Deep in the Darkness (20 page)

I stayed unanswering, my words still held captive.

"Michael?"

I thought I heard her coming upstairs, a bang or two near the bottom of the steps. I scrambled in a panic, pulling the sheets back over my body, keeping my hands sequestered way down below, near my hips. There'd be no viable excuse as to my appearance, except perhaps that I'd killed someone or something in the middle of the night. Which, boys and girls, I apparently did.

"I'll be down in a few minutes," I answered as loudly and as optimistically as possible. "I...I have a stomach ache. Tell her to give me about ten minutes." My mind screamed with confusion, and in this moment of absurdity pertained no true grasp on the logics of human communication. Nothing I could say would make any sense to me. It all seemed a blur, blah blah this and blah blah that.

There was another bang near the bottom of the steps. Christine, placing some objects on the lower steps to be carried up later. Not coming up, thank God.

"I need to go to the bathroom," I called. "I'll be down in a few." The words felt like rubber balls on my tongue, bouncing away with no meaningful destination.

"I made you breakfast. It'll be in the microwave when you get down. I'll offer the woman some tea and let her into the office."

"Okay."

I heard her walk away, back into the kitchen. I ran a hand over my eyes, unaware until now that I was probably smearing Page's blood all over on my face. In another wave of panic, I jerked my eyes open for fear of falling back into a dream state and seeing myself face to face again with Lauren, Rosy, or even Page; I couldn't let that happen again, not now. I got up in a hurry, yanked the sheets off the bed and shoved them under the bed. I then went into the bathroom and ran the sink until the water began to steam, keeping my gaze away from the mirror for fear of what I might find.
Blood, blood, everywhere!

The hot water felt like godsend. I soaped my hands and face, scrubbed them clean, feeling as though I might even be washing away the very real events of my dream. I wondered if this was how a young mixed-up woman must feel after performing her very first scene in a porno movie: confused, jaded, bound in a struggle to scrub away the sinful act she'd just committed.

I toweled down, then got dressed in a rush. During this time, the tears came and I cried my eyes out, so strongly that my chest burned as it gasped for air. I was terribly afraid, not only of everything that'd happened, but also of any impending events. Eventually my cries tapered away and I dried my face with the damp towel. Feeling a bit more in control, I retrieved a set of clean sheets from the linen closet in the hall. I left the blood-stained ones under Jessica's bed, where I hoped they would remain forever, at least until after we were gone. I put the clean ones on, telling myself that simply sleeping in them for two nights in a row would serve as an acceptable reason for changing them.

I went downstairs, into the kitchen. Christine had a purse draped over her shoulder. Jessica held Page's leash and was tapping the floor in a forward motion as if tethering an invisible puppy. The scene had been cleared of all breakfast-making evidence, with the exception of a pitcher of dark green tea—Rosy Deighton's recipe.

Rosy Deighton...

Christine offered up a forced smile. Clearly she noticed my face, eyes red and puffy. "You okay, Michael? Heard you crying upstairs." She said this so matter-of-factly, without an ounce of concern. Apparently she was still sore at me; last thing she'd want to do now was hightail this popsicle stand.

"I..." I was at a loss for words. My family was hustling and bustling about the house as if there was nothing wrong.
As if there was nothing wrong! Michael, the only thing they've experienced is a small traffic accident, and some very creepy people. Well, those very creepy people are reason enough to get the hell out of here! Hauling dead bodies away? See you later, folks! Well, at least to you it is...

"Christine," I said, grabbing her arm as she cold-shouldered by me. "We need to get out of here. Out of Ashborough. Now."

She turned to Jessica, who was standing by the front door. "Honey, could you please wait outside on the porch?" Jessica nodded, then exited the house in silence; I saw her plop down in one of the rattan chairs on the porch. Christine looked back in my direction, eyebrows triangled with anger. "Michael, what in God's name are you talking about?" She pulled away from my grasp, fearful of my touch as if I were some wild-eyed stranger accosting her in the street.

"Things...things just aren't right here. You'd said so yourself. Those people yesterday, the ones that dragged the body into the house after your accident—that's not normal, Christine. It's fucking freaky."

"Well, maybe I overreacted, Michael. They probably just wanted to get him into some shelter."

"Shelter from what? You said you killed him, that his head exploded when it hit a tree!"

"Well, it looked that way...but I was in a bit of a panic at the time, and, well, I just didn't have my wits about me. It looked that way, but I couldn't tell for sure. He may have just hurt himself."

"Just hurt himself? How could you not tell? Jesus, Christine, you said they covered him in a blanket before carrying him inside!"

"Well, yes, I did see that."

"So?"

"So it's certainly no reason to leave here. What's gotten into you, Michael?"

"What's gotten into me?"
Now I was yelling. Actually screaming. My faculties just hurdled the first drop on the emotional rollercoaster and were now plunging down at top speed. "This town is fucking cursed! We need to get out of here, now!" I was repeating myself, and not getting my point across.

She shook her head. "You're out of your mind..." Then, "Are you taking something?"

I didn't want to say it, but I had to. I had to mention the existence of the Isolates. To Christine it would appear utterly irrational—I had no plausible evidence nor proof to back me up. It was my word against the world's, one David against a million Goliaths. My revelation would appear as the ravings of a madman, alleging something even far more outrageous than a new-age spiritualist's claims of alien abductions and UFO jaunts. But Jesus, did I have any other option at the moment?

"Christine—"

But then she said, "I'm taking Jessica out to look for Page. Your daughter is very upset, and frankly, I am too—"

I grabbed her arm again. She tried to wrest away, but I held on tight. Our eyes locked. "Listen to me, Christine...there's something evil living here, in the woods. A race of people called the Isolates. They're keeping the entire town hostage. I know this sounds insane but I beg of you to believe me. Please, we need to leave here now. We'll walk...or take the bikes. Please."

I loosened my grasp and she gently pulled away, keeping fearful eyes on me. I thought for a moment that she might've believed me. Then she said, "Where'd you get this crazy idea?"

I swallowed something cotton-like in my throat. "Phillip told me all about them. He said—"

"You're kidding me, right?"

"No, he told me not to say anything to you...but I felt it was the only way I could convince you that we had to leave here. Christine, please, I implore you. Let's get out of here right this minute. Once we get out of here I'll explain everything to you."

She moved toward the stairs, grabbed her house keys which had been tossed amongst some other things on the third step. "Did you mention anything about this to Jessica?"

"Of course not." I felt suddenly winded and crashed down on the sofa, wondering just where I'd find the energy to either walk or run out of here. Then Phillip Deighton's words entered my mind:
Neil Farris wasn't out for a casual jog, you know. Just like so many others, he'd tried to leave. And they got in the way.
I shuddered.

"I doubt very much that Jessica got frightened yesterday just from the ghosts on some idiot cartoon."

"Jesus, Christine, are you implying that I had something to do with that?"

She walked to the door. Jessica rose from the chair outside and stood on the porch, looking in at us with wide concerned eyes. Christine shook her head, clearly dismayed. "I suggest you go to your office and see your patient. It might do you some good. We're gonna go out and look for Page. Take a few moments to think about what you're saying, Michael. Hopefully by the time we get back you'll have some better explanation as to this behavior of yours. See you later." She exited the house, the screen door hitting the jamb in an unintentional slam, another tiny slice of the inexplicable pie being baked at 17 Harlan Road.

Utterly frustrated, I began to giggle. Then, I broke out in laughter. I couldn't stop. It occurred to me that certain degrees of fear might make a person do something irrational, totally absurd even. Here I was doing just that: laughing up a storm that tornadoed out from my belly in nearly visible chunks. But in a minute the laughter subsided, and I paced to the window. My wife and daughter were walking hand-in-hand down the driveway, calling out for our dog that would never be coming home again.

This made me laugh again. Even harder.

W
hen the laughter evaporated, I went into the kitchen and heated up the breakfast Christine had left for me. I ate it and washed it all down with some tepid coffee, which at once made me feel better. I realized now that from Christine's point of view I must've appeared crazy. She hadn't the slightest clue of my encounter with Lauren Hunter, nor of my dream, which apparently wasn't a dream after all. Plus she'd had an experience of her own yesterday, and although she'd broken down a touch, she also appeared to have rebounded nicely after a good night's sleep. To the unknowing and stable frame of mind, I looked like the lunatic I clearly imagined myself to be.

I suddenly remembered the bloody sheets under Jessica's bed. Before I forgot again, I raced upstairs, retrieved them, then came back down and put them in the washer, thereby cleaning my hands of the evidence. By doing this, a sense of the commonplace filtered in, and despite the cloudy sensation ushering me about, I decided to shove all past experiences aside and move on with the day as though the war had been waged and won.
After all Michael, the sacrifice has now been made. You've been freed of all adversity, you may now live your life as any common man, woman, or child. You've paid your dues, now it's time to move on.

Strangely enough, this idea brought on a small wave of relief, as macabre as it seemed. Perhaps things would be different now. Maybe I could go on and live the rest of my life in peace and quietude. I put my dish in the sink, then peered outside and thought about Christine. Ever since revealing her pregnancy, she'd grown irritable, impatient, yet adversely independent and distant. If I'd have come to her with a problem in the past, she would have sat down and listened intently, offering up some well-thought-out advice on how to tackle it. But lately it appeared as if she wanted nothing to do with me, mostly seeking out arguments in a way to avoid conversation. Like this morning. My overt fear and outright irrational concerns would've alarmed even a perfect stranger, much less a caring family member. Christine had brushed off my behavior as common silliness, as though I'd been joking, and went on her merry independent way.

Suddenly, something hit me.

Lauren Hunter.

In the throes of death, she had uttered:
They have Christine...

I shook away the alarming thought, trying to convince myself that everything would be okay now, that Christine was simply going through a hormonal-induced phase, and that her ship would settle down to earth in due time. I focused out the window into the side yard. Damn hard to believe that a death had occurred there yesterday. The sun was beaming high and proud. The impatiens alongside the house tossed their balmy scent in through the windows, making everything smell fresh and clean. Summer was in full gear, and I decided that I should be happy with it. No sense in worrying about the past. If I did then I'd definitely break down and there'd be no more Cayle family outings, no more tucking Jessica in at night, no more making love to my beautiful wife.

I looked to the right and peered down the walkway where just yesterday a woman died—where I'd cleansed the bloody evidence. For a quick moment I considered trying the police again, then decided against it. Heck, I was just good and fine with the way things were at the moment—it was all okay with me. No sense in tossing another fly in the ointment.
It's called denial!
my conscience streamed, but I shrugged that probability off defiantly. Perhaps when Christine returned later I'd feel differently, but for now maintaining my sanity was my number one priority, and I didn't care how I went about doing it.

Yes, everything was just okay at the moment.

But the moment would last only a minute.

A single minute. That was how long it took me to walk the length of the hallway into the waiting room, and then into my office, where I greeted my first patient of the day.

And fell into yet another state of helpless terror.

I
t didn't happen right away, the terror. It allowed me a minute to reflect on my night. I reversed the situation and wondered what sort of prognosis I might've come up with had a patient come to me with the same sort of mid-night experience. From this non-prejudicial angle it looked very much like sleepwalking, and I at once relaxed with that explanation flooding my mind. It certainly didn't excuse the fact that I had killed
something
on that big center stone, but it also raised the faint possibility that Page might still be alive.