Lunar Park (27 page)

Something was melting between us—the division was eroding. There was now, I believed, a tentative forgiveness on his part.

Robby kept choking out sobs until the crying subsided and then he pulled away, red-faced, exhausted. But the crying returned, forcing him to lean forward, his face in his hands, cursing his tears, as I reached over to hold him again. He removed his hands from his face once he stopped crying and looked at me with something approaching tenderness, and I believed he wasn’t keeping a secret.

The world opened up to me in that moment.

I was no longer the wrong person.

Happiness was now a possibility because—finally—Robby had a father now and it was no longer his burden to make me one.

Of course, I was thinking, we had always loved each other.

Why did you feel this way on that Wednesday afternoon in November?
the writer later asked me.

Because there was no betrayal in the smile that overtook my son’s face.

But weren’t your eyes blurred with tears? Were you really certain that this was an accurate assessment? Or was it something you just wanted so badly to believe?

Didn’t you realize that even though you felt healed you were still blind?

It was true: the image of Robby’s face became multiplied through my tears, and each face held a different expression.

But when we drove home without saying anything and it seemed like the first time we were ever comfortable with each other’s silence, nothing else mattered.

22. interlude

N
one of us really knew each other because we were not a family yet. We were simply a group of survivors in a nameless world. But the past was being erased, and a new beginning was replacing it. There was another world waiting for us to inhabit. The tension had broken and the light in the house felt clean. There was a new language being taught to us. Robby took me upstairs to reveal the innocent files I had mistaken for something sinister and I refrained from telling him the computer had broken down; but when confronted with this, Robby took it in stride with a simple shrug, and when Marta brought Sarah back from ballet practice there was no complaint about the missing doll after Sarah had gone to her room and changed into pajamas. Neither Robby nor I mentioned the scene that had played out in the car at Buckley to anyone, but it seemed as if they knew because the people in the house were happier. (An example: Sarah had brought home drawings of starfish on a pearly white beach beneath a night sky filled with glowing asterisks.) Rosa made vegetarian lasagna and joined us at the table, and since I hadn’t eaten all day I was ravenous. The conversation was soothing and Marta knew where to direct it, and just as plates were being cleared Jayne called from Toronto. She spoke to Sarah (“Mommy, Caitlin’s daddy got divorced”) and to Robby (“It’s going okay”) and to Marta, and once the kids had left the kitchen I took the phone and told her about the talk with my son (without explaining the reason I felt the talk was so necessary) and Jayne seemed heartened (“How did it feel?” “I feel my age.” “That’s good, Bret.” “I miss you”). As Marta tucked Sarah into bed, Jayne’s daughter waved at me from beneath her comforter and I waved back, cured of something (” ’Night” was her only word), and Marta was smiling curiously as I walked her outside and told her we would be “reunited tomorrow,” bowing theatrically as I said it. (The only one at 307 Elsinore Lane on edge was Victor, who prowled the backyard, stopping every so often to bark at the woods beyond the fog-shrouded field because something had left tracks.) A new wind swept around the house, which felt so much emptier without Jayne in it, but she would be back, I thought to myself as I took a long bath. Everything previous to this was part of the dream, I sighed, contented, lying in the marble tub as it quickly filled with warm water. The dream was over for now. (
You’re correct,
the writer agreed.
It is.
) Before I turned in I made sure the kids were safe—a new and involuntary urge. Sarah was already asleep, and I moved through her room and walked into the bathroom that connected her room to her brother’s and told Robby he could stay up as late as he wanted, but only if he needed to get homework done. There was no rage, no misunderstandings, no doublespeak—just a nod. Again Robby blurred because of my tears. His appreciative, clear-eyed glance was enough to cause them. I stepped out into the hallway and gently closed his door and I waited for the lock to click in place, but the sound never came. I found a bottle of red wine while rummaging through the kitchen and opened it, pouring myself a large glass. The wine would act as a gentle sleep aid. I would drink the wine while watching a rerun of
Friends
and fall asleep, and tomorrow everything would be different. At 11:15 the writer wanted me to turn the channel so we could watch the local news, because a horse had been found mutilated in a field near Pearce, which was where we had discarded the doll. And it all came back: on the screen was the divided sky and crows were descending from the telephone wires and dancing in patterns above a patrol car parked on the interstate where onlookers craned their necks and the camera zoomed in on the pile of remains, discreetly skimming the carnage, and a local farmer, his eyes watering, was answering a reporter’s question with a sort of shrug and the horse was first thought to have “given birth” because it was so badly “ruptured” and then there was the uncertain talk of a sacrifice, and as I began responding to this a phone started ringing from my office.

23. the phone call

I
t was my cell phone ringing. It was lying on my desk, waiting for me to pick it up.

My mind was still picturing the field out by the interstate, and I answered the phone in a daze.

“Hello?”

I could hear someone breathing.

“Hello?”

“Bret?” I heard a voice say faintly.

“Yes. Who is this?”

Another pause.

“Hello?”

The sound of wind and static interspersed.

I pulled the phone away from my face and checked the incoming number.

The call was being made from Aimee Light’s cell phone.

“Who is this?” I didn’t even realize I had fallen into my chair. My heart was beating too fast. I thought clenching my fist would control it. “Aimee?”

“No.”

Pause, static, wind.

I leaned forward and said a name.

“Clayton?”

The voice was ice. “That’s one of my names.”

I stood up. “What do you mean? Is this Clayton or not?”

“I’m everything. I’m everyone.” A static-filled pause. “I’m even you.”

This comment forced the fear to adopt a casual, friendly tone. I did not want to antagonize whoever this was. I would play dumb. I would pretend to be having a conversation with someone else. I had started shaking so hard that it was almost impossible to keep my voice steady. “Where are you?” I moved to the window. “I never got to see you again after you stopped by my office.”

“Yes you did.” The voice was now oddly intimate.

I paused. “No . . . I mean, where would that have been?”

“Did you get the manuscript?”

“Yes. Yes, I did. Where are you?” For some reason I reached for a pen, but it dropped from my trembling hand.

“Everywhere.”

The way he said this was so ghastly that I had to compose myself before returning to my fake clueless demeanor. The voice had scales and was horned. The voice was something that had emerged from a bonfire. The fear it caused was unraveling me.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Yeah, I think I did see you again. Were you in our house on Sunday night?”

“ ‘Our’ house?” The voice feigned bewilderment. “That’s an interesting phrase. One highly open to interpretation.”

I closed the blinds. I sat in the chair again and then stood up just as quickly. I suddenly couldn’t help it. I decided to play along, my voice thick with urgency.

“Is this . . . Patrick?”

“We’re a lot of people.”

“So . . . what were you doing in our house the other night?” I asked casually. “What were you doing in my son’s room?”

“That night it wasn’t me, Bret. That night it was something else.”

“What . . . was it then?”

“Something that is not an ally to our cause.”

“Your cause? What cause? I don’t understand.”

“Did you read the manuscript, Bret?”

“Are any of you responsible for the boys?” I shut my eyes tightly.

“The boys?” I had interrupted his question with another question. The voice was on the verge of not behaving anymore.

“The missing boys. Are you—”

It was as if the voice hadn’t anticipated this question. It was as if the voice assumed I knew where the particular truth of that situation led. “No, Bret. Again, you’re looking in the wrong place on that one.”

“Where should I be looking?”

“Open your eyes. Stop groping for things that aren’t there.”

“Where are the boys?” I asked. “Do you know?”

“Ask your son. He knows.”

The fear curled into quick anger. “I don’t believe that.”

“This will be your downfall.”

The writer had left. The writer was scared and had run away and was now hiding somewhere, screaming.

“What do you mean by that? My downfall? Are you threatening me?”

“I see that a Detective Donald Kimball visited you,” the voice said airily. “Did he tell you about me?”

“What happened to Aimee Light?”

“Now we’re getting somewhere.”

“Where is she?”

“In a better world than this one.”

“What did you do to her?”

“No, Bret. It’s what
you
did to her.”

“I didn’t do anything to her.”

“Well, a part of that is true: you didn’t save her.”

“What did you do to her?”

“I’d check the text of that dirty little book you wrote again.”

“I’m not involved with anything that happened to Aimee Light. I’m going to hang up.”

“Though of course I could make things happen.” The voice lowered itself, yet became clearer. “I could get you involved.”

Wounds kept opening.

“What do you mean? How could you do that?”

“Well, you were a mentor to her. She was the young and obliging student. Quite attractive, by the way.” The voice paused, and considered something. “Maybe Aimee Light wanted more from the big famous teacher she was doing her dissertation on.” The voice paused again. “Maybe you let her down in some way. Maybe there are even e-mails to back this up. Maybe Aimee Light left behind a trail that included a note or two. And let’s just say these notes hinted at the possibility she was expecting you to fulfill a promise. Let’s just say that maybe there was the possibility she was going to tell your very famous wife—”

“Who in the fuck is this?”

“—about the two of you.” The voice sighed, then spoke quickly. “Though when I asked about your ‘affair’ it seemed like she was saying that nothing had happened between the two of you. Of course I had taped her mouth shut and by that point she was losing so much blood, but it was pretty clear that the two of you had never fucked. Maybe you were angry at Aimee Light for not putting out. That’s another scenario we could pursue. The rejection was just too much for the writer who always got what he wanted and you snapped.” The voice paused. “I see you haven’t informed the authorities about your relationship with the deceased.”

“Because I’m not connected to anything crimin—”

“Oh, but you are.”

“How?” This was sending me out so much further than I had ever expected: a place beyond strength.

“You were seen outside her house by three witnesses the night her dismembered body was discovered in that very messy room at the Orsic Motel. Now, what were you doing there, Bret?”

“I have an alibi for—”

“Actually, you don’t.”

“There’s no way—”

“You mean the night you wandered around ‘your’ house making some realizations about the past? Everyone was asleep. You were all alone. No one saw you after you got back from Buckley until the next morning when Marta saw you racing to your office because of those attachments. That gives you a lot of time, Bret. By the way, did you like the video? It took you an awfully long time to find it. I’ve been wanting to show it to you for years.”

I leapt back to Aimee. “They don’t even know that body is hers.”

“I could send them the head. I still have it.”

“This is a joke. You’re not even real. You don’t exist.”

“If you think so, then why are you still on the line?”

I had nothing to say except “What do you want?”

“I want you to realize some things about yourself. I want you to reflect on your life. I want you to be aware of all the terrible things you have done. I want you to face the disaster that is Bret Easton Ellis.”

“You’re murdering people and you’re telling me—”

“How can I murder people if I’m not real, Bret?” The voice was grinning. It was presenting a mystery. “Again, you are lost,” the voice sighed. “Again, Bret doesn’t get it.”

“If you ever come near my family I’ll kill you.”

“I’m not particularly interested in your family. Besides, I don’t think you’ve figured out a way to get rid of me, not yet.”

“If you’re not real, how am I going to accomplish that?”

“Did you read the manuscript?” the voice asked again.

I was on the verge of tears. I shoved a fist into my mouth and I was biting on it.

“Let’s play a game, Bret.”

“I’m not—”

“The game is called ‘Guess Who’s Next?’ ”

“You’re not alive.”

And then, suddenly and very sweetly, the voice began humming a song I recognized—“The Sunny Side of the Street”—before a roar overtook the humming and the line clicked dead.

When I laid the phone back on the desk I noticed a bottle of vodka that had not been there when I walked into the room.

The writer did not need to tell me to drink it.

THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 6

24. the darkness

T
here is really no other way of describing the events that took place in 307 Elsinore Lane during the early morning of November 6 other than simply relating the facts. The writer wanted this job, but I dissuaded him. The following account doesn’t require the embellishments the writer would have insisted on.

Sometime around 2:15 Robby had a nightmare from which he awoke.

At 2:25 Robby heard “the sounds” of something in the house.

Robby assumed it was me until he heard the scratching at his door, and then he assumed it was Victor. (Later Robby would admit he had “hoped” it was Victor because he somehow knew “it wasn’t.”)

Robby decided to move through the bathroom into his sister’s room (according to his account, she was seemingly involved in her own nightmare) where he opened Sarah’s door and looked out into the hallway so he could see what was causing the scratching noises and leaving the deep grooves in the lower right-hand corner of his door. (At one point, Robby said, he feared he was dreaming all this.)

Robby didn’t see anything when he peered from his sister’s door and down the hallway.

(Note: The sconces in the hallway were flickering, and according to Robby this was something he had noticed before, as I had, though neither Jayne nor Sarah—nor Rosa nor Marta, for that matter—had seen it.)

Robby did, however, hear something as he stepped from his sister’s room and into the flickering hallway. There was a “rustling” sound farther down the corridor.

At this point, Robby realized something was coming up the stairs.

“It” was “breathing raggedly” and, according to Robby, “it” was also “mewling”—a word I had never heard before. (Dictionary definition: “to cry, as a baby, young child, or the like; whimper.”)

The “thing” noticed Robby’s presence and, because of this, suddenly stopped advancing up the staircase.

Robby turned away—panicking—and walked quietly in the opposite direction, toward the master bedroom at the end of the hall.

What happened when he opened the door and stepped into the room?

The room was dark. I was lying on my back in bed. I believed I was dreaming. I had passed out after drinking half the bottle of vodka that had appeared on my desk while I was talking to whom I thought was Clayton, the boy who wanted to be Patrick Bateman. When I slowly became aware that I was no longer sleeping, my eyes remained closed and I felt a pressure on my chest. I was still swirling up from a dream in which crows were turning into seagulls.

“Dad?” This was an echo.

I couldn’t open my eyes. (If I had, I would have seen Robby silhouetted in the doorway, backlit by the flickering hallway behind him.) “What is it?” my voice rasped out.

“Dad, I think there’s someone in the house.”

Robby was trying not to whine, but even drunk I could detect the fear in his voice.

I cleared my throat, my eyes still closed. “What do you mean?”

“There’s I think there’s something coming up the stairs,” he said. “There was something scratching at my door.”

According to Robby, I actually said the following: “I’m sure it’s nothing. Just go back to sleep.”

Robby countered with “I can’t, Dad. I’m scared.”

My first reaction:
Well, so am I. Welcome to the club. Get used to it. It never leaves.

I could hear Robby moving closer, stepping through the darkness of the master bedroom. I could hear him nearing me as he made his way toward my black and shapeless form.

The weight shifted on my chest again.

Robby was speaking into the darkness: “Dad, I think there’s somebody in the house.”

Robby was reaching for the bedside lamp.

Robby turned on the lamp.

Behind my closed eyelids an orange light burned.

Robby was silenced by something.

He was contemplating what he was looking at.

The image he was contemplating momentarily knocked the fear away and was replaced by an awful curiosity.

His silence was rousing me from my inebriation.

The weight shifted on my chest again.

“Dad,” Robby said quietly.

“Robby,” I sighed.

“Dad, there’s something on you.”

I opened my eyes but couldn’t focus.

What I saw next happened very quickly.

The Terby was on my chest, looming above me, its face seizing, its open mouth a rictus that now took up half the doll’s head, and the fangs I had only noticed earlier that day were stained brown

(
of course they were because it “mutilated” a horse in a field off the interstate near Pearce
).

Its talons were locked into the robe I’d passed out in and its wings were fanning themselves and it wasn’t the length of the wingspan that shocked me at that moment (it had grown—I accepted that within a second) but it was the wings webbed with black veins bulging tightly beneath the doll’s skin (
the doll’s skin, yes, tell this to a sane person and see their reaction
) and pulsing with blood that amazed me.

According to Robby, when he turned on the lamp the thing was motionless. And then it quickly rotated its head toward him—the wings were already outstretched, the mouth was already opening itself—and, when he spoke, the doll returned its focus on me.

I shouted out and knocked the thing off my chest as I bolted up.

The Terby fell to the floor and quickly clawed itself under the bed.

I stood up, panting, frantically brushing something nonexistent from my torn robe.

Except for the sounds I was making it was silent in the house.

But then I heard it too. The mewling.

“Dad?” Robby asked.

My nonanswer was interrupted when we heard something rushing up the stairs.

From where Robby and I stood looking out from the doorway of the master bedroom a shadow—maybe three feet high—was coming toward us in the dim, flickering light; it was shambling sideways along the wall and as it got closer to us the mewling turned into hissing.

“Victor?” I asked, disbelieving. “It’s Victor, Robby. It’s only Victor.”

“It’s not Victor, Dad.”

According to Robby, I said, “Then what the hell is it?”

The thing paused as if it was contemplating something.

It was 2:30 when the electricity went out.

The entire house was plunged into blackness.

I uselessly reached for a light switch. I was weaving on my feet.

“Mom keeps a flashlight in her drawer,” Robby said quickly.

“Just stand still. Just stay where you are.” I attempted a normal voice.

I jumped onto the bed and reached for Jayne’s nightstand drawer. I opened it. My hand found the flashlight. I grabbed it. I immediately turned it on, aiming the beam at the floor, scanning for the Terby.

“Let’s get out of here,” I said.

Robby followed behind me as I aimed the flashlight at whatever was in the hallway. (But I had done this inadvertently—because in those brief moments spent looking for the flashlight in the blackened room I had forgotten that something was waiting for us there.)

This is when we briefly glimpsed it.

Robby was never sure what he actually saw in the glare of the flashlight. He was “hiding” behind me, his eyes squeezed shut, and the thing moved away from the beam of light as if offended by it—as if darkness was all it knew and what it thrived on.

The vodka was straining my senses. “Victor?” I whispered again, trying to convince myself. Robby was shivering against me. “Robby, it’s okay. It’s just the dog.”

But when I said this we both heard Victor barking from outside.

According to Robby this was when he began crying—when he realized that the thing in the hallway was not his dog.

I persisted. “Victor, come here. Come on, Vic.” This was the alcohol making concessions.

According to Robby this was when he heard me mutter: “No fucking way.”

It was three feet high and covered in hair streaked black and blond, and it moved on feet that weren’t visible. When the beam of light caught it, there was another hissing sound. It shambled quickly to the other side of the hallway. But with each movement it was advancing toward us.

The thing stiffened when the beam from the flashlight caught it again. I couldn’t tell where the hissing came from. Once it stopped hissing its entire body began to shudder.

According to Robby I was saying, “Oh shit oh shit oh shit.”

It turned toward me, this time defiantly. It was waist high and shapeless—a mound. It was covered with hair entangled with twigs and dead leaves and feathers. It had no features. A cloud of gnats were buzzing above the thing, following it to where it had pushed itself up against the wall. The beam was locked on it.

Within the hair, a bright red hole ringed with teeth appeared.

The mouth opening, the baring of its teeth, I realized—with a sickening clarity that immediately sobered me up—was a warning.

And then it rushed toward us, blindly.

I was frozen in place. Robby was holding on to me, his arms wrapped around my lower chest. He was shaking.

I kept the flashlight trained on the thing and as it approached us I smelled dampness, rot, the dead.

Its mouth was locked open as it shambled forward.

I slammed Robby and myself against the wall in order to avoid it.

It rushed past us.

(Because it was sightless and depended on scent—I already knew this.)

I whirled around. Robby was holding on, gripping me fiercely. I started backing away in the opposite direction of where the thing now stood.

It was shuddering again.

The worst thing I noticed was a large eye, haphazardly placed on top and rolling around in its flat, disc-shaped socket involuntarily.

Robby: “Dad what is it what is it what is it?”

The thing stopped in the doorway of the master bedroom—we had traded places—and it began making its mewling sounds again.

I tried hard to stop panicking but I was hyperventilating and my hand holding the flashlight was shaking so badly that I had to use the other hand to steady it and locate the thing in the beam of light.

I steadied my hand and found it.

It was standing still. But something inside it was causing the thing to pulsate. It opened its mouth, which was now coated with froth, and rushed toward us again.

When I turned around I dropped the flashlight, causing Robby to shout out in dismay.

I picked up the flashlight and trained the beam on the thing, which had stopped moving—seemingly confused.

Outside, Victor’s barking became hysterical.

The thing resumed rushing us.

And that’s when I dropped the flashlight again. The bulb cracked, drowning us in darkness as the thing continued rushing toward us.

I grabbed Robby’s sweaty hand and ran to his room and opened the door.

I tripped as I fell into the room, hitting my face against the floor. I felt wetness on my lip.

Robby slammed the door shut and I heard the lock click.

I stood up, wavering in the darkness, and wiped the blood from my mouth. I shouted out when Robby steadied me with a frightened hug.

I listened closely. It was so dark in the room that we were forced to concentrate on the scratching sounds.

Suddenly the scratching subsided.

Robby’s grip on me loosened. I exhaled.

But the relief couldn’t be sustained because there was a cracking noise. It was pushing itself against the door.

I moved to the door. Robby was still holding on to me.

“Robby,” I whispered. “Do you have a flashlight in here? Anything?”

I felt Robby immediately let go of me and heard him move in the direction of his closet.

In the darkness of the room a green light saber appeared. It floated toward me and I took the toy from him. The glow was faint. I aimed the light saber at the door, illuminating it.

“Dad,” Robby whispered, his voice shaky. “What is it?”

“I don’t know.” (But even as I said this, I knew what it was.)

The scratching resumed.

I was asking myself: What is it scratching with?

And then I realized it wasn’t scratching. (I remembered something.)

It had never been scratching.

It was gnawing at the door. It was using its mouth. It was using its teeth.

And then the gnawing stopped.

Robby and I stared at the door, which was now bathed in green.

And we watched in horror as the doorknob began to twist back and forth.

In a sickening flash I understood that it was using its mouth to accomplish this.

I had to remind myself to breathe again when the doorknob rattled violently.

There was a snarling sound. It was the noise of frustration. It was the noise of hunger.

And then it stopped. We could hear the thing dragging itself away.

“What is it? What does it want? I don’t understand. How did it get in?” This was Robby.

“I don’t know what the hell it is,” I was saying absurdly.

“What is it, Dad?”

“I don’t know I don’t know I don’t—”

(Note: This was not technically true.)

Our moaning was cut off by the sound of Sarah screaming. “Mommy! Mommy! It’s getting me!”

I rushed through the bathroom and into Sarah’s room. In the instant before I grabbed her off the bed I waved the light saber over the scene.

Sarah was backed up against the headboard as the thing attempted to pull itself onto her bed. It had fastened its mouth over one of the bedposts and it was moving frantically and squealing.

“What’s happening?” Robby was screaming this from inside the bathroom.

I shouted out in disgust and grabbed Sarah off the bed. As I carried her toward the bathroom, the thing froze and then leapt onto the floor and I could hear it rushing toward us.

I slammed the bathroom door shut, and Robby locked it. I was still holding Sarah and the light saber. We were waiting while staring at the door.

Calmly, I asked: “Where’s your cell phone, Robby?”

“It’s in my room.” He gestured over his shoulder.

I was contemplating something. I would unlock the door that led into Robby’s room and find the phone and run back into the bathroom and call 911. This was the idea that formed inside my mind.