Night Monsters (3 page)

Vincien looked grateful for Wyatt’s gesture of acceptance. “You can eat healthy—bran bagels. Or tasty—bacon and eggs.”

“If it makes no difference to you, I’m all for tasty.”

While Vincien busied himself breaking eggs and slicing bacon, Wyatt poured them juice and sat down at the table, pondering what a strange weekend it had turned out to be. To think he had hated this man and wanted to hurt him, stooping so low as to believe his good will was just a ruse. Thinking Vince had lured him to the hinterland to give him what for or, worse yet, to kill him.

For a moment, Wyatt was ashamed of himself. Then he let it go, realizing Vince had already forgiven him, held nothing against him. It should have made him feel better. Instead, he felt incredibly sad.

As Vincien moved about the kitchen, Wyatt noticed how emaciated and gray he looked, and it worried him. Vincien set the steaming plate before him.

“Thank you. This looks and smells delicious.” Wyatt picked up his fork. “Where’s yours?”

Vincien slid into the chair across from him and lofted his juice glass. Wyatt was self-conscious with Vincien watching him eat.

“Piece of bacon?” He slid his plate toward Vincien.

Vincien held up his hand. “Thank you, no.”

He finished eating and Vincien made coffee.

Wyatt couldn’t bear to continue with such tension between them. It was finally time to break the ice and offer some grace. It would be a fitting response to Vincien’s savoir-faire, a way to prove—at least to himself—that he had learned something from such a noble man.

“Look, Vince. I know you’re not holding my involvement with Natalie against me. But I want to apologize. I hope I haven’t damaged anything between you two.”

Vincien nodded somberly. He looked old.

“I’m sorry your situation troubles you,” Wyatt continued, “and I can’t say I understand what it’s like for you being gay, but I’m humbled that you trusted me enough to share it with me. I guess I had the wrong idea about you. You’re a better man than I. A very special man.” Wyatt reached over and touched Vince’s hand. “I understand.”

Vincien replied with a melancholy smile. “Thanks, Wyatt. I only wish you did.”

•     •     •

Because the weather was bad, they stayed inside and tackled the Ex Libris Online spec. They covered their business perfunctorily, wrapping up as night fell. The atmosphere between them had thawed some, but there was still an unease, some wound, Wyatt realized, that might never heal.

Vincien returned from the kitchen, carrying an open beer. He handed it to Wyatt and sat on the other chair by the fireplace.

“What’s on your mind?”

Vincien worked his fingers nervously before the fire. “Before you answer, think. And please take me seriously.”

Wyatt nodded with apprehension.

“What would you say if I invited you to . . . continue your relationship with Natalie?”

Wyatt raised his eyebrows. This wasn’t the proposition he’d expected.

“I, well—”

“Please. Seriously
think
about it.” Vincien launched himself from the chair and paced about the room.

Wyatt sat back, trying to remain composed.

Could he do it? It sounded too good to be true. It was one thing to sleep with another man’s wife when you thought you were being sneaky, when you knew you had bested him. But to do it openly, with her husband’s approval. . . . It just wasn’t the same.

He recalled rocking with his grandmother on her porch swing, tucked under her soft arm as she warned him about the dangers of the world. What had she told him? “There’s a price to pay for committing adultery, Wyatt: ‘Whoso committeth adultery lacketh understanding: he that doeth it destroyeth his own soul.’” But that was long ago. His grandmother was dead and, along with her sayings, only a memory.

Wyatt looked at Vincien, but Vincien was gazing out the window at the night. Wyatt thought he glimpsed Natalie standing outside in the cold, but it was only the reflection of Vincien’s gaunt face.

Wyatt took a long draught of beer before he spoke.

“That’s tempting. Natalie is a beautiful woman.”

“She says you satisfy her.”

Wyatt was mortified, and his face burned. He never dreamed Natalie had shared any details. For a moment, he wondered if Vincien wanted a threesome. No, he refused to go there.

“Believe me,” Vincien said, “I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing it for her.”

Wyatt thought again before he replied. “I don’t doubt the honor of your sacrifice. But how long could this arrangement last? I’m a single guy. I’d like to get married one day. Natalie’s a treasure, yet if I couldn’t have her for myself. . . .”

Vincien’s eyes glowed red in the firelight. “I see.”

For all Vincien’s selflessness, Wyatt thought he looked relieved. More than that. Thrilled.

Wyatt had made the right decision. It really was over between him and Natalie.

Vincien left the room.

Wyatt’s mouth had gone dry. He finished his beer, set the empty bottle on the floor beside his chair, leaned back and closed his eyes. He would have to break it off completely with Natalie. He would miss her, but he also felt relieved. He drifted off to sleep to the soft hiss of the fire.

When he roused, he expected to see dying embers but, opening his eyes, it wasn’t the fireplace he saw. He was staring, bleary-eyed, at the cabin’s rough-timbered ceiling.

Where was he? Had he passed out?

He realized he was lying on the kitchen table. Naked. His cock was wet as if he’d just had sex. But with whom? He tried to lift his head, but it only rolled to one side. He felt sluggish, drugged. Vince must have slipped something in his beer.

Natalie stood there in a red teddy, sobbing. Mascara bled down her swollen cheeks. Her lacquered nails flashed like rubies as she tortured her shining sable hair.

He lolled his head to the other side. Tall and raw-boned, Vincien stooped over him, a sallow grimness in his features.

Wyatt’s heart raced. Blood thundered in his head.

Natalie gasped and clawed Wyatt’s shoulder. “He’s not what you think, Wyatt. I have to take care of him! I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.”

A large, cold hand pressed down on Wyatt’s chest. He groaned from deep within.

Thin lips parting, Vincien’s white face drew nearer.

Wyatt pinched his mouth shut, tried to twist his head away. Vincien’s rancid panting moved lower.

When Wyatt glimpsed the lustrous teeth, he realized Vincien wasn’t sex-hungry. Never had been.

Writhing under the torrid slavering, Wyatt bucked as the fangs sunk in.

The Worst Thing

by
Lee Allen Howard
 

P
etie would’ve shut his eyes, but he was too afraid. He clutched the edge of his blanket in the dark, while shadowed branches raked the walls of Nate’s room as if searching for him.

Now in second grade, he and Nate had been neighborhood playmates since kindergarten. This was the first time their friendship had surpassed sundown, and Petie wished it hadn’t now.

Nate had no nightlight like Petie did at home. Nate’s mom and dad didn’t even leave the light on above the kitchen sink. They hadn’t come in to read a story or hug them. Didn’t even say goodnight. They just disappeared into their room and shut the door tight. Petie’s parents always kissed him goodnight and left their door open.

Worst of all, Nate’s parents left their house unlocked. The back door was wide open, the flimsy storm door all that stood between them and what lurked outside in the night. The only thing that kept Petie from bursting into tears was his Bubby.

Blue Bubby had been his constant companion for as long as he could remember. Bubby used to be bluer, but the fabric was worn and soft, and Petie could find every hole by heart even in the dark. Stroking Bubby’s silky hem usually helped Petie fall asleep. But not tonight.

Dad said Bubby stank, but Petie thought Bubby smelled wonderful. Mom often wanted to wash Bubby, but Petie hated that. Having to leave the Bubster behind while he was at school was bad enough. When he finally made it home, he wanted Bubby with him at all times. So, on a day she didn’t work, Mom washed Bubby while he was at school.

Even then, Petie feared good ol’ Bubby might dissolve or, carried off to the cellar with a basketful of dirty underpants, never return. Grownups could arrange things like that, you know.

Mom and Dad gave him lots of reasons why it was high time he gave up Bubby. The one that irked him most was, “Big boys don’t need security blankets.”

Petie disagreed.

Recently his parents had resorted to the dreadful tactic of asking him to surrender Bubby.

“Peter, your father and I think it’s time you put Bubby away. I’ll take care of it. Will you give him to me?”

This would make him cry, make his mother sigh, and make his father frown.

That afternoon Mom warned him not to take Bubby to Nate’s house. Petie promised he wouldn’t, but when he was upstairs alone, he folded Bubby inside the big blanket he was taking.

He had waited until Nate stopped talking before bringing Bubby out, but now that Nate was asleep, Petie still felt alone. Staying over wasn’t such a hot idea after all. Maybe next year, but not now. Not tonight.

Feeble moonlight seeped through the window. No matter how long he stroked Bubby’s silky hem, he would never sleep with those horrid shadows of elm branches clawing the wallpaper.

Times like these, his father would ask him,
“What’s the worst thing that could happen?”
—as if that was supposed to help.

His lips trembled, but he dared not cry. If he did, he wouldn’t be able to stop, and that would wake everybody up, and Nate would think he was a baby.

Instead of crying, he would go home. Home where it was safe. Where the nightlight glowed bravely and the doors were all locked. Safe in his own bed, clutching Bubby, Mom and Dad in the next room with the door open. He and Nate could have a sleepover some other time. At his house.

What should he tell Nate? He couldn’t say he was afraid. Nate would call him a sissy, and he hated that. But he couldn’t leave without telling Nate. He needed a good reason.

Petie kicked off the big blanket and stuffed Bubby up the back of his pajama top. Biting his lip, he shook Nate’s shoulder.

“Nate,” he whispered. No response.

He shook a little harder. “Nate!”

Nate lolled his head around and squinted at Petie. “Whuh?”

“Sick . . . my stomach.” Petie clutched his tummy and hunched over, grimacing. “Gotta go home. Take some medicine.” He groaned a little for added effect.

Nate rubbed his eyes and propped himself on his elbows. “Oh. Okay.” Then he lay back down and shut his eyes, as if nothing had transpired.

Petie decided not to dress. He could come back for his clothes tomorrow. He jammed his bare feet into his sneakers and groped through the living room to the kitchen where the door hung open. He pulled Bubby from his pajama top and let himself out.

As he huddled on the back stoop, fall wind tousled his hair and launched a legion of goosebumps. He wished he had dressed now.

Home wasn’t far—just one block over. But it sure was dark. He hadn’t considered that he’d be walking home in the dark. And how would he get in the house? He didn’t want to wake his parents. They would see he’d brought his Bubby.

What’s the worst thing that could happen?

Just when his lips began to tremble, he remembered the key under a stone beneath the moonflower bush. He would find the key, unlock the door, slip inside and lock the door behind him. Then he would be safe.

He stepped into the grass, wet and cold with dew. He shivered. Which way should he go? Out front, West Van Buren Street had the best light. He draped Blue Bubby over his back like a cape, pinched the hem about his neck and scurried around the side of the house.

A thin man lurked beneath the corner streetlight. He was smoking a cigarette and looked suspicious. Might be a murderer or some weirdo who liked to pinch little boys’ butts. Petie wouldn’t chance that. Slowly, he retreated.

Between Nate’s and home, he either had to cut through the neighbor’s backyard or cross to the end of Nate’s yard and take the alley all the way to Fulton Street.

If he cut through Nussbaums’ backyard, he might wake their Rottweiler, who would bark and snarl, or he might get caught in the dog’s chain or trip over the lawn furniture and rouse grumpy old Mr. Nussbaum.

Not a good idea. He would chance the alley, although it was hardly safer.

The alley was treacherous and had no streetlight, and at the end of Mr. Nussbaum’s yard, there was a certain spot that a larch tree overshadowed, a spot where the hedge was thickest. He loathed passing that place even at noon on a sunny day. For some reason, that spot smelled horrible.

Mr. Nussbaum’s Rottweiler dragged its chain in the dark.

Petie drew his Bubby tighter about his neck and hurried across Nate’s backyard. Mounting the ridge of scraggly grass between the tire ruts, he started down the alley toward Fulton Street as if straddling a balance beam.

Should he go fast or slow? If he ran, he would panic, as if some beast had been enticed to chase him. If he walked, the terror would seem everlasting.

He settled on a moderate pace until he approached the spot where the black hedge on his right grew thickest and the larch drooped over the alley and dropped things without warning—the horrid place where shadows lurked, snakes slithered, bats fluttered.

And then he smelled it. That disgusting, repulsive odor. Like spoiled milk and dead rats.

The stench!

He gagged and began to run, knowing that something was chasing him, something nasty that would seize him at the end of the hedgerow.

That rustling!

The wind? Or some creature pacing him on the other side of the hedge, snorting through the leaves and thorns, waiting to pounce on him when he finally reached the corner?

Something snatched at him from behind, snagging his poor blanket.

He soaked his pajamas with a squirt of hot urine and, too breathless to scream, clenched Bubby tighter and spun around.