The Night Parade (40 page)

I
t took him several attempts before he made it up the front porch. Beneath him, the steps seemed to melt and grow soft, and he kept losing his footing. At one point, the handrail turned into a large millipede, its countless legs thrashing, its body undulating beneath his hand, causing him to scream, lose his balance, and tumble down the stairs. Several times he nearly gave up, and curled up on the ground. But the sound of the bugs in the grass began to drive him mad.

When he finally made it inside, he found that the sky outside the windows was a hellish black, even though he knew it was still midday. He progressed down the hallway, one hand on the wall for support. When he passed the open bathroom door, he saw Burt Langstrom standing there, his face half gone, a fireworks display of blood sprayed along the bathroom mirror. When David blinked again, Burt was no longer there.

In the kitchen, Dr. Kapoor was seated in a chair, his face as expressionless as a cadaver's. The charred remains of Deke Carmody appeared beside David at that moment, not even startling him. David could smell Deke's burned flesh, and when Deke grinned, it was the grin of a skull covered in flaking black chips.

Go on,
Deke said, acknowledging Kapoor propped up in the chair.
Grab some of that moonshine, a match, and burn the motherfucker. In fact, go ahead and burn down the whole house. Hell, that's what I did.

But when he turned to respond, Deke was gone. So was Kapoor. The house was empty.

Yet when he turned back to the wall of windows, he saw that a figure stood outside, peering in at him. It was a dark-skinned little boy with rosary beads around his neck. As David stared at him, the boy's mouth unhinged and a catlike hiss ratcheted up his throat.

David turned away, his heart thumping. The periphery of his vision was breaking apart, leaving a border of blackness around everything. It was like looking through binoculars.

Ellie stood in the doorway.

“Are . . . are you real?” David managed.

“I couldn't leave you like this,” she said, crossing the kitchen and coming over to him. He knelt down, wrapped her in his arms, and indeed she felt solid. Real.

“They don't have to be bad,” Ellie said into his ear. “Some of them are beautiful. Some of them are the most beautiful things you can imagine. I think that if you hold on to beautiful things when the end comes, then that's what you'll see. It'll be like walking into a wonderful dream.”

From over Ellie's shoulder, David could see the shoe box sitting on the kitchen table. The lid was open, the three eggs, impossibly delicate yet somehow quite formidable, corralled together in that skilled construction of twigs and leaves and bits of paper.

He smiled, his vision growing blurry with tears.

One of the eggs rolled onto its side. A second egg rocked. A third jumped. One shell appeared to bulge just the slightest bit . . . and then it cracked, a section of it falling away, a dark triangle left in its wake. One of the other eggs cracked down the middle, splitting open. The thing inside the shell was fully feathered, alive, wide-eyed, chirping.

David laughed. The tears were coming freely now. So was the trickle of blood from his nose. Ellie's arms grew tighter around him.

The birds zigzagged around the room, frantic and beautiful, their birdsong soothing the throb of his headache.

“Let me take you there,” Ellie whispered to him.

Just a little while,
he told himself, closing his eyes and inhaling the scent of his daughter.
Just rest here a little while . . .

The pressure in his head grew. Blurry smears of dazzling lights projected against his eyelids. Still, he heard the birdsong.

A
nd he woke up on a patch of green grass, staring at the sky. The air smelled fresh and clouds chugged lazily across the bright blue heavens. As he watched, a single bird darted across the sky, small and sharp and fast, like an arrow fired from a bow. Two more birds followed it . . . and then three, five, nine, twenty more . . .

A moment later, the whole sky was infused with birds—small ones, large ones, countless varieties, shapes, colors—their birdsong a radiant cacophony that seemed to impart wisdom, grant wishes, make dreams come true, the flutter of their wings a chorus of rustling velvet drapes.

David stood up. He found he was home, standing on his own front lawn. He turned and hurried up the walkway to the front door. He gripped the knob, cool to the touch, and turned it. When he eased the door open, he heard a sound like falling typewriter keys or distant tap dancing—toys lined up on the other side of the door, little plastic figurines, a Night Parade in broad daylight announcing his presence.

He entered the house, crossed down the hall, and froze when he came through the kitchen doorway.

Kathy and Ellie were seated at the kitchen table. There was a birthday cake with a waxy number 9 candle on it. Ellie's stuffed elephant was propped up beside the cake, a pointed party hat fastened to its head. There was also an empty seat waiting for him.

Kathy waved him over. Laughed beautifully.

Ellie brightened, just as she used to when she was a little girl. “Daddy,” she said.

“Little Spoon,” he said.

And he went to them.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

It's romantic to think of a story as a found thing, a relic unearthed. Some say stories have always existed, and it's the author's job to bring them out into the light of day, much like some sculptors believe their artwork is hidden within the confines of a block of stone. Others believe that you trip over a story, much like you'd trip over a rock half-buried in the earth, and all that is required is for the author to dig it out. And maybe sometimes all of that is true. Other times, it takes the input and counsel of a great many people.

Many thanks to my agent, Cameron McClure, whose finger rested firmly on the pulse of this novel from the very beginning and whose guidance helped me shape it. Thanks to my editor, Peter Senftleben, whose suggestions raised this tale to the next level. My undying gratitude to my own personal savior, Dr. Charles J. Sailey, MD, MS, for his input on all things medical, and for the generosity of his valuable time and even more valuable knowledge. A tip of the hat to Jim Braswell, my brother in words, for his insight and faith, and to the inimitable Kristopher Rufty for his friendship, input, and at least one late-night phone call when I thought all was lost and he showed me how to find it again. Thank you to my wife, Debra, who remains my strongest critic (as all wives are) and my most reliable sounding board (as all wives should be), and to my dad, who's got a good sense of story and an even better sense for telling me when I've gone off the rails. Lastly, thanks to my daughters, Madison and Hayden, without whom this book would not exist. You rock Dad's world.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

R
ONALD
M
ALFI
is an award-winning author of several horror novels, mysteries, and thrillers. He is the recipient of two Independent Publisher Book Awards, the Beverly Hills Book Award, the Vincent Preis Horror Award, the Benjamin Franklin Award for Popular Fiction, and he is a Bram Stoker Award nominee. Most recognized for his haunting, literary style and memorable characters, Malfi's dark fiction has gained acceptance among readers of all genres. He currently lives in Maryland with his wife, Debra, and their two daughters. Readers can learn more about his work at
www.ronmalfi.com
.

If you liked
The Night Parade
, be sure to read
Little Girls
, available now!

 

 

 

 

 

When Laurie was a little girl, she was forbidden to enter the room at the top of the stairs. It was one of many rules imposed by her cold, distant father. Now, in a final act of desperation, her father has exorcised his demons. But when Laurie returns to claim the estate with her husband and ten-year-old daughter, it's as if the past refuses to die. She feels it lurking in the broken moldings, sees it staring from an empty picture frame, hears it laughing in the moldy greenhouse deep in the woods . . .

At first, Laurie thinks she's imagining things. But when she meets her daughter's new playmate, Abigail, she can't help but notice her uncanny resemblance to another little girl who used to live next door. Who
died
next door. With each passing day, Laurie's uneasiness grows stronger, her thoughts more disturbing. Like her father, is she slowly losing her mind? Or is something truly unspeakable happening to those sweet little girls?