The Boy in the Lot (2 page)

“Come on, Tim!” he shouted into the darkness. He waited several seconds but the dog did not reappear from the trees. A scraping sound caught his attention. Mark looked up and saw barren tree branches scudding against the motel roof, blown by the wind.

Stupid dog…

He stepped down off the curb and peered through the dark trees. Movement—a whitish blur—caught his eyes. “Tim!” But whatever it had been faded back into the darkness. It wasn’t like Tim to be disobedient.

What if it’s not Tim?
Mark thought.
What if it’s something else?

The thought frightened him. Yet it was stupid. What else could it possibly be? He didn’t believe in monsters. Bears, maybe…or wildcats…but not some monster…

Then Davey Hannah stepped out from behind a large tree. The boy’s pale white face seemed to radiate with an incandescent light. A smile was half-cocked on the boy’s face, his wide black eyes shimmering out at Mark.

It took Mark a second to find his voice. “Davey? Is that…is that you?”

Almost imperceptibly, Davey’s head turned first to the right then to the left.

“What are you doing here?” Mark asked.

Davey’s smile widened. He turned and glanced at something behind the tree—the tree from behind which he had come—then looked back at Mark. Yet before Mark could utter another word, Davey stepped back behind the tree, filling his void with absolute darkness.

“Davey, wait,” Mark said, and pushed toward his friend through the thicket. When he reached the tree, he peered behind it…but Davey was not there.

Something came up behind him. Something larger than Davey Hannah.

Mark turned around and saw it.

Something flashed over Mark’s eyes. A moment after that, he felt an unforgiving constriction around his chest, cutting off his airway. He tried to scream but couldn’t. When he felt something hot and sharp pierce the flesh at the base of his spine, he tried to thrash and pull himself free, but it was a futile attempt.

“…avey…”

Mark’s vision faded. He gasped for air but could harness none. His body went numb, numb.

Only a few yards away, Timbuktu barked. Then the old dog turned around and ran off through the woods. A motorist would find the dog hours later, wandering up Route 40 in the direction of a rural little Maryland hamlet called Stillwater.

About the Author

Ronald Malfi is the award-winning author of eleven novels, to include
The Narrows, Floating Staircase, The Ascent, Snow, Cradle Lake,
and many others.
 
His novel
Floating Staircase
won a Gold Independent Publisher Book Award for Best Horror Novel of 2011, and it was also nominated for a Stoker Award for best novel of 2011 by the Horror Writers Association.
 
Most recognized for his haunting, literary style and memorable characters, Malfi’s dark fiction has gained acceptance among readers of all genres.
 
He currently lives in Maryland, with his wife and daughter, where he is at work on his next novel.
 
He can be contacted online at
www.ronmalfi.com
.

Look for these titles by Ronald Malfi

Now Available:

Borealis

The Narrows

Coming Soon:

The Fall of Never

 
“Malfi constructs a panoramic narrative in which the despair of individuals sharpens the sense of horror overwhelming the town. This smartly written novel succeeds as both an allegory of smalltown life and a tale of visceral horror.”

–Publishers
 
Weekly
on
The Narrows

The town of Stillwater has a very unwelcome resident.

The Narrows

© 2012 Ronald Malfi

The town of Stillwater has been dying—the long and painful death of a town ravaged by floods and haunted by the ghosts of all who had lived there. Yet this most recent flood has brought something with it—a creature that nests among the good folks of Stillwater...and feeds off them. The children who haven't disappeared whisper the same word—“vampire.” But they’re wrong. What has come to Stillwater is something much more horrific.
 

Enjoy the following excerpt for
The Narrows:

In the half-light, Matthew listened to the house creak and moan—
house-speak,
his father had called it on the nights when Matthew was younger, afraid to sleep alone in his room with all the noises of the house surrounding him. Just house-speak: talking to the wind, the moon, the stars. Nothing at all to be afraid of. As it often did, this memory caused his face to turn hot and his eyes to sting. Matthew hadn’t seen his father in over a year, and he’d spoken with him on the phone less than a half-dozen times. He was living now in someplace that had a strange and unfamiliar name. And while no one had ever directly confirmed this bit of information, he had surmised that he was living there with another woman. The few times he had summoned the courage to ask his mother for more details about his father’s disappearance, one look at Wendy Crawly’s worn and beaten face would cause him to change his mind. He did not want to talk about those things with his mother. She had cried enough on the porch by herself in the beginning, just barely within earshot, and that had been bad enough. Matthew didn’t think he could take it if she broke down in front of him. Or
because
of him. So he never asked questions.

He flipped the sweaty sheet off his body then climbed out of bed. Without turning on the bedroom light, he found the mound of his clothes at the foot of his bed. Snatching his shorts up off the floor, he carried them over to his small desk where his Superman lunchbox sat. He felt around in the pockets of his shorts for the money Dwight had given him, his panic rising when he found both pockets empty. He rechecked them, pulling them inside out, but there was no money in there.

He clicked the desk lamp on. Yellow light spilled out across the desk and half of the desk chair. Beneath the cone of light, Matthew again reexamined the pockets of his shorts. Then he went to the heap of clothes at the foot of his bed and sifted through each article of clothing—shirts, balled-up socks, another pair of shorts. There was no money anywhere.

Retrace your steps,
said a voice in his head. He thought of the story of Hansel and Gretel, how they’d left behind a trail of breadcrumbs in order to find their way back home. Stupidly, this made him think again of his father, who had left no trail of breadcrumbs and appeared to have no intention of ever coming back home.

Holding his breath, because he thought doing so would stop his heart from beating so loudly, he crept out of his bedroom and onto the second floor landing. Across the hall, the doors to his mother’s and Brandy’s bedrooms were closed, the doorknobs a shimmery blue in the moonlight coming in through the high front windows. He proceeded to descend the steps, avoiding from memory the risers that made the most noise. It was like sinking down into the belly of a great ship. Over summer vacation he’d read Jules Verne’s
Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea,
and not the dumbed-down version for children either. This had been the actual, honest-to-God novel. And while he did not fully understand everything he’d read, the glory and trepidation and horror of the adventure resonated with him more than any movie ever had. He thought of that book now, and how the underwater light shining through the portholes of Captain Nemo’s submarine, the
Nautilus,
must have looked just like the swampy, blue-gelled moonlight coming through the windows of the front hall right now.

He’d hoped that thinking about this would alleviate his fears.

It hadn’t.

Around him, the house sounded alive. As he crossed from the front hall to the kitchen, a gust of wind bullied the house and made popping, groaning sounds within the walls. Matthew froze, his heart thudding with a series of pronounced hammer strikes within the frail wall of his chest. On the kitchen counter, silverware and drinking glasses gleamed in the moonlight coming through the window over the sink. Across the kitchen, the flimsy floral curtain that hung over the panel of glass in the upper section of the porch door seemed to radiate with a cool, lackadaisical light. His bare feet padding on the cold kitchen tiles, he went to the door, unlocked the dead bolt, and slid the slide lock to the unlocked position. It made a sound that echoed loudly in the empty, silent kitchen, causing Matthew to once again hold his breath.

There came a knocking on the other side of the door. Matthew froze, his skin suddenly blistered with gooseflesh. He waited for the silhouette of a head to appear on the other side of the sheer curtain. No one appeared. He waited. Outside, the wind picked back up, angry and unforgiving. The sound of the bare tree branches bullied by the wind was a haunted, creaking one, reminiscent of warped and loose floorboards. That knocking sound came again, slightly more muted this time. Again, Matthew expected the silhouette of a head to appear framed in the curtained panel of light. Again, no one appeared.

The door squealed on its hinges as he slowly opened it, though much of the noise was obscured by the rattling, locomotive sound of the whipping wind. Cold air blasted him and the flimsy T-shirt and boxer shorts he wore felt no more substantial than cobwebs. The banging sound, he realized, was the screen door banging against the frame. Beyond the screen, he could see the way the wind shook the bushes alongside the detached garage and, beyond, rattled the chain-link fence. Farther out, a sea of cornstalks undulated in the wind. Whirlwinds of dead leaves and scraps of trash danced across the yard.

It occurred to him that if he’d dropped Dwight’s money out here, it was long gone by now. In his mind’s eye—and not without a sense of utter despair—he imagined the dollar bills flitting like bats through the storm-laden night sky somewhere over the Cumberland Gap. Heck, for all he knew, they could be somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean by now…

Nonetheless, he pushed open the screen door and stepped out onto the porch. The rickety boards complained loudly beneath his bare feet. The strong wind chilled his bones, and flecks of icy rain pattered against the side of his face. He hugged himself as he scanned the yard. There were scraps of paper stuck in some of the bushes beside the garage. Could they be Dwight’s money?

Matthew took a deep breath, steeling himself for the act…then quickly bounded down the porch steps. He hurried out across the yard, the wind icy cold and unrelenting without the confines of the house to serve as a buffer. Bits of flying grit stung his eyes. There was a motion sensor light above the garage doors; Matthew had completely forgotten about it until it clicked on, blinding and startling him. Like someone caught attempting to escape from a prison yard, he momentarily froze in the spotlight. He knew the light was visible from his own bedroom window, but Brandy’s and his mother’s bedrooms were at the opposite end of the house, facing the road. They wouldn’t be awakened by the light; he was safe for the time being.

Someone moved behind the tall hedgerow. Again, Matthew froze. The hedges stood just over four feet tall and ran the length of the yard to the side of the garage. Matthew blinked and tried to discern through the darkness the movement he had just seen a moment ago—a gliding, whitish blur passing just behind the bushes.

“Is someone there?” His voice was as weak as his knees. It frightened him to address the darkness aloud.

From the periphery of his vision, he caught another glimpse of someone—or something—moving behind the bushes, closer to the garage now. Had the motion sensor light not come on he might have been able to see more, but the gleaming halogen bulb caused inky pools of shadow to drip from the hedges and puddle around the side of the garage, blinding him if he looked too closely in its approximate direction. A twisting shape seemed to ebb and flow in the darkness just beyond the bushes, and he was reminded of the twisting shape he’d seen earlier that day when peering in the windows of the old plastics factory. He thought then of his nightmare, and of the flashing expulsions of light going off behind the grimy windows of the factory in his dream. And of Dwight’s voice, now eerily prophetic, saying,
It sounds like someone moving back and forth on the gravel driveway. I look but there’s never anybody there.

As he watched, a figure stepped out from behind the hedgerow and paused, facing him, in the shaft of space between the hedgerow and the garage. The figure was a black blur, as indistinct as a distant memory, but Matthew had no question as to its authenticity. There was someone standing
right there
.

Matthew managed one hesitant step backward.

The figure took one step forward; one bare foot and a slender white shin appeared in the cone of light issuing from the motion sensor. A second foot joined it. As Matthew stared, the whitish legs and feet appeared to waver, and it was like looking at something from behind the distorting waves of rising heat. The legs weren’t bare at all. They were clad in grayish-blue denim, the feet encased in hard, black shoes.

Another step forward and the figure’s face emerged from the darkness. Matthew could see his father’s face, stubble along his cheeks and neck, the crooked part in the man’s prematurely graying hair. Still in his postal uniform, his shirt partway unbuttoned just as he used to wear it on those days after work when he went immediately to the garage to tinker around without changing his clothes first.