The Pines (22 page)

“All you’ll hear’ll be flappin’ like sheets on a line. Soon’s you hear that, you know you gonna die.” As he spoke, Dan leaned in and out of the sphere of light, eclipsed face, gesticulating hands, appearing and disappearing in fragments. “He’ll come right down behind you, he will. An’ first thing he’ll do is just swallow your head, just put your whole head in his mouth and bite it off. Then while he’s chewin’ he…”

With a startled cry, the boy leaped back, almost pulling the old man off his perch.

“Don’t bring that in here!” A general tumult erupted. “Put it outside!”

While the newcomer stood in the doorway, blinking and trying to identify the problem, his dog frisked to the end of its chain and sniffed at the room.

“You get that fuckin’ mutt outta here! You hear me? Or I’ll get down ’at meat cleaver and chop it up!” Al bellowed. “What did you say?”

Still shuffling his feet in confusion, the man faintly grumbled something like “Oh yeah?”

Al went berserk. “Good, an’ I’ll chop you up too, motherfucker!” Some of the regulars tried to calm him as he reached for the cleaver.

“What’s the matter wi’ him?” The man backed up, pulling the now growling dog. “Jest a hound dog.” He kicked the animal and dragged it outside.

“Who da hell’s he think he is?” Al started slamming things around. “Comin’ in my place with a dog? Ain’t no dogs allowed in here. I own the fuckin’ place, don’t I?”

“Sure thing, Al.”

“You’re right, Al. You’re right.”

Something crashed on the stairs.

Everyone looked while Lonny picked himself up and seemed to get his joints going in the right direction again. Eyes still rimmed with sleep, he headed straight for the whiskey barrel.

“’At’s it. Drink up my profits, shithead.” Al saw him freeze. “Good for nuthin’ rummy.”

Lonny blinked at him. “I jus’ want one, Al.”

“No.”

“But, Al,” he began, the trace of a whine already in his voice, “gotta have one. Al?”

“No.”

Lonny stood with his mouth open. He started to shake, and Al watched, smiling with satisfaction. The door opened and the guy who’d taken the dog out came in again, looking wary. Al shoved an open jug at Lonny.

“You tie up tha’ dog?” demanded Al.

The man looked up warily. “He’s outside.”

Spit ran down Lonny’s chin while he drank. It hit him fast. The almost painful warmth spread from the pit of his stomach and poured into his chest, flushed up his neck and face, melting his eyes.

Watching, Dan shook his head sadly, dirty gray hair flopping over the back of his collar. Lonny looked even worse than usual, yet for a moment, the old man recalled him as a boy, full of hell and haunting the pines.

“Well, then sit down and buy yaself a drink.” Al smiled expansively. “I ain’t seen ya in here before, buddy.” He pointed at Lonny. “Look at ’im. He don’t think I knew ’bout that jug he had upstairs. I knew. Yeah, I knew. Asshole.”

“Usually, I go out Bear Swamp Hill way.” He was a thin, gray sort of man, and as he moved into the light, Dan guessed him to be part Indian. So many around here were.

“It’s my boy, y’see,” Al explained, chuckling. “He’s scared a dogs. Like to have a fit when he saw ya bringin’ that one in here.”

Dan glanced at Marl—the stocky youth sat by himself, watching everything as usual. No, not so stocky, he decided, looking closer, not anymore leastways, and taller too, really starting to shoot up. “Hey, there ain’t been no ghosts to night,” Dan announced, peering around at the shadows and making sure the stranger noticed.

“How’s at?”

“This here gin mill’s haunted,” replied Dan. “I thought everybody knew that. You should see it sometimes when the spooks is out—things flyin’ around by themselves. You wanna hear about it?” He toyed with the cracked fruit jar he’d been drinking from, letting the guy see it was empty.

Jagged laughter exploded from the corner.

“Way I heard it, Lonny went after his brother’s wife one night, but she grabbed a shotgun and just ’bout blew ole Lonny’s head off.”

“How’s about it, Lonny? Can the black bitch take you in a fair fight?”

“Them ghosts—Hessian mercenaries they was.” Sooty lanterns flickered, and Dan’s eyes glinted as the words spun out. “Shot ’em against a wall in the old town. Back during the Revolution.”

“You pullin’ my leg, ole man?”

“Come to think on it, there ain’t been no ghosts in here fer a while. I remember once…” But the newcomer’s eyes had strayed to Lonny.

“I know wha’ tha’ bitch really wants.” Muttering to himself, Lonny began to get loud.

“I told you to lay off the stuff.”

“Ah, let ’im alone, Al,” somebody yelled. “It’s just getting good. What you saying, Lon?”

Lonny kept drinking. All around him voices blurred with the smoke, fogging into an uneven buzz.

“Yeah, tell us ’bout it, Lonny. Whatchya gonna do to ’er?”

“…what tha bitch…she ain’t takin’ nuthin’…’smy house, Jesus, ’Thena…what she really wants, my…”

“At’s a boy, Lonny!”

“You tell ’er!”

“Tha’ bitch!” He pounded his fist on the bar. Voices splashed around him. Words whirled about his ears, piercing his head. Hands slapped his back. Many hands. His friends—a flickering blur. Al laughed, and Wes kept pushing him, pushing him and yelling things. Someone—old Dan?—tried to take his arm, but he shook free like a dog throwing off water. And suddenly he was sailing toward the door, riding a crescendo of goading that seemed to carry him out into the night. The hollow roar of the gin mill burst behind him, then trundled away.

He couldn’t feel his feet, couldn’t see the ground, but he kept walking, somehow never falling, and one of the hounds that lay in the shadow of a truck got up to follow.

So strange to be outside. Such relief. No lights to hurt his eyes. But even here the air felt dense, stirring with damp heat, like the breath of a beast. His thoughts churned: it was his house, but he had nothing because of her. Choking, he loosened his shirt. He was a grown man, and they all laughed at him, because he had nothing, no home even, and all he wanted was to go home. He stumbled down the road. He was going home, and nothing could stop him.

His thoughts grew even more muddied. Had he lost his bearings? The house lay…that way. Ahead of him, pines swayed, and the breeze carried away the stink of the town dump.

The hound that followed idly, stopped and sniffed the air. It sat back on its haunches to watch the man’s progress into the woods. The dog stiffened. The beginnings of a growl stirred in its chest, then it twisted around with a wrenching movement and ran away as fast as it could.

As the sky began to flicker, the wind blew stronger.

Pine detritus crunched under the tires. Raindrops plopped randomly across the roof of the car, and dust billowed around the house. In the woods, a dog was howling. As Athena pushed the car door open, sudden wetness splattered over the windshield.
Couldn’t wait two more minutes, could it?
She sprinted toward the dry shadow of the house while all around her hot sand hissed and sighed.

Lightning illuminated the kitchen as she pulled open the back door. She slapped at the wall, groped for the switch. Thunder sounded distantly. The house creaked under the rising wind, and fitful rain tapped like moths at the windows. She moved swiftly through the first floor, switching on lights. Another clap of thunder detonated, the loudest so far, and through the rumblings came ragged shrieks.

“Matthew?” She raced to the foot of the stairs. “Matthew, what’s the matter?”

Shrill cries grew louder. She caught a flash of movement.

“Pammy! Where Pammy an’ Chabwok got in his m-mouth and red…all red?” Crashing down the stairs, the boy charged at her. No time to get out of the way—she clutched at the banister as he slammed into her, tumbling her backward.

The house lights went out.

Toppling in sudden darkness, she landed on her hip with the boy on top of her, pain and panic searing through.

“Pammy…d-dark now…Pammy red and the rain! Go and…got to!” They grappled furiously in the blackness, Athena struggling to get up, the boy screaming and shaking her, desperation in his voice.

“Matthew, it’s all right.” She got hold of his arms, tried wriggling free. “Everything’s going to be all right.” A glancing blow caught her on the side of the jaw.

“Pammy! Chabwok, the dogs! Save Pammy. Save!”

Somehow, she pushed him back, warded off beating fists. She tried to pull herself to her feet, but again he flung himself at her. He grabbed her around the waist and hung on, wailing with fear and need.

“Matthew, stop this, please. Let me up!” She managed to free herself from one clinging hand. “What’s wrong? Can you tell me?” Prying herself loose, she stumbled into the darkened kitchen to lean against the table.

Lightning probed at boarded windows. The boy hadn’t followed her. The flash showed him still lying on the floor, weeping as he hadn’t since infancy. Pam was in danger—his hysteria convinced her. “It’s all right now, Matthew.” She felt along the wall for the cellar door. The key grated, and the doorway opened deeply. An ammoniacal smell flooded the room: a damp musk, full of the stench of mouse droppings and dust-laden cobwebs. Steadying herself against the door, she reached for the shelf, groped among the cans and jars. Finding the flashlight, she turned it toward the choked sobs. “Everything’s going to be fine now.”

“Pammy…n-n-no no don…Chabwok!” The boy stood at the kitchen threshold, face running with tears. “Pammy, no, don wanna…” The glare of the flashlight made his tear-swollen features appear even more distorted.

She directed the beam back toward the shelf, then lifted down the kerosene lantern and took the rattling box of matches from the stove.

“…dogs…the dogs inna woods…” He dropped to his knees, then slid to his side, moaning. “…gonna get Pammy! Pammy!” An explosion of wind brought a cracking noise from the walls.

A quivering puddle of lantern light covered the table and overflowed into the rest of the kitchen. While the boy wept, she stood searching for her strength. She had to do something. Could the feral dogs really be near Pam’s trailer? And how could the boy know? How could he?

Something scraped the back door. “Pamela?” Hurrying, she pulled it open—a burst of coolness. Rain gushed in. A dark shape heaved up from the porch. “No!” She tried to slam the door, but the shape struck against it with a yelp, shoving the door out of her hands and knocking her aside as it plowed through. Claws skittered loudly across the floorboards. “Oh.” She clutched at her throat, feeling her pulse hammer while the door flailed in rainy wind.

Black and soaking, the dog ran twice around the kitchen, then stopped to lap at Matthew’s face before shaking, spattering her jeans and the room with mud.

Drifting mist surrounded her, and she breathed in the scent of the rain. Then she heard fiercely chaotic barking, murky through the storm, definitely coming from the direction of Pamela’s.

The boy grabbed her, startling her. When she put her hand on his head, he whined and shook all over. The words wouldn’t come out through his chattering teeth, and he pressed shut his eyes, his whole face clenching. The veins on his face swelled as though they’d burst at the temples if the choked-down sobs did not emerge.

She knew what she had to do. Freeing herself, she moved quickly to the cellar door, reached again for the shelf. “Matthew, you’re to stay in the house with Dooley.” Her voice sounded odd, and she tried to imagine the expression on her face. “The lights should come back on soon. You’re not to touch the lantern. Understand?”

The boy watched as she grabbed down first the shotgun, then the box of shells.

“Do you understand?” With a steady hand, she loaded two shells into the gun, then picked up the flashlight. The boy tried to follow her out onto the porch.

“I said stay in the house!”

The boy hadn’t moved in long moments. He stood rooted to the spot, staring at the back door. It had already swelled from the rain, and she’d had to shove it several times before it had closed properly. He’d watched it jerk and tremble, listened to her grunt against it. Then the lock had clicked. Since then all had been silent save the storm.

It rattled at the walls. He lifted the lantern from the table and carefully carried it into the living room, the dog barking and following. Shadows lurched and fled before him, swinging wide across the floor and walls. Matty set the lamp down on the little table and ran to the window. He stood there, his face pressed to the glass. Silent incandescence showed only the running pane, as though the world slipped away, pattering. The curtain of water glittered…and when the night-voice found him, he’d already begun to shake. Cries of distant hounds drummed through the window glass with the thunder.

Reflected light gleamed dimly from the glass. Reversed, the room wavered on the pane. He stepped back, saw a face against the liquid night, a face like his, in a room such as this, framed by hair that held the lamplight like glowing coils, with eyes that seemed those of the night itself. “No! You! No, I won’t!” He screamed and the face screamed with him. He raced into the dark kitchen, struck a chair that overturned. Sand grated on the windows, trying to get in. “No, Pammy! Not again! I don’t want it to be! Save!” The dog growled once, then whimpered and began scratching frantically at the door while the boy yelled.

“Gotta get out!” Froth clung to his lips, and he clutched his abdomen. His eyes rolled back in his head, and gasping shrieks tore in agony from his stomach.

He lunged for the door. The dog scrambled away, whining, to slink into the living room. “Chabwok! Chabwok!” The boy screamed, and the door shook as he beat on it.

Squeezing beneath the sofa, the dog lay very still.

She’d been soaked through in seconds, yet she slogged on determinedly.

Wet sand blew full in her face, then slackened somewhat. The flashlight broke the storm apart, reduced it to dazzling fragments. She tilted the light downward, and it threw a wavering patch on the yellow ground. She was glad the dog had come home, because she couldn’t have left the boy alone otherwise. Pamela must have had sense enough to lock her door and stay inside, she decided.
She must have.
Dashing for the road, she listened.
She wouldn’t try to make it over here, would she?
Muffled, the barking seemed to have moved away.
If she were frightened?