Whispers in the Night (11 page)

“What the—”

I turned back around in the dark. Instead of Shamir in a sexy negligee, I made out the dark outline of a lopsided Afro and a big old pair of eyes looking down at me. Nehemiah was standing up on the bed.

“Aw, hell no!”

Nehemiah turned on the light. “You promised we'd play checkers.”

I tried to yank the handcuffs hard enough to break the bedpost, but it wouldn't budge. “Boy, does it look like I'm trying to play checkers right now?”

I looked around the dark room for Shamir, cussing, frowning, kicking, and trying to get out of the cuffs. “Get off me, man!”

Stuff had gone from kinky to downright spooky. And all this Stephen King bullshit was really starting to piss me off. “Where the
hell
did your mama go?”

“I dunno. She'll be back.” He sounded sad.

I was naked, horny, pissed, and freaked the hell out so I really didn't give a frig. “Reach me that key!”

Nehemiah looked at the key. His eyes brightened. “We gonna play checkers now?”

“Get the key, unlock these handcuffs, and I'll think about it.”
Yeah, right.

He got the key and unlocked me. I grabbed my clothes and threw them on. I felt like kicking my own dumb ass for getting tricked again.

“We gonna play checkers now?”

“Hell no! I'm leaving.”

“When you coming back?”

“Never.”

“You don't wanna be my daddy?” Nehemiah's face crumbled into a mess of tears, but I couldn't help him. I stopped and turned around in the hallway.

“Look, kid. I'm
not
your daddy. I ain't never gonna be your daddy. I don't know where that cat is, but I bet he ain't coming back 'cause there's some weird shit going on here with you and your mama. Something ain't right so I'm getting ghost, too. As for checkers, I
hate
the game. Sorry. Peace out.”

I slammed the door. He started sobbing so loud I could hear him through the door. I thought I heard him say something like “You are my daddy and you are coming back!”
Yeah, right.

The cold night air smacked me in my face. I trotted to my ride. Shamir's car was still parked in the driveway.
That trick
, I muttered to myself. Obviously, she was somewhere hiding and playing games while she turned her demon child loose on me. I didn't have time for that.

I started my ride, threw it in gear, and floored the pedal. The car moved ten feet and stopped. The engine died.

“What the—”

I turned the key in the ignition again and again. Nothing. I got out, looked under the hood. Something thick, brown, and sticky was smeared over the engine. It was shoved inside all the spark plugs and even oozing out the oil tank. I touched it. I smelled it. Peanut freakin' butter!

I looked back at the house. The place was dark except for Nehemiah sitting in a window with the light shining behind his big lopsided Afro. Even in his silhouette, I could see those big bug eyes looking at me.

I got back into my car and opened my cell phone. I'd call a buddy or the auto club to come get me, whichever was faster, because I just wanted to get the hell out of there. My cell phone said: No signal.
Damn Cingular!
It smelled funny. I opened the back of it. Brown sticky goo oozed out. More friggin' peanut butter.

I looked back at the house. Nehemiah opened the door and waved for me to come back.
Yeah, right. Screw you.

I got out of my car, gave him the finger, and took off trotting in the opposite direction. I'd go to one of Shamir's neighbors' houses and ask to use their phone. I took two steps and heard a growling sound. It was dark. All the streetlights had been busted out, probably by some bad little neighborhood kids like Nehemiah. He was probably the leader of a kiddy street gang called the Lil' Spooks. I could barely see the sidewalk. I stamped my feet thinking that growl probably came from a stray dog. The thing growled back and if it was a dog, it was the
X-Files
kind. I did a quick turn and jumped back into my ride.

Screw it. I was on a hill. I decided I'd coast my car back down the hill to the main street, then flag down a car. Nehemiah was still in the window watching me. I threw my car into neutral, released the emergency brake, and started steering it backward, coasting.

I made it about five feet before I hit something in the road. Whatever it was got jammed underneath my back wheels and it stopped the car. Damn! If it was the
X-Files
dog, then I'd killed it. Good.

I tried to look out my back window but I couldn't see anything. I didn't want to get out of my car to see what it was, but I had no choice. Little Spook Boy was still watching me from the house. I took a deep breath and looked around to make sure the coast was clear.

As soon as I put my hand on the door to open it, something popped up at my window right in front of my face.

“Holy
shit
!”

It was Nehemiah. His face was pressed so close to the window his breath formed a fog. His eyes were big like bowling balls and stared straight through the window at me.

I jumped back. “Back off me, freak boy!”

I slammed the lock down and edged over into the passenger seat. Slowly, the driver's-side window started rolling down by itself. I hollered again, “This ain't right. What the—”

The window cracked opened only about three inches and stopped. Nehemiah looked at me, his face all weird and spaced out. He slowly reached his tiny hand through the crack and slid his arm inside. It seemed longer than it should have been. He reached down and popped up the lock, unlocking the door from the inside.

He opened my door. We stared at each other.

Finally, he said, “You wanna come play checkers now?”

I was like,
You must be outta your freakin' little mind!
But I didn't say that; I only thought it.

On the surface, I tried to keep my cool, but it was hard. I knew my ass was in a jam and my balls were quivering. I'd stepped into some weird shit and I needed to figure out how to get out.

I needed to get to a phone. They had one inside. What else was I going to do?

I swallowed and answered him. “Yeah. I'll play checkers now.”

He backed away from the door and nodded. “C'mon.”

I followed Nehemiah back into the house. My plan was to act cool like I was going to play checkers and when I got a chance, hit the little sucker in his big head, knock him out, grab the phone, and call 911 . . . or something like that.

When I got inside, I saw that Nehemiah had set up the checkers board on the table. He even had cookies and milk on each side of the game board and two chairs set up—a little one for him and a big one for me. I sat down in the big one and watched him. He watched me.

“Your move,” he said. A tiny smirk drew up the edge of his chapped little lips around his elf-size mouth. I didn't know if he was smiling at me or laughing at my ass.

I went to move my black checker. As soon as I touched it, all of his red checkers stood on edge and spun around real fast like twirling coins, all by themselves.
What kind of—

I knocked over my glass of milk.

He reached for it. I stopped him. “No, it's cool,” I said.

We sat still. He watched me. I watched him. We watched each other, waiting for the next move.

I made it. I picked up my glass. “I'll go pour me some more,” I said. He looked at my hands. They were shaking. I played it off. I said, real cool, “I'll be right back.”
Yeah, right.

I got up and strutted calmly to the kitchen.

As soon as I got around the corner, I grabbed the kitchen phone off its cradle, ran out the other side of the kitchen, sprinted down the hallway, and ducked into the bathroom. I locked the door and dialed 911. The operator answered.

“Nine-one-one Emergency. What's your emergency?”

I started whining like a little girl. “A kid with some big freakin' eyes spanked me with a wet towel, then put peanut butter in my car, and now he's holding me hostage and making me play checkers—”

Click
.

The operator hung up on me.

Think, Chris, man! Get a grip and use your head!
I couldn't tell them all that—even though it was the
truth
. I had to think of something to say that would not only make them take me seriously, but would also get the police to rush out to the bad neighborhood in the middle of the night.

I called back.

The operator answered. “Nine-one-one. What's your emergency?”

I said, “Quick! Send a squad car. I just saw O.J. Simpson running down the street with a knife chasing a white woman.”

There was silence on the other end. I knew I was wrong for that, but it's the only thing I could think of to get the LAPD out quick, fast, and in a hurry.

“Hello? Did you hear what I said? I said,
O.J
.—”

The person on the other end started giggling, and then laughing like a child. He said, “You so funny, Daddy.”

I dropped the phone. Nehemiah knocked on the bathroom door.

“Go away, you little freak.” I kicked the door to try to scare him away. I hurt my foot.

I looked down. Brown, thick, sticky goo oozed beneath the door and started sliding into the bathroom.
Nah! This ain't happening.
It formed a puddle and started bubbling up like gumbo. It rose three feet high into the air and Nehemiah jumped out.

I tried to holler but choked on my own spit. “Eeck-kka!”

Coughing and gagging, I turned and tried to jump into the shower, but when I jerked the shower curtain back, Nehemiah was standing in the bathtub.

I turned back around and shot out of the bathroom. I ran down the hall and darted into Shamir's bedroom. I locked the door, blocked it off with a chair, and looked for something to swing at the little monster.

I remembered Shamir kept a baseball bat under the bed. I dropped down, reached under the bed, and felt something furry. An Afro. I looked. Nehemiah's big black eyes were looking back at me.

“Ahh!”

I fell backward, jumped back up, and sprang to my feet. I pulled on the bedroom door but couldn't get out. It was jammed. Brown sticky muck was all around the door's edges, sealing it shut like glue.

I turned around and faced the little demon. I balled up my fist. I'd had enough. Screw child protective laws, I was getting ready to kick his tiny dwarf ass. But then he crawled from under the bed and levitated up to my eye level. And I knew that if he could float up in midair like that, then he could kick my ass, too. I lost it. I started crying.

“Why you messin' with me, man? I didn't do nothing to you.”

“Why you messin' with my mama?” he said with attitude.

“You're just a kid. You're too young to understand.”

“Too young, my ass!” He floated around me, looking me up and down. “You horny dudes are all alike.”

“Huh?”

“You come in here, you do the nasty with my mama, and then leave. Just like my daddy did.”

“I'm not your daddy.”

“You just like him!”

“I didn't get your mama pregnant, then leave.”

“But you got what you want from my mama! Now you wanna leave. Can't stick around, not even to play checkers. You selfish son of a bitch!”

“Hey, wait a minute now.”

“No, you wait.” Nehemiah balled up his fist. I flinched. “And what about my mama?”

“What about her?”

“When y'all leave, you make my mama feel bad and look bad.”

“Your mama don't look bad.”

“That's what you think.”

Nehemiah moved over and knocked on the closet door. It opened. Out came a woman in an old dirty bathrobe. She had curlers in her hair, wore raggedy slippers, and was overweight. She was hunched over and hiding her face.

“Shamir? Is that you?” I asked.

Shamir self-consciously pulled at her floppy robe and touched her uncombed hair, embarrassed. She nodded. “This is how I really look, Chris.”

“
Da-yum
, what happened to you, woman?”

Nehemiah threw his head back and yelled at me, blowing out a hurricane of peanut butter–smelling wind. “You dickheads did this to my mama!”

Nehemiah jumped in front of her and started spinning around like crazy, just like the Tasmanian Devil. I wanted to run but my feet failed me. He made a dusty cloud around Shamir. It circled her and I couldn't see her. When the dust lifted and the air cleared, Shamir looked hot again—young, thin, hard body, hair done, dressed in a sexy, sheer negligee.

Shamir smiled at Nehemiah, who finally stopped spinning. “See? I told you he was
special
.”

I stood there wanting to run and wanting to piss on myself all at the same time. This wasn't real. It couldn't be. This little boy with the big saucer eyes really was special, and I thought about asking him who he was, where he came from, and how he did that. But then I decided,
Screw it!
I picked up a brass lamp and threw it like a fastball directly at Nehemiah's big head.

That little demon child reached out his hand and caught the lamp with his tiny little fingers in midair. Quick as a lizard, he hurled the lamp straight back at me. It cracked me upside my head and knocked my ass out cold.

When I woke up, I was lying spread-eagle on the bed, my face up and my arms and legs handcuffed to the bedposts.