noticed. It wanted to be seen and felt. It wanted to whisper my name. It wanted to deceive me. But it wasn’t making itself visible yet. And as I kept peering into the darkness, I saw another figure hurrying across the field, grasping what looked like a pitchfork. I stood immobilized on the deck. My teeth had started chattering. The wind gusted again. And then there was the sound of locusts swarming. I started shaking. I’m scared, I suddenly thought. When it sensed how frightened I was, there was a strange odor in the air.
Get inside, I told myself. Get inside the house now.
But when I looked back at the house I knew it couldn’t protect me from what was out there. Whatever it was could get in.
And then I saw the headstone. It was off to the side at the edge of our yard, and it sat at a crooked angle, jutting up from the weeds that blanketed the field, and my momentary annoyance that the decorators hadn’t carted it off turned to dread as I found myself unable to stop moving toward it. The ground beneath the headstone was burst apart—as if something buried there had clawed its way out. Over the roar of the wind I could hear an oddly distinct flapping sound. As I moved toward the headstone I felt convinced that something had actually crawled out of that fake grave. Something huge and black was passing over the house—it was flying—and then it spun around in midair and it was suddenly beneath me and the wind kept howling and there was briefly the snarl of animals fighting in the woods and then the thing began circling above me as I knelt in front of the headstone next to the hole in the ground. There was something written on it. I started brushing the fake moss and cobwebs aside. The headstone was streaked with dried blood.
And scrawled on it in red letters was
ROBERT MARTIN ELLIS 1941–1992
The wind knocked me off-balance and I fell backwards.
The field was damp and spongy and as I tried to stand up I slipped on a large wet patch of dirt. But when I put a hand down to steady myself it wasn’t wetness I felt but something viscous and slimy that smelled dank and I kept trying to stand up because something was getting closer to me. The wind slammed the kitchen doors shut. Whatever was approaching me was hungry. It was pitiful. It was awesome. It needed something I didn’t want to give. I shouted out as I finally lifted myself up and lunged toward the house. Whatever was behind me kept shambling forward, its arms outstretched and grasping.
Once inside, I ran into the guest room and locked myself in it.
I waited desperately for Jayne and the kids to get home.
When they returned I made sure all the doors to the house were locked and that the various alarms were set. I pretended to be interested in Sarah’s candy. Jayne ignored me. Robby barely looked my way before climbing the stairs to his room.
Back in the guest room, drinking from the magnum of vodka, I kept thinking one thing, just two words.
9. outside
I woke up in the guest room to the sound of a leaf blower, and when I peered out the window (the gardener’s flatbed truck in the driveway a reminder that it was Saturday) I felt momentarily okay about things until I realized I was fully clothed (not a good sign) and had no recollection of how I fell asleep last night (ditto), which morphed into a spasm of anxiety. I immediately swung my legs off the bed, knocking over the bottle of vodka I had bought the previous night—but it was empty (another bad sign). Yet the Ketel One suggested that my fear was the result of a hangover and nothing else—I was safe, I was alive, I was okay. I had a mixed response, however, to the jumbo Slurpee cup I kept hidden under the bed and which now sat on the nightstand half-filled with urine, meaning I had been too intoxicated to make it to the guest bathroom a few feet away from the guest bed in the middle of the night but not so intoxicated that I was unable to direct the stream carefully into the cup and not onto the beige carpet, so it came down to: okay, peed into jumbo Slurpee cup and not on rug—plus or minus? I walked quickly to the guest room door and made sure I’d locked it before passing out. And the usual morning anxiety dissipated slightly when I realized I had in fact locked the door, which meant that Jayne wouldn’t have been able to check on me (passed out, reeking of vodka, a cup filled with my urine by the side of the bed). But the anxiety returned when I realized that she probably hadn’t even tried.
I carried the cup carefully toward the kitchen (forgetting to pour out its contents in the guest bathroom), again noticing the darkened carpet beneath my feet as I passed through the living room—the beige now bordering on a faint green, and shaggier (first reaction: the carpet is
Finally, Rosa gestured at the carpeting. “I think the party cause this, Mr. Ellis.”
I stared down at the ashy footprints embedded there. “How can the party cause the carpet to change its color?”
“I hear there was many people.” She paused. “Maybe they spill their drink?”
I slowly turned to face her. “What do you think we were serving them? Green dye?”
Rosa stared at me, humbled. A pause that seemed to last a decade ensued. I tried to offset the harshness of my tone by making a casual gesture. Without thinking I raised the Slurpee cup to my lips and then, just as casually, stopped myself.
“Miss Dennis—she outside” was all Rosa said, then looked away from me and turned the Hoover on again as I moved toward the kitchen.
On the table were the morning papers, and there was another headline about yet another missing boy, this one named Maer Cohen. I glanced at his photo quickly (twelve, nondescriptly Semitic) and noticed that he’d disappeared from Midland, which was only a fifteen-minute drive down the interstate from where we lived. My response was to turn the paper over. “Not today, can’t deal with that today,” I said aloud as I moved to the sink and discreetly poured out the contents of the Slurpee cup and rinsed it. And when I leaned against the counter, my hands picked up the vibrations of the whisper-quiet Miele dishwasher concealed behind the cherrywood panels. The vibration was soothing, but soon the sound of the leaf blower moving around the side of the house and into the backyard caused me to look up and out the wall of glass.
And then I remembered the headstone.
Craning my neck, I cautiously scanned the field.
I hesitated before accepting that it was no longer there.
And the epic darkness of last night flowed back to me.
But I walked outside onto the deck and it was a clear, beautiful day, still unseasonably warm, and everything seemed so less menacing in the light, almost as if the things I’d seen last night (and the fear I had felt) never existed. Victor lay in a heap in front of me, undisturbed by the roar of the leaf blower, and when I opened the kitchen door his tail started thudding expectantly against the deck but it stopped in midair when he realized who it was and then the tail lowered itself slowly until it curled between his hind legs. The dog flared its nostrils and let out a wet and heavy sigh. I searched my jeans for a Xanax and popped two and something briefly lifted off me, but then I saw the pool man (yes, this was definitely a Saturday) fishing what looked like a dead crow out of the Jacuzzi. (On Sunday night at the Allens’ I would find out that another crow had been nailed to the trunk of a large pine tree in front of the Larsons’ house and another crow had been “broken in half” and stuffed into the Moores’ mailbox; there was also one found mangled—“chewed on” is the phrase Mark Huntington will use—in the back of Nicholas Moore’s Grand Cherokee, and yet another crow was dangling from a massive spiderweb that spanned the two oaks in the O’Connors’ front yard.) As I moved closer toward the Jacuzzi, I noticed that what differentiated this particular crow from any I had ever seen was its abnormally long and pointed beak. The pool man and I stood there studying the bird, both of us speechless, until he asked, “Do you guys have a cat?” The smell of smoke was in the air, and the sun was still climbing the sky. Sarah had left her Terby lying by the pool, and in the morning light it resembled something black and dead.
I looked over at the field again to make sure that the headstone was gone.
