Just After Sunset (31 page)

It was a beautiful day, not a cloud in the sky. The leaves were still green, but the air had that brilliant clarity you only get when the seasons change. My ex-wife used to say that early fall days like that are our reward for putting up with the tourists and summer people for three months, standing in line while they use their credit cards to buy beer. I felt good, I remember that. I felt certain I was going to put all the crazy shit to rest. I was listening to a greatest-hits compilation by Queen and thinking how fine Freddie Mercury sounded, how
pure
. I sang along. I drove over the Androscoggin in Harlow—the water on either side of the old Bale Road Bridge bright enough to knock your eyes out—and I saw a fish jump. It made me laugh out loud. I hadn’t laughed like that since the evening in Ackerman’s Field, and it sounded so good I did it again.

Then up over Boy Hill—I bet you know where that is—and past the Serenity Ridge Cemetery. I’ve taken some good photos in there, although I never put one in a calendar. I came to the dirt byroad not five minutes later. I started to turn in, then jammed on the brakes. Just in time, too. If I’d been any slower, I would have ripped my 4Runner’s grille in two. There was a chain across the road, and a new sign hanging from it: ABSOLUTELY NO TRESPASSING.

Now I could have told myself it was just a coincidence, that the person who owned those woods and that field—not necessarily a guy named Ackerman, but maybe—put up that chain and that sign every fall, to discourage hunters. But deer season doesn’t start until November first. Even bird season doesn’t start til October. I think someone watches that field. With binocs, maybe, but maybe with some less normal form of sight. Someone knew I’d been there, and that I might be back.

“Leave it alone, then!” I told myself. “Unless you want to risk getting arrested for trespassing, maybe get your picture in the Castle Rock
Call.
That would be good for business, wouldn’t it?”

But there was no way I was going to stop, not if there was a chance I could go up to that field, see nothing, and consequently feel better. Because—dig this—at the same time I was telling myself that if someone wanted me off his property I ought to respect that person’s wishes, I was counting the letters in that sign and coming out with twenty-three, which is a
terrible
number, far worse than thirteen. I knew it was crazy to think that way, but I
was
thinking that way, and some part of me knew it wasn’t a bit crazy.

I stashed my 4Runner in the Serenity Ridge parking lot, then walked back to the dirt road with the borrowed camera slung over my shoulder in its little zippered case. I went around the chain—it was easy—and walked up the road to the field. Turned out I would’ve had to walk even if the chain
hadn’t
been there, because there were half a dozen trees lying across the road this time, and not just trashwood birches. Five were good-sized pines, and the last one was a mature oak. They hadn’t just fallen over, either; those babies had been dropped with a chainsaw. They didn’t even slow me down. I climbed over the pines and detoured around the oak. Then I was on the hill climbing to the field. I barely gave the other sign—ACKERMAN’S FIELD, NO HUNTING, KEEP OUT—a glance. I could see the trees drawing back at the crest of the hill, I could see dusty beams of sun shining between the ones nearest the top, and I could see acres and acres of blue sky up there, looking jolly and optimistic. It was midday. There would be no giant riversnake bleeding in the distance, only the Androscoggin I grew up with and have always loved—blue and beautiful, the way ordinary things can be when we see them at their best. I broke into a run. My feeling of crazy optimism lasted all the way to the top, but the minute I saw those stones standing there like fangs, my good feelings fell away. What replaced them was dread and horror.

There were seven stones again. Just seven. And in the middle of them—I don’t know just how to explain this so you’ll understand—there was a
faded
place. It wasn’t like a shadow, exactly, but more like…you know how the blue will fade out of your favorite jeans over time? Especially at stress-points like the knees? It was like that. The color of the hay was washed to a greasy lime color, and instead of blue, the sky above that circle of stones looked
grayish.
I felt that if I walked in there—and part of me wanted to—I could punch out with one fist and tear right through the fabric of reality. And if I did, something would grab me. Something on the other side. I was sure of it.

Still, something in me
wanted to do it.
It wanted to…I don’t know…quit the foreplay and get right to the fucking.

I could see—or thought I could, I’m still not sure about this part—the place where the eighth stone belonged, and I could see that…that
fadedness
…bulging toward it, trying to get through where the protection of the stones was thin. I was terrified! Because if it got out, every unnamable thing on the other side would be born into our world. The sky would turn black, and it would be full of new stars and insane constellations.

I unslung the camera, but dropped it on the ground when I tried to unzip the bag it was in. My hands were shaking as if I was having some kind of seizure. I picked up the camera case and unzipped it, and when I looked at the stones again, I saw that the space inside them wasn’t just faded anymore. It was turning black. And I could see
eyes
again. Peering out of the darkness. This time they were yellow, with narrow black pupils. Like cat’s eyes. Or snake eyes.

I tried to lift the camera, but I dropped it again. And when I reached for it, the hay closed over it, and I had to tug it free. No, I had to
rip
it free. I was on my knees by then, yanking on the strap with both hands. And a breeze started to blow out of the gap where the eighth stone should have been. It blew the hair off my forehead. It stank. It smelled of carrion. I raised the camera to my face, but at first I could see nothing. I thought,
It’s blinded the camera, it’s somehow blinded the camera,
and then I remembered it was a digital Nikon, and you have to turn it on. I did that—I heard the beep—but I still could see nothing.

The breeze was a wind by then. It sent the hay rippling down the length of the field in big waves of shadow. The smell was worse. And the day was darkening. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, it was pure blue, but the day was darkening, just the same. As if some great invisible planet was eclipsing the sun.

Something spoke. Not English. Something that sounded like “Cthun, cthun, deeyanna, deyanna.” But then…Christ, then it said my
name
. It said, “Cthun, N., deeyanna, N.” I think I screamed, but I’m not sure, because by then the wind had become a gale that was roaring in my ears. I
should
have screamed. I had every right to scream. Because
it knew my name!
That grotesque, unnamable thing
knew my name.
And then…the camera…do you know what I realized?

[
I ask him if he left the lens cap on, and he utters a shrill laugh that runs up my nerves and makes me think of rats scampering over broken glass.
]

Yes! Right! The lens cap! The fucking lens cap! I tore it off and raised the camera to my eye—it’s a wonder I didn’t drop it again, my hands were shaking so badly, and the hay never would have let it go again, no, never, because the second time it would have been ready. But I didn’t drop it, and I could see through the viewfinder, and there were eight stones. Eight. Eight keeps things straight. That darkness was still swirling in the middle, but it was retreating. And the wind blowing around me was diminishing.

I lowered the camera and there were seven. Something was bulging out of the darkness, something I can’t describe to you. I can see it—I see it in my dreams—but there are no words for that kind of blasphemy. A pulsing leather helmet, that’s as close as I can get. One with yellow goggles on each side. Only the goggles…I think they were eyes, and I know they were looking at me.

I raised the camera again, and saw eight stones. I snapped off six or eight shots as if to mark them, to fix them in place forever, but of course that didn’t work, I only fried the camera. Lenses can see those stones, Doc—I’m pretty sure a person could see them in a mirror, too, maybe even through a plain pane of glass—but they can’t record them. The only thing that can record them, hold them in place, is the human mind, the human memory. And even that’s undependable, as I’ve found out. Counting, touching, and placing works for awhile—it’s ironic to think that behaviors we consider neurotic are actually holding the world in place—but sooner or later whatever protection they offer decays. And it’s so much work.

So damn much work.

I wonder if we could be done for today. I know it’s early, but I’m very tired.

[
I tell him I will prescribe a sedative, if he wants—mild, but more reliable than Ambien or Lunesta. It will work if he doesn’t overdo it. He gives me a grateful smile.
]

That would be good, very good. But can I ask you a favor?

[
I tell him that of course he can.
]

Prescribe either twenty, forty, or sixty. Those are all good numbers.

[Next Session]

[
I tell him he looks better, although this is far from true. What he looks like is a man who will be institutionalized soon, if he doesn’t find a way to get back to his personal Highway 117. Turn around or back up, it doesn’t matter which, but he has to get away from that field. So do I, actually. I’ve been dreaming about N.’s field, which I’m sure I could find if I wanted to. Not that I do—that would be too much like sharing my patient’s delusion—but I’m sure I could find it. One night this weekend (while I was having trouble finding sleep myself), it occurred to me that I must have driven past it, not just once but hundreds of times. Because I’ve been over the Bale Road Bridge hundreds of times, and past Serenity Ridge Cemetery
thousands
of times; that was on the school-bus route to James Lowell Elementary, where Sheila and I went. So sure, I could find it. If I wanted to. If it exists.

[
I ask if the prescription helps, if he’s been sleeping. The dark circles under his eyes tell me he hasn’t been, but I’m curious to hear how he responds.
]

Much better. Thanks. And the OCD’s a little better, too.

[
As he says this, his hands—more prone to tell the truth—are stealthily placing the vase and the Kleenex box at opposing corners of the table by the couch. Today Sandy has put out roses. He arranges them so they link the box and the vase. I ask him what happened after he went up to to Ackerman’s Field with the borrowed camera. He shrugs.
]

Nothing. Except of course I paid for the photo-shop guy’s Nikon. Pretty soon it really
was
hunting season, and those woods get dangerous, even if you’re wearing blaze orange from head to toe. Although I somehow doubt if there are many deer in that area; I imagine they steer clear.

The OCD shit smoothed out, and I started sleeping through the night again.

Well…some of the nights. There were dreams, of course. In the dreams I was always in that field, trying to pull the camera out of the hay, but the hay wouldn’t let go. The blackness spilled out of the circle like oil, and when I looked up I saw the sky had cracked open from east to west and a terrible black light was pouring out…light that was alive. And hungry. That’s when I’d wake up, drenched with sweat. Sometimes screaming.

Then, in early December, I got a letter at the office. It was marked PERSONAL with a small object inside. I tore it open and what fell out onto my desk was a little key with a tag on it. The tag said A.F. I knew what it was, and what it meant. If there’d been a letter, it would have said, “I tried to keep you out. It’s not my fault, and maybe not yours, but either way this key, and all it opens, is yours now. Take good care of it.”

That weekend I drove back out to Motton, but I didn’t bother parking in the lot at Serenity Ridge. I didn’t need to anymore, you see. The Christmas decorations were up in Portland and the other small towns I passed along the way. It was bitterly cold, but there wasn’t any snow yet. You know how it’s always colder just before the snow comes? That’s how it was that day. But the sky was overcast, and the snow
did
come, a blizzard that very night. It was a big one. Do you remember?

[
I tell him I do. I have reason to remember (although I don’t tell him this). Sheila and I were snowed in at the home place, where we’d gone to check on some repair work. We got squiffy and danced to old Beatles and Rolling Stones records. It was pleasant.
]

The chain was still across the road, but the A.F. key fit the lock. And the downed trees had been hauled to one side. As I’d known they would be. It was no good blocking the road anymore, because that field is now
my
field, those stones are now
my
stones, and whatever it is they’re keeping in is my responsibility.

[
I ask him if he was frightened, sure the answer must be yes. But N. surprises me.
]

Not much, no. Because the place was different. I knew it even from the end of the road, where it
T
’s into 117. I could feel it. And I could hear crows cawing as I opened the lock with my new key. Ordinarily I think that’s an ugly sound, but that day it sounded very sweet. At the risk of sounding pretentious, it sounded like redemption.

I knew there’d be eight stones in Ackerman’s Field, and I was right. I knew they wouldn’t look so much like a circle, and I was right about that, too; they looked like random outcroppings again, part of the underlying bedrock that had been exposed by a tectonic shift, or a withdrawing glacier eighty thousand years ago, or a flood of more recent vintage.

I understood other things, too. One was that I had activated the place
just by looking at it.
Human eyes take away the eighth stone. A camera lens will put it back, but won’t lock it in place. I had to keep renewing the protection with symbolic acts.