The Cellar

“A car’s coming,” she muttered.

The girl’s face went pale. “It’s him!”

“No, it’s not. Get in the car.”

“It’s him. He escaped! It’s him!”

“No! Get in the car. Quick!” 3.

She first saw the man in the rearview mirror, hunched over the back of the car, turning his head slowly as he looked in at her. His tiny eyes, his nose, his grinning mouth, all seemed far too small, as if they belonged to a head half the size of this one.

A gloved fist knocked on the rear window.

“Mom!”

She looked down at her daughter crouched on the floor below the dashboard. “It’s okay, honey.”

“Who is it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is it him?”

“No.”

The car rocked as the stranger’s hand tugged the door handle. He knocked on the window. Donna turned to him. He looked about forty, in spite of the deep lines carved in his face. He seemed less interested in Donna than in the plastic head of the lock button. He pointed a gloved finger at it, pecking the window glass.

Donna shook her head.

“I’ll come in,” he called.

Donna shook her head. “No!”

The man smiled as if it were a game. “I’ll come in.” He let go of the door handle and leaped to the bottom of the ditch. When he hit the ground, he almost fell. Steadying himself, he glanced over his shoulder as if to see whether Donna had appreciated his jump. He grinned. Then he started hobbling along the ditch, limping badly. The fog nibbled at him. Then he was gone.

“What’s he doing now?” Sandy asked from the floor.

“I don’t know.”

“Did he go away?”

“He’s in the ditch. I can’t see him. The fog’s too thick.”

“Maybe he’ll get lost.”

“Maybe.”

“Who is he?”

“I don’t know, honey.”

“Does he want to hurt us?”

Donna didn’t answer. She saw a dark shape in the fog. It slowly became distinct, became the strange, limping man. In his left hand he carried a rock.

“Is he back?” Sandy asked.

“He’s on his way.”

“What’s he doing?”

“Honey, I want you to sit up.”

“What?”

“Get up in your seat. If I tell you to, I want you to jump out and run. Run into the woods and hide.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll try to come, too. But you go when I say, regardless.”

“No. I won’t go without you.”

“Sandra!”

“I won’t!”

Donna watched the man climb up the embankment to the car. He used the door handle to pull himself up. Then he thumped the window, like before, pointing at the lock button. He made a smile. “I’ll come in,” he said.

“Go away!”

He raised the gray, wedge-shaped rock in his left hand. He tapped it lightly against the window, then looked at her.

“Okay,” Donna said to him.

“Mom, don’t.”

“We can’t stay in here,” she said quietly.

The man grinned as Donna reached over her shoulder.

“Get ready, hon.”

“No!”

She flicked up the lock button, levered the door handle and thrust herself against it. The door swung, jolted, and knocked into the man. With a yelp of surprise, he tumbled backward, the rock flying from his hand. He did a crooked somersault to the bottom of the ditch.

“Now!”

“Mom!”

“Let’s go!”

“He’ll get us!”

Donna saw him motionless on his back. His eyes were shut. “It’s all right,” she said. “Look. He’s knocked out.”

“He’s playing possum, Mom. He’ll get us.”

Hanging onto the open door, one foot down on the slippery grass, Donna stared at the man. He certainly looked unconscious, the way his arms and legs were splayed out in such strange, grotesque ways. Unconscious, or even dead.

Playing possum?

She raised her foot inside the car, pulled the door shut, and locked it. “Okay,” she said, “we’ll stay.”

The girl sighed, and lowered herself, once again, to the floor in front of the seat.

Donna managed a smile for her. “You okay?”

She nodded.

“Cold?”

Another nod. Awkwardly, Donna turned and stretched an arm over the back of the seat. She reached Sandy’s coat first, then her own.

Curled against the passenger door, Sandy used the coat to cover all but her face.

Donna got into her blue windbreaker.

The man outside hadn’t moved.

“It’s almost dark,” Sandy whispered.

“Yeah.”

“He’ll come for us when it’s dark.”

“Do you have to say that kind of stuff?”

“I’m sorry,” the girl said.

“Besides, I don’t think he’s coming for anybody. I think he’s hurt.”

“He’s pretending.”

“I don’t know.” Bent forward with her chin on the steering wheel, Donna watched him. She watched for the movement of an arm or leg, for a turn of the head, an opening eye. Then she tried to see if he was breathing.

In his fall, the sweatshirt under his open jacket had pulled up, leaving his belly exposed. She watched it closely. It didn’t seem to be moving, but the distance was enough that she could easily miss the subtle rise and fall of his breathing.

Especially under all that hair.

He must be a mass of hair from head to toe. No, the head was shaved. Even the top. There seemed to be a bristly crown of dark stubble on top, as if he hadn’t shaved it for several days.

He ought to shave his belly, she thought.