The phone was still dead. And so was Lucy. That?s all he knew. He stood looking out the window at her, the blood stained snow and shredded clothing wreathing her mangled body. How long had she lain there? Had it been only three days since the visit? He couldn?t remember. He still maintained a vague awareness of day and night, but the concept of time as a measurable phenomenon escaped him. Day was known only by the shafts of sunlight that seeped inside, night was known by the terror.
He turned away and hobbled across the room to check the front door. It was habit now, to check the doors and the windows. He knew they were secure but he checked anyway. Three or four times an hour he made the rounds of the small cabin, shaking the boards he had nailed over the doors and windows, making sure they were still tight. Then he would make his way painfully to the window on the kitchen side of the room and stare through the slats at Lucy.
He really didn?t know what else to do. She was dead. He felt he really should go out there and do something with her body, at least drag it into the shed and cover her up. It was the humane thing to do. The final tribute to someone you loved was to care for his or her remains, was it not? But he didn?t dare step outside. They were out there. He couldn?t see them during the day. They only came at night. Still, he knew they were there, just inside the woods, watching for him.
Paul and Darcy had been dragged off. For what he didn?t know, didn?t want to know. No, that wasn?t true. He knew. He could deny it all he wanted, but he knew. Goddamn it, he knew! Had he not huddled in the corner with his hands tight over his ears, trying not to hear? He knew why Paul and Darcy had been dragged off. But he had to keep the knowledge safely locked away in a part of his mind hidden from light, in those dark recesses of the subconscious where man filed those images too painful or terrifying to leave out in the open, right beside the monsters that dwelled in our closets and under our beds when we were children. At first it was like the time his father told him not to think of polar bears and he couldn?t think of anything but polar bears, nothing but polar bears, polar bears everywhere he looked. Everything he touched felt like a polar bear, even though he had never felt one before. He just knew, this is exactly what a polar bear feels like. Every sound was a polar bear. Not that he?d ever heard one, but there wasn?t any doubt that every sound was a polar bear.
It was easier now. Lucy?s parting gift to him had been some semblance of peace, at least during the daylight hours. Staring at her body helped him to stop thinking about why Paul and Darcy had been dragged off. He didn?t have to wonder why Lucy hadn?t been dragged off. He knew. She was the bait. Just as Lucy?s sister Darcy had been the lure Lucy couldn?t resist.
He checked the phone again. Still dead. He really hadn?t expected anything else. The storm had hit hard and the lines might be down for another week, perhaps longer. But it was part of the ritual. Stare at Lucy, check the phone, check the doors and windows and then back to Lucy until exhaustion stepped in. Then he would plop into the armchair he had shoved into the middle of the room and nap for an hour or so, his hand resting on the axe in his lap, the axe that had become his constant companion, a crutch for his courage as well as his leg.
But even this small luxury was denied him come dusk. That?s when they came, shuffling just outside, chuckling in their low, guttural voices. He would hear them pressing their noses against the cracks and seams of the old building, hear the odd snuffling sound as they sniffed deeply for his scent. Occasionally, he would see a long, black tongue slip between the slats and lick the spots his scraped fingers had touched. He had heard them once, making low growling noises and strange slurping sounds. He shined his flashlight into the blackness and peered down the beam at Lucy. Three of them were gathered around her now naked body, their hideous tongues running over her, probing her, tasting her, wanting desperately to feed but not wanting to disturb the bait. The light forced them back into the shadows so he had fixed it in position with duct tape and left it on all night. But the batteries were dead and so he was forced at night to listen to them lap at Lucy?s body. As he listened, he could only wonder when he would hear the bones crunch as the feeding began in earnest. He wondered if they would drag her into the trees as they had Paul and Darcy. He prayed they would. The feeding noises were bad enough. He didn?t want to have to listen to them so close to him.
He wished he had the courage to go outside and grab the flashlight that lay in the path to the outhouse, where Paul had dropped it that first night. Paul had never turned it on. After the storm had moved out the moon reflecting off the snow provided plenty of illumination for the short trip, Paul?s last walk. He?d only taken the flashlight to use inside. The batteries might still be good. He hadn?t even had time to turn it on when they attacked. He only had time to scream. And then Darcy rushed outside to help him before knowing what was out there. If only he had put an inside toilet in when he had the power company run the electrical service. He and Lucy had gotten to the open door just in time to see a few of them drag Paul away. Darcy was still alive, crying, moaning in pain. Before he could stop her, Lucy ran to help her sister. She never made it. He could only stand and watch in horror. Then he slammed the door shut and began to barricade the cabin.
He should have grabbed the axe then and gone to her rescue, saved her from them. But he justified his failure to do so by telling himself that he would have been too late. Someone had to tell about them. Someone had to alert the authorities that there was something horrible here, something that needed to be hunted down and exterminated. He couldn?t help Lucy, Darcy or Paul. But he could, he had to, stay alive to let the world know. He thought this because that was easier for him to accept than the truth. The truth was, he was a coward.
He broke from his routine long enough to throw another log from his dwindling supply into the stove and open another can of sardines. The first couple days he had to force himself to eat. But now that the shock had worn off, his appetite was returning and the constant hunger reminded him that the few cans remaining weren?t going to last much longer. And when the food was gone, he would have to take a chance on hiking out if help hadn?t arrived by then. He didn?t want to think about that. Stumbling through a foot of snow with a sprained knee and weak from hunger, only an axe to protect himself and them, out there waiting, made his childhood fears pale. If he was lucky, he could make it to the car. He wouldn?t be able to drive it out of the ditch. He knew when he sprained his knee trying to help Paul push it out that no amount of digging or pushing would free it. But perhaps someone would come by and see it, stop and investigate. Surely they would be plowing the roads by now.
He quickly pushed that thought from his mind as he resumed his vigil at the window. He really should do something for Lucy.
?I just don?t get it. I?ve known George McCready for over ten years, ever since he bought this place. He never struck me as a nut case who would axe three people to death, board himself up in his cabin and wait to die.?
Sheriff Bacsomb watched the rescue crew load George McCready?s body in the ambulance.
?I mean, I?ve known people to snap before but what was he thinking when he boarded up this place? I don?t think he was waiting for us. Hell, he could have gotten away. I didn?t even know he was up here. He should have known it would be a week or more before we got that pass cleaned up after that storm. It?s almost like he was afraid of something getting to him. Do you have any idea what he died from??
?Nope. He was young, pretty healthy from what I could tell. No sign of trauma. Won?t really know until they perform the autopsy,? replied the coroner.
?Wish I knew what he thought was after him. Might give me some answers to why.?
?Well, no sign of anything trying to get in. My guess is that whatever it was, was already inside.?
Sheriff Bascomb raised his eyebrows in question.
?His mind,? replied the coroner, ?it was in his mind all the time.? |
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