Vanish (7 page)

A sick feeling rose in the pit of her stomach. A growing fear replaced the numbness that had been there earlier. She had to find someone. She had to find some answers. She had called 911 several times on her cell phone, but to no avail. No one answered. She found a public phone and paged through the phone book, dialing every government agency and emergency number she could find. But each time she met with a dead-end recording or no answer at all.

At length, she fell onto a curbside bench and buried her face in her hands. Her sobs came in convulsions as she thought of Kyle, suffering somewhere out there all alone. Was he even still alive?

Finally she regained a grip on her senses and went back to her car. She leaned in the door and pressed the horn.

“Help me!”

She blared the horn again and screamed.

“Can anyone hear me?”

She paused to listen a moment and then repeated it.

After several more times, she heard something, faint and distant.

Voices.

Helen looked around. It
was
voices. But not faint. Not distant. They were merely soft. Quiet. Almost like…

Whispers.

She held her breath. The whispering was soft at first, like remote echoes, reverberating off the buildings. She couldn’t tell which direction it was coming from. She spun around and strained to listen, tilting her head.

One voice whispered off to her left. Another replied to her right.

Helen peered into the storefront windows and doorways on either side of the street. But no matter which direction she turned, the voice seemed to come from behind her. It was as if someone was watching her. Toying with her. She couldn’t make out any words. Just whispers.

Fear flowed up like a fountain inside her, flooding her veins with ice. Something wasn’t right. Whatever these voices were, somehow she knew they weren’t friendly. They weren’t trying to help.

Then she turned and caught a glimpse of movement across the street. A shadow slipped into a doorway and out of view. Her heart jumped. Was that Kyle? She peered at the doorway. Why would Kyle try to hide from her?

Another voice whispered behind her.

Helen’s eyes widened. She wasn’t alone. And something told her she wasn’t safe.

She jumped back in the Tahoe and started it up. A moment later, tires squealed on the pavement as she tore off, east onto Ohio Street.

Helen drove for several blocks, glancing in her mirror but catching no sign of anyone following her. She wasn’t even sure what she had seen or heard. Maybe she was imagining things. But still, she thought she had better err on the side of caution. She had no idea who—if anyone—was out there. Who were they and what did they want? And why were they watching her?

She shook her head. In a matter of seconds, she had gone from desperately trying to be found to just wanting to hide. She drove another few blocks before feeling safe enough to slow down. Spotting a convenience store, she screeched to a stop.

She suddenly felt vulnerable. She needed a weapon. She needed a gun. Something to protect herself.

Helen ran inside the store. These places usually kept a gun by the register. She slipped behind the counter and rummaged through the shelves. Far back in the shelf beneath the register, she spotted the rubber grip of a handgun. She reached in; her fingers closed around it.…

Then something hard pressed against the back of her head.

“Don’t move.”

MITCH CRACKED OPEN the door to his father’s bedroom. His heart pounded. His mouth had gone dry, yet his hands were damp with perspiration. He switched his grip on the gun and dried off his palm on his pant leg.

He pushed the door open further. A musty warmth brushed against his face and with it came a pungent scent. Bile and rot. Mitch winced. The curtains were drawn, and though he could not see anything in the muted light, he did hear something: a gentle, intermittent rattling. Soft but steady.

His eyes adjusted to the subdued lighting enough to make out the shape of the bed against the far wall. Then he heard a rustle of linen.

Something stirred beneath the quilt.

A chill ran down Mitch’s spine and he froze. The rattling he heard was the sound of breathing. Labored and gargled.

Mitch stood in the doorway, unable to move. After a moment, he gathered the courage to whisper, “Dad?”

The wheezing continued unabated. Mitch swallowed and took a step into the room.

“Dad? Is that you?” he whispered louder. “It’s me. It… it’s Mitch.”

The quilt moved slightly, but the breathing did not alter.

The stench grew stronger as Mitch moved into the room, and he found himself fighting back a gag reflex. He covered his nose and mouth.

Something inside him urged him to leave. To get out of this house. But there seemed to be another force compelling him forward.

Mitch moved around to the side of the bed and tugged the quilt down.

His eyes grew wide. “No!”

He stumbled backward against the wall.

It was a woman’s face, gaunt and sunken—little more than a skull covered with a veil of pallid skin, mottled by lesions. Her eyes were open wide in an unfixed gaze. Dark circles ringed her sockets. All that was left of her strawberry blonde hair hung in frail wisps on her scalp. Her breathing came in gargled rasps from the fluid in her lungs.

“Mom?” Mitch’s horror slowly turned to rage. He pointed the gun at her face. “No,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “You’re not real!”

The woman’s gaze slowly turned and fixed on Mitch. Her cracked lips parted, revealing yellowed teeth. She reached a withered hand out toward him. Her breathing grew more labored as she opened her mouth as if to speak. The fluid in her lungs rattled like a rake across gravel.

Mitch shook his head and lowered the gun. His eyes filled with tears. “No.”

This couldn’t be real. His mother had died ten years ago. He had watched her suffer as the cancer devoured her. This couldn’t be happening again.

A sliver of sunlight shone between the curtains on the window across the room. Outside, a shadow passed by, blocking the light momentarily, and then moved away.

Mitch brought the gun up and fired at the window. Bullets tore through the curtains, shattering the glass. Smoke filled the room. He lunged for the window and tore the curtain aside. Sunlight poured in, blinding him for a moment. He heard a thump overhead followed by a heavy scraping, like claws skittering across the shingles. Then another series of thuds and then…

Nothing.

Squinting in the light, Mitch peered out the window. Nothing moved in the yard below. He turned back to the room. Through the haze of smoke, he could see that the bed was empty. The quilt was pulled down, but all that remained was a pillow. No indentation, no other sign that his mother’s body had been there. He looked out the window again and then back to the bed.

Mitch blinked and stormed into the hall. Enough of this. They wanted to mess with his head? He’d give them something to mess with!

He ran down the stairs and outside, circling the house, pointing the gun in front of him. He checked the roof, the shrubs, and the tall hedge that enclosed the spacious backyard. Nothing moved. No sign of life.

“Who are you?” he shouted. “What do you want with me?”

His voice dissolved into silence. Nothing moved in the yard or out on the street. He heard nothing but his own labored breathing.

Mitch shook his head and his voice softened. “Why are you doing this?”

He returned to his motorcycle, swung a leg over, and sat for a moment.

He
had
seen his mother in her bed. It couldn’t have been a hallucination. He had
heard
her breathing. The stench of death was as thick as it had been all those years ago. She looked exactly as she had then. He was fourteen when she died, and he remembered vividly the suffering she had gone through. And how horrible she looked.

And he remembered his father—the congressman—sitting at her bedside, praying and reading the Bible to her. The man’s piety revolted him.

Mitch had never accepted his father’s faith. It was never anything more than a set of rules and regulations. He had given God one chance to prove Himself. To show He was more than just empty religion. Mitch had prayed for his mother to be healed. For seven months he prayed. And when it was obvious she wasn’t going to get better, he prayed for at least a quick and merciful death. But even that prayer was not answered. She died slowly. She lingered for more than a month in that condition.

Mitch grimaced. It was as if God wanted to show off His handiwork. Like He took delight in her suffering.

The morphine had done little to ease her pain toward the end. And his father would read that stupid Bible to her as if it would bring her some comfort. She was lying there, moaning, and he just kept reading. It was as if no one could see her suffering. And no one would do anything about it.

That was when Mitch learned prayer was useless. God did what He wanted. He couldn’t care less. Mitch had hated God with every fiber of his being.

And he hated his father for keeping his faith.

Mitch ran his hand through his hair. What was going on?

It must have something to do with the cloud he’d seen last night. Or more specifically, whatever was
inside
the cloud. He shook his head and grunted. As weird as it seemed, there had to be some kind of alien presence at work.

Whatever was happening, Mitch knew he wasn’t alone. Someone… or some
thing
… was following him.
Watching
him. It was as if they were trying to make him see things, to scare him. Maybe just to see how he would react.

He felt a light breeze brush back his hair. And on the breeze, he heard something. A chill crawled down his spine.

Whispering.

Just as he had heard in the woods at the gas station.

One voice whispered something Mitch could not make out. Another voice whispered back.

He thought he glimpsed a shadow moving behind the shrubs in the neighbor’s yard. A voice inside his head screamed,
Get out of here
!

Heart pounding, Mitch thumbed the ignition and snapped the bike into gear. The rear tire squealed and the back of the bike spun around, laying down a circle of rubber.

CONNER LAY ON HIS BACK, groaning and unable to move.

Slowly the face leaning over him came into focus.

It was a boy, no more than nine or ten years old and rail thin. Large brown eyes peered at Conner from under a thick mop of dark, matted hair. He wore an old flannel shirt a few sizes too big for him and torn jeans.

This wasn’t Matthew.

Conner struggled to sit up. His head was spinning. “Wh-who are you?”

The boy backed away from him, crouching down beside the mausoleum. His gaze darted around the cemetery and back to Conner.

Conner rubbed his eyes. “Did you hear me? Who
are
you?”

The boy lifted an arm and pointed in the direction of Conner’s car.

Conner shook his head. “What’s the matter? Can you understand me?”

The boy narrowed his eyes for a moment, then pointed to the car a second time.

“You need a ride?” Conner nodded. “I can give you a ride. Are your parents nearby?”

The boy was looking around the cemetery again. His face was grim and focused.

Conner got to his knees and stood up. The ground seemed to sway beneath him. He took a few shaky steps toward the boy. “Do you have any family? Have you seen anyone else around here?”

The boy slowly moved away from the mausoleum and circled Conner, keeping his distance. He pointed again toward the Mercedes and motioned Conner to follow.

“I just want to know who you are,” Conner said. “Can you speak English?”

The boy peered at Conner’s mouth. As if trying to understand what he was saying.

Conner nodded. “English? Do you speak English?”

The boy shot a glance beyond Conner and his eyes widened.

Conner spun around. The cemetery was empty. Nothing moved.

He turned back to the boy. “What’s wrong? What’s going on?”

The boy lunged forward and caught hold of Conner’s arm. Conner tried to pull away but the boy’s grip clenched around his wrist.

“I said, I need—” Conner stopped. The boy was still looking past him and Conner suddenly felt a chill. He turned around and gasped.

Something was standing beside a large headstone twenty yards away.

Conner stumbled back into the boy. “Who—who is that?”

He couldn’t make out any details. It was no more than a fleeting gray silhouette that ducked behind the stone. Then from the corner of his eye, Conner spotted a second shadow just as it moved behind a tree.

“What is it? What’s going on? Who are they?”

The boy tugged Conner’s arm. Harder now. Conner’s chill turned to fear.

The kid knew something. He knew enough to be afraid of whatever those things were.

They hurried to the Mercedes. The boy crawled over the driver’s side into the passenger seat. Conner got in and started the engine.

“Just tell me what’s going on. Who are they?” Conner’s voice quivered. He tried to maintain his composure.

The boy peered through the window and shook his head. His expression was more stern than afraid.

“Maybe they have some answers.”

The boy glared at Conner and pounded on the dashboard.

Conner glanced back out the window. His eyes widened.

One of the figures was standing over Matthew’s grave. This one made no attempt to seek cover. It just stood there. Watching them.

Conner squinted and rubbed his eyes, but it was as if he were looking at it through an out-of-focus lens. Everything else was clear; he just couldn’t seem to focus on the figure itself.

Then it moved!

It walked toward them with wide, deliberate strides. Conner threw the car into gear and stomped on the accelerator. Tires spun, kicking up grass and gravel as they tore down the path. He glanced in the rearview mirror but couldn’t see anything.