Nocturnal: A Novel

stuffed the whole package in a space between an air conditioner and the roof wall, out of sight. Everything except the knife. That he moved to the small of his back, under his shirt — maybe a single knife didn’t seem like much against the monsters, but it had never failed him before.

And, sometimes, the knife was just plain more fun.

Bryan watched Pookie slide a thin piece of metal into the lock. “Anything?”

“Yes,” Pookie said. “This gives me an idea — in Blue Balls, all cops will be able to pick locks. Makes plots so much easier.” He stood and put the tools in his pocket. “I give up. Just kick the fucking thing.”

The door looked far too heavy for that. Whatever was behind it, the owner didn’t want anyone getting in.

“Pooks, look at this thing, it’s like a bank vault.”

Pookie let out a snort of a laugh. “Bryan, you kicked in the front door of this house, right?”

Bryan nodded.

“By chance, did you look at said door before you treated it to a taste of your Bryan booties?”

Bryan thought of telling Pookie how he’d been distracted because he thought the house was talking to him, but figured that now wasn’t the time. “I didn’t really look at it. I just, you know … I just had to get in.”

Pookie pointed his flashlight beam at the door’s handle. “Then do me a favor. Realize that you just have to get in here.”

“But, Pooks, I’m telling you that—”

“Would you just kick the thing? Trust me for once, will you? Kick that motherfucker with everything you got.”

This wasn’t the time for games, but Pookie would just keep at it until Bryan caved. He stepped back, took a breath, then raised his left foot and pushed-kicked out as hard as he could.

It made a big bang, but the door didn’t budge.

“See? I told you.”

Pookie pointed his flashlight to the door handle. The wood around it had cracked. “Hit it again.”

Bryan didn’t understand. The door must have looked stronger than it actually was. They’d caught a break. He reared back and kicked again.

The door flew open.

Bryan and Pookie pointed their guns into the darkness beyond. They slowly stepped through.

Something in there. For a second, Bryan couldn’t make it out.

Then Pookie’s flashlight beam lit it up.

Bryan fired three shots, the gun’s roar sharp and deafening in the confined space.

John heard the gunshots. In that same second, he started to shake. He should never have left his apartment. He shouldn’t have come here, shouldn’t have come here! He felt dizzy before he realized he’d stopped breathing. He sucked in a breath so big it wheezed like a marathon runner crossing the finish line.

John stepped into the dark house, feet finding spots around the broken oak door. The alarm blared a constant, undeniable sound.

Pookie and Bryan could be in trouble. John had to go toward the gunshots, he had to, but he couldn’t—

—his cell phone buzzed, making him twitch with surprise. He pulled the phone out of his pocket and answered.

“Pookie! You okay?”

“We’re fine,” Pookie said. “Just stay out there.”

John returned to the porch. He leaned against the waist-high wooden railing opposite the door. He saw a young couple across the street, huddling with each other against the night’s cold; they stared at the mansion. And farther to the right, a homeless guy, standing there and watching. The lookie-loos had begun to gather.

“Pooks, hurry up,” John said. “With this alarm, a black and white will be here any second and the natives are getting restless.”

“We’re almost done,” Pookie said. “Just stay there.”

Pookie hung up. John sucked in another ragged breath as he slid the phone into his pocket. He moved closer to the broken door, staying as far back in the porch’s shadows as he could.

The Rumpus Room

Pookie’s heart seemed to bounce all over his chest, enough to make him wonder if left-arm pain wasn’t next, followed by his ticker giving him the bird and just shutting down in protest.

He slid his phone back in his pocket, then tilted his head toward the gunshot victim. “Congratulations, Terminator. You just terminated a stuffed bear.”

“Fuck you,” Bryan said. “And that’s not a bear.”

Their flashlight beams played off the target of Bryan’s gunfire. It was big, and it was stuffed, as evidenced by the dry strands of dark orange fur floating in their flashlight beams … but Bryan was right about one thing — it wasn’t a bear.

Bears don’t have opposable thumbs.

Bears don’t have four eyes.

It had rear legs the size of oil barrels, and long front arms that hung down to the ground. It would have walked half upright, gorilla style. Two bullets had hit the body — one in the shoulder and one in the thigh — ripping off chunks of orange fur and exposing a white, Styrofoam-like material beneath. Bryan’s third shot had shattered one of the glass eyes. Two eyes to the right of the squished nose, two to the left — the eyes were so fucked up, so out there, that they almost made you miss the mouth full of pointy, inch-long teeth.

Pookie reached out a finger and poked the thing, just to make sure it was, indeed, truly dead. The fur felt dry, stiff and brittle.

“This is messed up,” he said. “Erickson makes giant jackalopes?”

Bryan picked up his shell casings and put them in his pocket. “What’s a jackalope?” He moved to the wall inside the door, sliding hands searching for a light switch.

“Half jackrabbit, half antelope,” Pookie said. “It’s fake taxidermy, a rabbit with antelope horns. People with nothing better to do put different animals together to make weird shit. Erickson is doing something like that.”

Pookie heard the click of a heavy switch. The room filled with light.

The bear-thing wasn’t alone.

“Dude,” Pookie said, “this is pretty fucked-up right here.”

Jebediah Erickson’s collection of fake taxidermy lined the room’s walls. A dozen creatures, each as monstrous as Ol’ Four Eyes. And standing between some of those creatures, five more that didn’t look fake, and were even more nightmarish because of their familiarity.

He had stuffed people.

Bryan walked up to one. “I don’t know much about taxidermy, but this guy looks real.”

Pookie walked over to join Bryan. A man, holding a crowbar. A few strands of hair clung to the crowbar’s nail-pulling edge. Blue glass eyes stared out from the dead face, each looking in a slightly different direction. He wore tan slacks, brown loafers and a white shirt with a blue Izod sweater vest. His brittle blond hair was feathered in a style straight out of the ’80s.

Bryan pointed to a white fleck glued to the edge of the crowbar. “Piece of a tooth?”

Pookie leaned forward to look. “Yeah. A kid’s tooth, I think.”

If this was real, which Pookie doubted, the taxidermist was a long ways from getting his union certification. The man’s skin looked taut and leathery. He wore a smile, but Pookie couldn’t be sure if that was from the too-tight skin or the “artist’s” sense of humor.

Bryan reached out and gently poked the stuffed man’s right ear — it was tilted, barely attached. “Can you get DNA info out of something that’s been stuffed?”