Road Trips (3 page)

 “Would you like another piece of pie?” Anita Cambridge
asked. The elderly lady’s voice crackled as her lips fluttered over her teeth
in a frail smile.

“No thank you, ma’am.” He shook his head and declined
politely. It would be his fourth piece of pumpkin pie, and he just didn’t have
the room.

A broad, engaging smile swept her face. “That’s fine,
dear.”  Humming, she darted into the kitchen, carrying his fork and dessert
plate.

He looked out the paned window of her old house at the bare
branches of a tree casting a webbed shadow on the leaf-covered lawn. Down the
street the painted, clapboard houses stretched in Norman Rockwell, small town
idealism. At the end of the street, the steeple of a church on the hill cut a
white contrast against the gray clouds. He frowned. Something about the church
was amiss—and then he realized that the church bore no cross. He wondered if it
was being repaired. Storms had ripped through the area over the summer.

Scratchy music from the Victrola brought him back to the
living room. Through static crackle, Billie Holiday crooned What a Little
Moonlight Can Do.

Sitting in the living room of Anita Cambridge’s home, the
detective found it hard to believe that this lady or anyone else in this town
could know anything about criminal activity. The autumn sun poured through the
panes of the large, old windows and warmed a cat sleeping on a rug nearby.
Dusty knickknacks and curios collected over her long life cluttered the many tables
and shelves in the warm—if not frilly—room.

Anita was the fifth person he had visited on the late
September morning. Everyone in the small New England town seemed to be fond of
pumpkin pie, and he had refused, since he was investigating—but Anita’s had
smelled especially irresistible. The grandmotherly lady returned, wringing her
hands in her apron.

“I wish I could be of more help.” She shook her head. “Those
poor people. I wonder whatever did become of them.”

“Hopefully, we’ll find out.” He smiled toward her baffled
expression. She seemed incapable of comprehending the atrocities that man could
do. Maybe, when he retired, it would be to a small town like this, as long as
he could leave the cancer of the city behind him. Everyone here was so provincial,
he thought, they could be taken at face value. It was a nice change.

His brow furrowed as his mind returned to his investigation:
the disappearance of several people wanted for crimes against children. His
investigation had led him to this small town, where he feared someone was
giving them refuge and then helping them flee to Canada. His fears were quickly
being allayed. He placed his hand to his temple.

“Are you alright, dear?”

The detective smiled half-heartedly. “Yeah, I just have a
slight headache.”

“You look a little jaundiced, dear. Are you sure you’re not
ill?”

“I’ll be fine.” He stood. He tried to focus his eyes on
Anita, but they blurred. She looked distorted, alien, as if he were seeing her
reflection in a funhouse mirror. He leaned against the chair, trying to steady
himself.

“Maybe you should lie down,” Anita offered.

He shook his head and then took a few tentative steps toward
the door. His legs felt sluggish, like the lassitude after a long run.
Stumbling, he fell against the wall and stared into a dusty mirror. His face
was yellow, as Anita had remarked—and swollen. He glanced down to his hands.
The fingers ballooned up like bloated carrots. He needed to rest. He would walk
to his room at the Sugar and Spice Bed and Breakfast. He stumbled to the door.
He placed his hand against the knob, but his swollen fingers fumbled, unable to
twist it. He turned to face Anita again. She stood back, looking worried. “I
think you better lie down,” she said again, her voice more of a command.

The detective focused on the knob again, using both hands to
turn it. His steps thudded on the wood floor as he stepped back to pull the
door open. He fought to control his mind. He imagined an allergic
reaction—though he had no allergies he knew of. And his mind darkened: had
Anita poisoned him? He needed to call for help.

Just off the porch, he fell to the ground. He felt the damp
leaves cling to his face.

“Dear, oh, dear! Maybe you shouldn’t have had three pieces,”
Anita sing-songed airily from inside the door.

Pain pinched the detective’s swollen lips and eyes. His
entire body felt as if it were twisting inside out. He felt his skin stretch
and wrinkle. He tried to move, but his limbs were useless. They were curving
toward his body. He struggled on the ground, like an inching worm, pushing
through the leaves.

“Oh, this is a good one,” Anita yipped. She skipped about
the yard. “Handsome, so handsome.”

Through a yellow haze, the detective saw other townsfolk
gathering on the sidewalk. He tried to form the words,
Help me
, but his
lips had sealed shut.

“Anita,” a woman commented as she passed him on the
sidewalk. “You gave him too much pie. He’s changing so quickly, it’s bound to
hurt!”

“Tea while we wait?” Anita replied.

He saw the woman nod as his eyes sealed shut.

The pain! Yes, the pain was intense as she had said. The
detective felt his body shifting, rounding. He could hear and feel—and think.
That was the true horror: he realized everything happening.

Deep within his mind he knew that this was what had happened
to the others who had disappeared over the years. They, too, had met his fate.
Maybe they had deserved it, but he—he was innocent.

He heard Anita clucking, as if she could read his mind. “You
shot that poor child. In cold blood. And then, you placed a gun on his body,”
Anita chided. “He was just a boy. Not more than fifteen.”

Her words grew distant as if he were falling in a deep well,
and he realized his ears were sealing shut. He was left with thoughts and
memories, though he felt them fading. He saw the young man Anita mentioned. It
had been a mistake! He was a good cop otherwise, and now a detective, he was
trying to make amends. His thoughts grew distant, as if he were no longer
thinking about himself, but about someone else. As all other memories faded, he
was left with just the memory of what had happened to the boy. And, as it no
longer seemed as if he had done it, he felt deep empathy and regret. He could
see the grief-addled face of the boy’s mother—and then that too faded.

His mind grew blank and free.

Anita kneeled, her hand clutched to her mouth. Careful not
to bruise the delicate skin of the pumpkin, she brushed it lovingly. “You’re
still very soft. I have to be careful. By tonight you will be complete.” She whistled
while carrying the pumpkin to her garden.

That night, under the full moon, Anita and friends from the
village gathered in her garden for tea and cookies. Billie serenaded them from
the Victrola in her house and their happy chatter enlivened the garden lit by
the full moon. Anita called their attention as the pumpkin began to split. They
watched in rapture as the pumpkin shuddered and a fine fissure, like an over
ripe tomato, split the skin. When the pumpkin ruptured, Anita clasped her hands
and ran to it. Anita reached into the pumpkin, and from the cavity, Anita pulled
an infant. She brushed away fibrous strands and pulp.

“It’s so easy to make people happy,” Anita cooed. A
childless couple stepped forward to embrace the infant. Anita handed the baby
boy over, pumpkin pulp and juice dripping from his skin. Anita smiled at the
new mother; yet her stern gaze cast a nefarious glow to the beady eyes peering
out of her grandmotherly face. “Now take good care of this child for we’ll
always be watching you. If you mistreat this child, you know what your
punishment will be.” They grimaced knowing, then turned with their handsome
baby boy.

Lifting her face to the moon and stars dancing in a
cloudless sky, Anita smiled, wondering who would need help next.

Originally published in
Dead But Dreaming.

If you enjoyed this story, you may enjoy
The
Wolf at His Door
.

1:1.

A whisper in the darkness: harsh, soft words. Megan
stirred on the bed and flicked her eyes open. Stillness. Dream images burned
away, like camera flash afterglow. Sweat beaded on her brow; something had
awakened her: a whisper. It lingered on her like cold fingers dragged across
her skin.

Sloughing off sleep, Megan scrunched her face in
concentration. She was laying on her side, in the fetal position, hands between
knees, as she always slept. The voice seemed to come from behind her...But how
close?
She could not guess. It could have been from across the room or
under the covers.

When she awoke, an image of her brother, Tommy, faded from
her mind. Certain sensations, fractions of moments, brought Tommy back to her.
Smells of creek water and wet earth, cologne, clove cigarettes, the certain way
a stranger would laugh; sights of young men with tousled hair and vibrant
smiles, an easy style; a husky, caring voice in a crowd; feelings of
loneliness.

Again, the voice: soft, high, like a dog’s whimper. Not
Tommy’s voice.

1:2.

Remembering Tommy: Young boy, hair sun-bleached blond,
running with a stick after the family dog (a yappy, happy Terrier mix.) Years
later, a young man, attractive, blue eyes, hair darker and carelessly flopping
across forehead, shaved on one side. Ears pierced to chagrin of parents.
Laughter in eyes and voice. Always kind to younger sister.

Howls of laughter from friends in his presence. His wide,
toothy grin possessing a duality: inspiring fits of laughter and lust. Girls
constantly calling. Tommy often out past curfew, but home early enough to awake
for school or work.

1:3.

The stillness ached, the silence roared in Megan’s ears.
Megan felt a scream efflorescing within her, her limbs hollow and listless.
(Asleep?) Now: there was no sound. Had the whisper in the dark been a dream?
Could it be Kirk playing a joke?

Megan’s eyes pierced the darkness before her. Lying on her
side, she had her back to one side of the room—and the window. He could be
behind her, this whisperer. Could he even be outside—speaking through the
window?

The room felt still and damp. Eyes searching the utter
darkness: vague forms, sharp edges of a desk, darkness swirling—was it
movement? She tried to focus her thoughts, force her mind elsewhere. Why was
she so scared tonight—

—And Kirk? Had she heard his car leave? She had given him
her house key.
If I get scared, I can call you and you can come back.
He
had assured her he would. She wondered: Would he do this, a bad joke, knowing
how she felt since Tommy?

But what was it, about this exact moment, that was making
her remember Tommy?

1:4.

Remembering Tommy: Pulling on a tan corduroy jacket. Hair
longer, no longer shaved on one side, still floppy in eyes. 18. The day he
died. College was not his thing. Musician: he loved the guitar. To chagrin of
his parents.

Kicked out, but Megan had sneaked him in to eat and shower.
She gave him a bag of food to take. “They’re despots,” she whispered as he
slipped out the window of the room that had been his less than a week before.

“
Despots
,” he laughed. “You’re a smart girl.”

Last words. Cops came the next morning. Only memories.

1:5.

Megan shivered in the dark.
So dark.
Cool air wafted
over her head and skidded across her neck like birds footprints in snow. The
window had to be open. Besides, no one could be in the house.
No one.
She and Kirk had made certain. Room by room. Empty house.

But who was outside?

Megan eased her hands from between her knees afraid to alert
the speaker that she was awake. (Would he speak again?) A faint wisp of smell
crossed her nose: creek water?

1:6.

Remembering Tommy: Curly hair tousled by the wind, smoking a
clove cigarette. Little sister, 13, keeping watch for him while he took a last
hit under the high school bleacher. He made her feel included, loved. Let her
hang out with him and his friends. Though he was four years older. Nobody’s
older brother did that.
Nobody’s.

Tommy loved her. Sometimes...

Sometimes she was not allowed to go. When he was with girls.
She had to stay home with Mom and Dad and be bored. But usually, he was with
his guy friends, like—what were their names?—Ron and Tony and Joey. They all
spent time together. Smoking. Sometimes drinking.

Tommy never let her drink. Once, he let her hit a cigarette
and she coughed, and he said “That’s what ya get. Don’t start.” She remembered
the resonating sternness and concern in his voice.
That’s what ya get.

Those four boys, they had done everything together. License.
Birthdays. Movies. Forts by the creek: smell of fish and damp earth. The
creek—where Tommy died. They had not died together.

1:7.

Kirk reached over and took her hand. “I’m glad you came.”

“Me, too.” She sighed. She watched Kirk staring down the
road. “If my parents find out,” she grimaced.

He laughed at her. “How? They’re in Texas.”

Megan chewed on her lower lip. Her parents knew things.
An October moon hung low above the misty fields. The sky was cloudless, night
cold. Bare trees lined the road; their leaves had all changed to their myriad colors
and fallen to the wind. Skeletal branches created a latticework cavern above
them, groped toward the car. In the fields, the corn was tall, turning dark,
waiting to be harvested. Megan’s breath left a mist on the glass as she
breathed.

Stopping in the drive, Kirk asked “Am I allowed to come
in?”

“Well, my parent’s aren’t here,” she grinned at him.

Hand in hand, they traipsed to the door. Megan paused at
the door and peered into the dark outside: she thought she had seen someone
running into the backyard.

1:8.

Remembering Tommy: Face bloated, arms twisted, and legs in
creek. Red shirt muddy. Hair wet and flat with mud. Face down. Never made it
out of backyard. Smell of creek: fishy water, damp ground.

Forts. Capture flag. Fishing.

Yellow police line:
Do
Not Cross
. Megan slipped under, past groping hands. Screaming. Ducks
flapping wings, stirring water, images racing from each other across air and
water. Leaves shimmering in morning sun. Frost on ground. Frost on Tommy’s
head.

Frost on jack-o-lantern, morning after Halloween:
Everything
scary can be beautiful, Meg.

—Screaming.

Something in Tommy’s hand. Not bag of food. Piece of thin
paper. Note. Suicide? Megan tried to push past cop, clawing at air. Not Tommy?
What was the paper? Why didn’t she know? Why drown? (Where was his corduroy
jacket?)

Lying parents; there is no God.

1:9.

Unbolting.

Unbolting. Unbolting. Unbolting.

Her parents were paranoid since Tommy. Too many doors
were locked.

Strolling into the dark hall, feet padding on hardwood,
and at the end of the hall, Megan flipped on the light. “All safe.” She slid
her coat off her arms and tossed it to the floor.

Kirk rubbed his arms. “Did you leave a window open? It’s
cold.”

“You know I wouldn’t do that.”

“Meg, I feel a draft.” He marched down the adjoining
hall. “Meg, come here.”

Rolling her eyes, she followed. Coming up behind him, she
gasped. Face puckering, forming an unasked question: how could the back door be
open?

1:10.

Remembering Tommy: Church packed with mourners. Girls, boys,
adults crying, crying...Megan wailing...Uncontrollable. Inconsolable. Casket
open.

Last words were spoken to her, and darkness closed around
him like a bug in a fist.

In blue suit. Tommy hated suits. Loved jeans and tee shirts.
Rock tee shirts.

Tommy in garage with friends, playing music. Friends, heads
bowed, eyes red.

Hair parted and pulled away from face. Lips closed over
smile. Eyes shut. Sleeping. Sleeping in a suit.

Tommy snarling awake: crabbing, awakened too early, crabbing
at Megan, then quickly changing his disposition.

(And Megan wondered: how did the suit fit?) Tommy had not
worn a suit since he was sixteen.

Tommy: chasing her down the hallway with chocolate smeared
across his face on Easter Sunday.

New Suit. Tommy was in a new suit.

Pastor speaking words. What did they mean? Mom. Dad. Quiet
and watery eyes.
Tommy, my baby, Tommy,
Mom said, just once.

Tommy, scowling at Mom from passenger seat, on way home from
detention.
Don’t call me baby.

Megan, eyes sharp. Eyes: Tommy to Mom and Dad. Mom and Dad
to Tommy.

Why a blue suit? Tommy hated blue.

1:11.

“I think you should stay with me tonight.”

Kirk had suggested. She wished she’d accepted.

She could feel someone in the dark. But how could someone be
in the house
and
outside. How could there be two? Who were they?

Again in the dark, whispering: “Come to the window, Megan.
I’ve waited so long in the cold.”

1:12.

Remembering Tommy:
Come to the window, Meg. It’s cold.

Rap. Rap on the window. Scared but seeing Tommy’s face in
the darkness, she let him in. “Tommy!”

Shhhh!
His finger to his lips.
Don’t let Mom and
Dad know.

Hungry and dirty. “You shower; I’ll get you food,” Megan
whispered.

Getting food. Mom enters kitchen:
Late night snack?

“Yes.” Mom, eyes stern:
You usually don’t eat late.
Into Tommy’s room for clothes. Wouldn’t even let him take all his clothes.
Needed jacket; it was getting cold.

Tommy clean.
Found a place to stay. Band got gig on
Friday.
Happy. Megan watched: Tommy slipping out window and shadow moving
at bedroom door. Megan flipped the light off.

1:13.

Screaming as it slid across the hardwood floor, the door
opened upon a steep darkness. Side by side, she and Kirk had searched the
house: room by room. No one was in the house. Yet the door had been open.
Someone had been in the house.

“Come to the window, Megan.”

1:14.

Remembering Tommy: Police said suicide. Note in hand. Not
note. Bible page. No verse circled. Exodus. No verse circled. Megan read page.
Both sides.

Over and over. Memorized.

What did it mean? Why Exodus? Goodbye to better place? (Name
of his band.)

1:15.

I’m not safe.
Fear heated and rose within Megan,
lifting her head from the pillow. Voice whispering in the dark. Rolling over,
Megan: eyes to the window. A silhouette moved outside. Fighting the urge to
scream. Inside, beside the window, hung on the wall: something light, soft,
draping...fabric, light colored. Forcing eyes to comprehend the object in the
unforgiving darkness.

Fabric. Shirt. Jacket. Tommy’s tan corduroy jacket. Gasping,
drawing her head back, Megan froze.

The sound of footsteps: behind her now. Megan spun—too
late—and suddenly was sightless. She flailed her arms, clawing at the figure
grasping her. Something, cloth, was over her head. Arms flailing, she screamed.
Breath catching in her throat, she gagged: vapors—

—Awaking in a tub: warm water, dripping, tub full. Red.
White tiles glaring, eyes blurry.
Red.
The water was tinted red. Her
wrists ached. Eyes shifting: a razor rests on the edge of tub. Drops of blood
on tile. Hard to move. Tired.

Moving, arms useless: cuts, long, deep, tendons severed.
Eyes searching: paper on floor.

Exodus on floor. No verse circled.

Remembering Tommy: no verse circled.

Remembering Exodus: words, black on thin white paper.

Passage:
And Pharaoh charged all his people, saying,
Every son that is born ye shall cast into the river.
Not same passage.

Eyes drowsy. Page on floor.
And the waters returned, and
covered the chariots, and the horsemen, and all the host of Pharaoh that came
into the sea after them; there remained not so much as one of them.

The Red Sea.

Megan cackled as water and blood poured into her mouth.

Originally published in
Hello Horror
.

If you enjoyed this story, you may enjoy
The
Devil You Know
.