. I’m not selling anything.”

  “No?” She raised an eyebrow at him and squinted through a gust of noxious smoke. “What do you want then?”

  “Is Toby home?” asked Benny.

  The woman turned her head a little to the side and yelled Toby’s name, never taking her eyes off Benny. After a long moment, she shrugged. “He ain’t home from school yet, I guess.”

  “Okay, thanks,” said Benny, but the door was already closing in his face. He retrieved his bike without a second glance at the house and pedaled to the end of the street. He was worried about Toby, but at the same time, he didn’t want to get him in jake with his mother if he really was just playing hooky. She looked like she could raise a welt if she had a mind to. Toby came to school with enough bruises as it was.

  He sat down at the end of the road until the sun was threatening to set and then left without seeing Toby.

  The next day, Toby was missing from Home Room again, and Benny had a sinking feeling in his guts. At the first period bell, Benny ditched school and rode his bike home. Both his parents worked so if he could get inside unseen, everything would be cool. The only problem was Mrs. Jenkins, who lived next door. She had eyes like a hawk and would say something to Benny’s mom if she saw him.

  He snuck his yellow Raleigh into the backyard by cutting through from the street behind theirs. He leaned the bike against the back wall of the garage, and with a glance at Mrs. Jenkins’ house, sprinted to the kitchen door. He was inside in a flash.

  It took a matter of minutes for Benny to find the ad about the bike in the classifieds. It took him five more minutes to sneak away from the house without being seen by Mrs. Jenkins, and another fifteen to pedal to Thousand Acre Drive.

  He stopped at the top of the hill, unsure and anxious. Without knowing it, he was tracing Toby’s path and miming his actions. He looked down at the run-down white house and its overgrown backyard. He eyed the pile of bikes, and something cold and oily turned over in his guts. He shouldn’t go down there. He knew better. If something had happened to Toby in that house, it could happen just as easily to Benny. But it didn’t hurt to sit up at the top of the hill and look, right?

  There was a flicker of motion in one of the black windows in the sea of white clapboard. He stared at it, but if something had moved, it wasn’t moving anymore. Wait a minute! Why are those windows so dark? he asked himself. It’s broad freakin’ daylight. The more he looked, the surer he became that the windows were covered with black cloth on the inside. That was weird. Nobody on the up-and-up would cover their windows with black cloth, would they?

  Part of him wanted to ride down the hill and get a better look. Part of him wanted to turn tail and pedal away from there at top speed. But what if Toby was down there… inside that house…being tortured?

  Toby had wanted a bike bad. He’d been jealous for a week after Benny’s birthday and hadn’t had much to do with him. But where would Toby get twenty bucks? Benny couldn’t imagine that hag with a cigarette clamped in her mouth giving up a Jackson for anything Toby wanted. Maybe something else had happened to Toby. Maybe he was cutting school because his mom gave him another black eye. That might explain his mother covering for him. Maybe. But Toby had told him all about the bike ad. He’d said it in a hushed tone like he didn’t want anyone over-hearing him—like he was going to go buy it.

  Just do it, Benny, he thought. Just ride down there, quick-like, and stay on the bike. That way if someone comes out, you can ride away fast.

  It was as good a plan as any. He had to find out if Toby had been there. But he didn’t want to go to the door alone, and before he brought Mike and Paul here, he wanted to do a little recce, like his dad always said. Benny wasn’t sure what that word really meant—his dad was the town manager, and he had to keep track of what all the city employees did during work hours. That meant going on recces. In the summer, he sometimes let Benny tag along.

  Do it, he thought, but still, his feet stayed on the ground. Toby would go down there. He put one foot on a pedal. What’s the worst that can happen? Still, he dithered. Something about the house, about the blacked-out windows, maybe, scared him. He glanced down, past the house, at the start of the Thousand Acre Wood. It was silent and dark. Menacing. Benny didn’t like it. The house, the windows, the woods, all of them screamed for him to get the h-e-double-hockey-sticks out of there. Even so, he put his other foot on the pedal and scooted his bum up onto the seat. He couldn’t bring himself to pedal, though, so he raced down the hill by the power of gravity. The wind of his passing was frigid on his cheeks. Almost winter, he thought.

  At the bottom of the hill, he squeezed his rear brake and jumped a little as it squealed, heart racing. He slowed to a stop in front of the house, one foot on the pedal, one foot on the ground. The eerie silence was oppressive. Where were the birds? They hadn’t flown south yet, at least not on Rabbit Run, where he lived. Where was the sound of the woods—the creaking of tree limbs, the rustle of small animals in the underbrush? Why did the woods look so dark? Had he been grown, he may not—probably would not—have noticed these things, but he wasn’t a grown man, he was a scrawny eleven-year-old with glasses that always, always slid down his nose.

  He glanced up at the windows on the second story. They were blacked-out with heavy cloth, no question. Benny shuddered. The front door was dark green, and the paint was peeling like his skin had after the sunburn he’d earned on the family trip to the beaches of Florida last summer.

  Something drew his eyes to the window next to the door, and the cloth moved—like someone had dropped it after lifting it to peek at him. The door creaked open. The entry hall was swathed in shadows, and the sunlight cut a leaning rectangle across the floor. “Come on in, son,” said a raspy voice, and Benny jumped.

  Inside his mind, Benny was pedaling with abandon, racing back up the hill as fast as he could manage, but in reality, he was rooted to the spot, staring into that space defined by the gloom. Even though he wanted to be riding away from there at the speed of light, even though this whole situation freaked him out, a part of him was shouting to go inside and let that cool darkness wrap its arms around him.

  “That’s a nice one,” creaked the voice. “The bike, I mean. Like buttered corn, it is.”

  Benny nodded, unsure of his voice. His mind was screaming at his legs to get on the pedals, but still, he stood and stared like a kid waiting for a magician’s finale.

  “You wouldn’t want to sell it, would ya? I’d give you a fair price and your pick of bikes from out back.”

  Benny shook his head. He didn’t want to hear anymore, but at the same time, he did.

  “Well, think on it, sport. I’d give you upwards of forty dollars plus a bike. That’s a good deal for a young man like yourself.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Benny heard himself say. It was like listening to his voice on his best friend Mike’s tape recorder. It sounded wrong, too high, too squeaky.

  “Shrewd one, are ya?” The man laughed from the shadows. “Well, listen here, Rockefella, my daughter and I have got to eat. You wouldn’t begrudge us that, right?”

  “I’m not giving you my bike.”

  “Okay, son, don’t get yer britches twisted. I’m just trying to make a deal that benefits us both.”

  Benny tried to rip his gaze away from the door, but couldn’t make his head move. He couldn’t even turn his eyes away. “No thanks.”

  “No, listen here, boyo. Hear me out. I’ve got a slick bike down to the basement. You’d love her, I’m sure. She’s a Raleigh, too.”

  Benny shrugged, wanting to turn away, and, at the same time, wanting to see the man who was talking to him, wanting to see his face, his eyes.

  “Ayuh, she’s a Raleigh. I know a bit about Raleighs, see? I know your pops paid out a hundred or more for that bumblebee you’re riding. But you didn’t pay a cent, didja? The on
e I got down there is worth three, maybe four times that. It’s a Professional Mark 2, you heard of them?”

  Benny pursed his lips and nodded. That bike was worth five or six hundred dollars. It had a special paint job, a color you could only get by shelling out the Benjamins, and Italian light-weight racing mechanicals. It was a sweet bike, and the greedy part of Benny wanted to say yes.

  “Now, I got it on the cheap, see, but I can’t move it. I’d have to sell it to one of them rich kids on Rabbit Run.”

  “I live on—” Benny slammed his teeth together, avoiding the tip of his tongue by a hair’s breadth. He hadn’t meant to say anything, just nod, but his mouth and throat had betrayed him.

  The man laughed, but it wasn’t a pleasant sound. It sounded like a bird caught in a trap. “Don’t you worry, son. I already knew that with a bike like that bumblebee there you either lived on Rabbit Run or Deer Vale. But listen, sport. I can’t move this Professional. No kid has the kind of money it’s worth, and very few people from those two rich streets buy out of the classifieds. No. They want new. Your bike, now, I can sell for fifty or sixty buckeroos. I get a small profit if I pay you forty, and you get a better bike and two crisp twenty-dollar bills.”

  Benny looked down. He wanted out of this conversation but didn’t know how to do it without being rude. Hear the man out, said an unfamiliar voice in his head.

  “Think of what you could do with that money. Think of the toys, the comics. Maybe take your sweetie for an ice-cream. And remember that you’d have a top of the line racing bike instead of the one you’re riding.” It was a good deal. A great deal, but his dad had given him the “bumblebee,” and that meant something more than money. “Okay, son, I can see you know how to bargain. I’ll tell you what. You get forty bucks, the Pro, and your choice of another bike from the pile out back. You can give that bike to a friend or sell it, I don’t care which. Now, technically, I’m out money here, since I can sell the other bike for twenty, but those bikes out back I got for free or close enough. We gotta eat, son.”