Shivers 7 (15 page)

A killer. Exactly the kind of crap those best-selling horror writers would dream up. Creep dresses as a cop, pretends to make a welfare check, gets the victim’s guard down, then performs a Hannibal Lecter on his ass
.
Then—insert creepy synthesizer riff—blame it on the Curse of the Rominger Place!

The idea was so outlandish that Roger was thinking of a way to work it into his article—“The Mysterious Stranger who showed up at the crack of midnight”—when the deputy drew to a halt.

“Here it is.”

Roger stayed close to the deputy, expecting to find a band of yellow tape blowing in the wind, a remnant of a crime scene investigation, though Maude’s death had been investigated long before the era of modern forensics. Instead, a rusty sheet of tin lay on the ground, covered by brown weeds and red briars.

“Too cold for rattlesnakes,” the deputy said, booting the piece of tin to the side. The kick revealed a wedge of blackness deeper than the night, and a moist, fetid aroma arose from the crevice. Another kick and the gap grew wide enough to hold a man.

“How deep is it?” Roger asked.

“Depends,” the deputy said, and Roger expected him to add some somber witticism like “What’s the bottom of a human soul?” but instead he said, “In the melt, the water rises and it’s about twenty feet down. Right now, in the dry times, I’d guess thirty feet.”

Roger thought that wasn’t so deep for a murdering hole. Of course, Maude had been chopped up like a slutty extra banging the director of a low-budget slasher flick, so she had been dead long before her meat hit the water. The children, on the other hand—

“What about the two other skeletons?” Roger asked, for the first time realizing how isolated the Rominger Place was. Too far from the liquor store for bums, too squalid for hippie hikers. Even with their flashlights fixed on the well, which swallowed the beams as if thirsting, no porch lights were visible against the surrounding hills.

“They were fished out long ago,” the deputy said. “A smart fellow like you would have read up on that.”

The deputy stressed the word “smart” with the same subtle sneer he’d used in questioning Roger’s interest in the house and its history.

“No charges were ever filed, and their identities were never verified.”

“According to the newspapers and court records.”

Roger tilted his light up, sending eerie shadows crawling along the deputy’s face. “But you know something that wasn’t put down in the report, huh? A family secret, maybe?”

“Family secrets stay in the family, even if it’s a married secret,” the deputy said. “But, no, it’s nothing like that.”

“Okay, how much do you want? I know our fine public servants never get adequately rewarded for all the risks and hardships they endure. I’m willing to compensate—”

The eyes didn’t flinch, and seemed to absorb the light in the same manner as the well. “Bribing an officer is a felony in this state.”

“No, sir, you misunderstood. I meant, after you go off duty. Personal, not professional.” Despite the autumn breeze and the cool, sinuous draft rising from the well, sweat ringed Roger’s scalp.

“I don’t go off duty,” the deputy said, motioning toward the opening with the flashlight. “You want a look or not?”

Roger gulped, glanced at the man’s packed side holster, and nodded. He’d come this far, and no doubt he’d find enough adjectives to wring out his Horror Hood article, despite the deputy’s reticence.

Just one look
,
for the sake of first-person narrative.

He knelt, half expecting a shove from behind as he played his thin beam into the inky hollow. The deputy drew closer, shining his own light over Roger’s shoulder. Despite the deputy’s assurance about reptilian hibernation, Roger thought he heard the faint scraping of scaly skin over stone.

“See ’em?” the deputy said, in an almost reverent tone.

Roger saw nothing but blackness, the glint of moist rocks, twin dots of light reflecting from the water far below. “No, I—”

And then he did see them. Two tiny skeletons with mossy bones half submerged. As he tried to steady his shaking light, the dark water rippled. A stalk of white bones lifted, water dripping from the cracked and bent calcite. The second form also rose from the water, shaking water like a gaunt dog in a storm.

Then they were climbing, reaching with brittle fingers, skulls tilted back and staring upward with eyes blacker than the Devil’s bowels.

Roger drew back, dropping his light, and the clatter echoed for a couple of seconds before a distant splash marked its watery grave. He fell against the deputy’s knees, scrambling, and the deputy put a boot down on the fingers of his writing hand.

“Got a good mind to kick you in there with them,” the deputy said. “Like he did with Maude.”

“Please,” Roger said, summoning enough strength to rip his hand free and roll away in the crisp weeds, briars tearing at his clothes. From the hole arose a high-pitched wail, the cries of lost and frightened children. The sound grew louder, with less reverberation, marking their progress up the slimy sides of the well. Roger imagined those thin, sharp phalanges probing for chinks, jaws hinged open and grinning, eyeholes fixed on the lesser darkness that beckoned from above.

“Hollis got his peace, too,” the deputy said. “Can you imagine being married to a woman who called these things up night after night? A lonesome, heart-broke woman who couldn’t bear children of her own? Somebody who maybe got a little crazy in the head?”

Panting, Roger scrambled along the trail, heedless of the rusted barbwire tugging his flesh, the branches slapping at his face.

The deputy was right behind him, marching, taunting. “You want answers, Mr. Smart University Man, or do you want me to lay the tin back over the well and close it off?”

Roger, unable to regain his legs, flopped against a rotted shed. “Close it! For God’s sake, close it!”

The deputy stomped away. Metallic thunder boomed, the tin stomped into place with a sure, heavy boot. Roger could barely hear it over the hammer of his own pulse in his ears, the windstorm of his own breath. Then the flashlight beam was on his face.

“You maybe want to go see what’s wrote on the walls?”

Roger squinted against the force of the light and shook his head.

“Maude didn’t leave that message. Hollis did. And he didn’t write just ‘Well.’ The witchwoman got that part wrong, because the flour had sifted down a little bit and smeared the words.”

Words?

“It really said, ‘All is well.’ Like Maude had finally paid for her sins.”

“How do you know?” The flashlight burned his eyes, and Roger could no longer be sure a man stood behind its all-consuming brilliance.

“Romingers don’t take kindly to trespassing.”

“Please, deputy, just let me get my gear and—”

“You won’t be doing no writing here. Not about this place.”

“No, sir, of course not. But the laptop is valuable and I left—”

“I can move that piece of tin if you want. I don’t know how fast the twins are, but they ain’t got nothing but time.”

Roger raised a palm to ward off the glare. He thought he heard a rattling thump of rusty sheet metal. “Okay, I’m gone. I’ll keep your secret.”

“Ain’t my secret. Now it’s yours.”

Roger rose, wiping at a bloody scratch on his cheek. His car was a couple hundred feet away. He could make it in the dark, assuming he was pointed in the right direction. Turn the key, put the Rominger Place and its strange guardian in the rearview mirror, find a clean, well-lighted hotel, get out the telephone note pad and an ink pen—

For the first time, he’d be able to spin an unbelievable tale without lying.

“Your kind has been through here before,” the deputy said. “All of them came to the same deal. And all of them lived to not tell, if you catch my drift.”

Roger longed to put distance between himself and the well, and now he hurried on aching, limp legs, as if balanced on the extended slant of the flashlight’s beam. He was still undecided on how much he’d give to Horror Hood, but his asking price had just tripled. He sprinted past the open doorway of the house, his lantern inside painting a yellow rectangle against the warped boards. He was nearly to the car—

No sheriff’s cruiser on the overgrown road
—

when the flashlight beam switched on, fifty feet in front of him.

“Some stories don’t got no end, Mr. Main. Don’t you forget that.”

He’d not given the officer his name.

By the time he’d slid behind the wheel and fumbled with his keys, dropping them twice like they always did in horror movies, the light had bobbed closer. The engine caught and he pumped the gas, yanking the transmission into gear. He navigated toward the swelling circle of light that blocked him from the highway.

The light might have been the tip of a great cigarette, a monstrous out-of-season firefly, or a portal to hell. Whatever its nature, he would ram through it. Twigs scratched the chassis, or maybe it was small bones. The air tasted yellow again, the light piercing, and Roger wondered if crime scene tape would mark off the tire tracks leading away from the corpse of an officer killed in the line of duty.

But he went toward the light (just like those phony mediums suggested to fictional lost spirits on television), then through it, and there was no thud of meat against the bumper, no grunt of pain, no spray of blood on the windshield.

The wheels spun in the mud and weeds, and he fishtailed away, giving one last glance in the mirror, half expecting the deputy to be sitting in the back seat like a legendary hitchhiker.

Only darkness stared back.

It continued staring all the way to the Tennessee line.

Sleeping with the Bower Birds

Kaaron Warren

Flowering trees reached over either side of the driveway, forming a tunnel Serena felt nervous to walk through. She heard the high buzz of bees and a chorus of birds, and hoped they wouldn’t be attracted to her. The clothes she wore belonged to the store and her boss would make her pay for them if they got shat on.

Next to the driveway, the front lawn stretched green and manicured.

There stood a naked marble woman, posed with a hand resting over her pubic bone. The other arm was lifted, holding a bowl; here, birds fluttered in the water. Serena, thankful of the excuse to put her heavy bags down, touched the cold marble, admiring the lifelike pose.

Stones in diminishing sizes lined the path across the lawn to the front door, and she walked up the steps wondering if she’d brought the right selection of clothing. In the store, mother and daughter, Rachel and Ava, had seemed shy, unsure of themselves. Rachel was tiny and could wear almost anything, as long as it was adjusted to her height. Ava was much larger, but clothing was made for her size these days. It was the coloring; she was pale. And she lacked confidence, so any new clothes had to build on that, not make her feel more self-conscious. So nothing showing cleavage, nothing too tight. Serena’s boss had left the selection up to her. “I can’t deal with any woman fatter than size ten,” her boss had said.

Serena hefted her bags again, hoping they’d like what she brought.

“You came!” Rachel said, throwing open the front door. “Let’s go round the back. Ava’s in the granny flat. Well, she calls it the den. We call it the granny flat.” She stepped out, strained her head towards the driveway. “Where’d you park?”

Serena stammered, not wanting to admit she’d come by public transport. She was trying to appear professional, as if she did this for a living.

“What, d’you come by bus? Don’t worry, my brother’ll give you a lift home.” She led the way down the driveway and around the back, through an ornate gate that seemed to sigh as she opened it. The granny flat looked half the size of the house itself. “Ava!”

The girl opened the door sullenly, as if she was expecting the dentist rather than a woman bringing bags of clothes for her. She was about the same age as Serena and they’d bonded in the store over the awful muzak playing.

Inside, the granny flat was neat but dull, and far smaller than it had appeared on the outside. It was stuffy and warm.
Thick walls and plenty of insulation,
Serena thought.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Rachel said. “I’ll bring us all back some champers in a while, how about that?”, egging her daughter on as if this was some treat, something she’d looked forward to.

Ava lifted her shoulders and didn’t let them drop again.

Serena straightened the nest-like bed and laid out the clothing she’d brought. “Let’s pull your hair back, cos it can be easier to see a style that way,” she said, thinking that the lank, greasy hair might dirty the samples.

She handed Ava a dress with three-quarter sleeves, tapered hem and a square neckline. “I’ve got a good feeling about this one. I wasn’t sure about the color, so I brought a few, but let’s start with the dark brown.”

Ava took it reluctantly and stood with it draping on the floor.

“I’ll wait outside,” Serena said, and tugged open the sticky glass door.

She wasn’t sure how long it would take, or if the girl would have the confidence to call her when she was ready. She stood, arms crossed, stamping her feet to keep warm.

The back garden was small but beautifully designed. She saw four more naked female statues, each one more graphic than the last. Someone had draped an old dress over one of them and she wondered if this was humor or prurience. Who sculpted these? They were very good; anatomically correct, and the women’s faces beautiful; slack with desire. She walked amongst them, touching the cold marble, enjoying the art.

She pulled up sharp when she realized there was an aviary running along the back fence. She hadn’t seen it behind the statues and the long trails of tomato plants, cactus pots and calendula flowers. There was movement inside but she couldn’t see the birds, so stepped up to the wire cage.

She didn’t notice the man until she heard him breathing. Wheezing.

He crouched on a stack of concrete blocks, his knees under his chin, his long, thin arms wrapped around his shins. His hair stood straight up and had feathers stuck in it. His face was unevenly shaved and seemed bruised. He didn’t look at her and she wondered if he’d even seen her. He ducked his head and tilted it as if listening to something she couldn’t hear.

She stepped carefully away.

Ava opened the granny flat door and stood in the doorway.

“Oh, look!” Rachel said. She held a tray of drinks and carried a packet of potato chips under her arm. “Look at her!” Rachel’s long, brightly-painted fingernails were like talons. She scratched a red spot on her cheek. “You look gorgeous!”

Ava smiled. “I actually look okay,” she said.

“Let’s try some more stuff on,” Serena said, taking a glass of champagne. “I’ve got these amazing pants, and some tops that will look fantastic on you.” She had a feeling she was going to sell the lot. The boutique owner would be thrilled.

Serena and Rachel waited outside with their champagne as Ava tried on the next outfit. The man had turned his head, though his body remained still. He looked at them with wide eyes.

“That’s my brother-in-law, Finch. He loves birds.”

“Is his name really Finch?”

“He’s my ex-husband Jay’s brother. Their father was obsessed with birds. Geddit, Jay and Finch? He was a real shit. It’s why I forgave Jay a lot. Why we lasted as long as we did. Total arsehole.” She spoke between sips of champagne, drinking it like a bird swallowing nectar.

“Your ex or the father?” Serena said, curious. Her family had rare divorces and there were no obsessions. None spoken of.

“Funny! Both of them. Two arseholes in one family. Finch’s all right, though. Harmless.” He turned back to the aviary, resting one hand on the wire. Two jet black birds with bright gold peaks hopped around, pecking.

“What sort of birds are they?”

“Bower birds. You should see. They make the most amazing nests.”

Bowers,
Serena thought but didn’t say.

“Regent Bower Birds,” Finch said.

Rachel rolled her eyes.

“I’ll give you a feather next time they drop one. You could pin it on your dress.”

Inside the aviary was another naked woman statue, this one with her hands on her hips, her back arched, her throat exposed, her chin sharp, beak-like. A bird sat on her shoulder, hopping up and down.

“They’re a bit crazy cos they’re locked up,” Rachel said.

“They’re not crazy! They get to build a new one whenever they want!” Finch said. He pointed.

There were two birds and two bowers. One ran deep, to the back wall and into darkness, the other rose over a log and was built up against the left hand wall. It glinted in the sunlight that shone briefly. Serena saw glass, mirrors, silver paper, scraps of metal and tiny balls. “It’s beautiful!” She said.

Finch nodded. “They get better as they get older. These guys are both getting on. They’ve had like twenty wives each.”

“Wives!” Rachel snorted. “Those birds are as sleazy as Jay. Come on, let’s check on Ava.”

Ava had showered; her hair was wet but clean, her face shining. She’d only rejected a couple of the items, things Serena had thrown in as a contrast. Serena was pleased with herself. Rachel whistled in appreciation.

“You should try some of this stuff on,” Ava said. “I want to see what it looks like on a skinny person.”

“I’m not skinny and you’re not fat,” Serena said, looking at Rachel for back up.

“She could drop a dress size. Easy. Look at me; it’s genetic, you know.” Rachel was far too skinny, almost bird-like, Serena thought. Like a skinny little starved sparrow.

Ava twitched. Serena said, “Dress sizes vary so much, don’t you think? My mother is really big, but then she only wears trakkie daks and truly awful T-shirts so who the hell knows what size she is?”

“Where did you get your style from? What’s the secret?”

“A little bird told me not to tell,” Serena said. They all laughed, tiny peck peck snickers, and Ava put her arm around Serena.

“You’re cool. We like you.”

“We do! You should stay,” Rachel said.

“I probably should get going.” Serena wanted to stay but she was here on business. She wasn’t here to make friends. Her boss had told her,
don’t get personal with them. Don’t get caught up. They’ll be asking for freebies if you do.

“I’ll get my brother to give you a lift home,” Rachel said. Serena looked out at Finch, still squatting near the glinting bowers. “No, not him! My actual brother, Luke. Chalk and cheese!”

Luke came out carrying keys. Serena caught her breath. He was broad, strong, tanned. Aquiline. He smelled good. Clean. Expensive scent but not a lot of it.

“He’s a catch,” Rachel whispered. “Don’t worry about it. He’s got women all over him but he’s a nice guy. Don’t worry about it.”

Luke drove casually, confidently. She liked a man who drove like that.

“So you sell clothes? I used to own a clothes shop. I love fashion. But my girlfriend kicked me out and took the lot. I couldn’t even bring stuff down for Rach and Ava.”

“That’s a shame. So do you still deal with clothes?”

“Nahh, I’m a builder by trade. Built that place, my sister’s place. I’ll show you around next time. I’ve done some shit hot stuff there.”

“I don’t know if I’ll come back. Ava’s picked heaps of clothes.”

“You can come back to visit me then.” He winked. “Rache’s a lot older than me, don’t worry! And don’t worry about Finch, either. He’s a fucking lunatic, but I’ll be getting him out soon.”

Serena hated being dropped at her plain, unadorned, quiet house, so clearly a family home. She didn’t want him to know she still lived with her parents. He drove her to the door, kissed her cheek, gave her his card and said, “Call me.”

She went back a month later, after texting with Ava, sharing music and jokes.

There was a high bamboo fence built in front of the house and she wondered if Luke had done it alone, bare-chested, or if Finch had helped him.

She walked through the driveway bower and around the back to see Finch. She could hear him cheep cheeping and wondered if they’d talk back today.

She arrived to find him leaving the cage, feathers and twigs in his hair, the mark of same on his cheek. There was a tiny bone over his ear. She pointed.

“They love bones. Human bones the best, but not the big ones. Hand bones. Toe bones. They love those. Ear bones. They can make a beautiful bower out of those. That’s why they’re called ghost birds. That and the mimicry.” He tilted his head from side to side, his mouth opening and shutting. “Usually they mimic other songs, but in captivity they mimic human voices.” He put his finger on his lips.

Silence.

“They’re clearer at dawn,” he said. “And you have to know what to listen for.” He crouched. She realized that his elbows were in his crotch and looked away.

As the light dropped, Serena thought she saw movement in the cage, fluttering. “Did you get more birds? It seems busy in there.”

He gave a “huh” of surprise. “Why, do you see more?”

She squinted. “No…I thought I did.”

“After you spend a night with ghost birds, nothing is ever the same,” he said.

The bower birds sat each in the mouth of their bower. Each had added items since she was last there: hair ties, plastic bag scraps, Christmas tinsel. She’d read about the tricks they used, the visual manipulation they played with, to make their bowers look bigger and more impressive than they actually were. Lining up stones from smallest to largest, so it appeared to be a grand walkway. Tricky in such a small space, but she imagined these creations in all their magnificence out in the open.

She wondered how lonely they felt, sitting there with their beautiful homes, waiting for females who never arrived.

“Don’t they get frustrated?”

He pressed his elbows harder into his crotch. “I bring ’em ladies every now and then. Borrow them from a mate. He gets the babies but he gives me one when these ones die. He takes the ladies away when it’s all done. They have to make their own nest.”

“Just like Rachel’s ex,” Serena said, making the family joke.

“Jay’s nested happily with his second wife,” Finch said, casting a guilty look at the house. “They just didn’t get on.”

Rachel called out, “Come in if you’re coming in! Dinner’s on!”

“I’m not hungry,” Finch said, cheeping it like a bird, but he reached into his pocket and pulled out a packet of sunflower seeds.

“Not hungry,” she heard, an echo, one clear note.

“What was that?”

“Huh!” Finch said again. He stood up; skinny legs, jeans too short. She mostly saw him squatting and was surprised again at how tall he was.

Fragile.

“He can learn to sound like you if you want him to. Pick a sentence and say it to him.”

“What sort of thing?”

“Doesn’t have to be profound.” He smiled, his cheeks lifting up to show his rough yellow teeth.

“Polly want a cracker?”

“Not that!” But he laughed with her. “Something you’d like to be remembered for.”

“I know.” She leaned into the cage and spoke breathily, imagining herself Coco Chanel. “I don’t do fashion. I am fashion.”

“Say it again,” he whispered. “Sometimes they need to hear it twice.”

“I don’t do fashion. I am fashion.”

The bird turned his head at her, his beak opening and closing. He squawked a few times as if practicing, then repeated the words.

“He sounded like me!”

Finch ducked gently, then reached in with a piece of apple; they came to him, all of them hacking at it till he dropped it.

“What did they learn from you? What do you want to be remembered for?”

“I can’t think of anything,” he said, and Serena thought that was the saddest thing she’d heard in a while.

“Come inside,” Ava said, tugging at Serena’s arm. “Finch is okay. Leave her alone, Finch.” Ava wore the pants and shirt Serena had chosen for her; she seemed to walk with more confidence, and she’d had her hair cut. They could hear Rachel singing inside, her trilling, wordless song.