turned to her, his vision adjusting, saw the glitter of her eyes as she approached. “Walk along the edge of the floor, near the wall,” he advised. “When I was driving Doris to the hospital, she said something about your going into town to find some guy.”
“Pamela told me about him.”
“Why didn’t you wait for me?” His back to her now, he tested the boards across a tightly shuttered window.
“Pam’s still missing,” she told him. “Matty says she’s…”
“Doris also mentioned about some locals having left the area.” Again, the unspoken reprimand sounded in his voice. “What’s through here?”
“Just another room. Steve, wait.”
He ducked through the doorway, and she stood motionless. The amount of dust in the air made it hard to breathe, and wheezing slightly, she looked back at the lamp in the doorway.
“Jesus!” The deep voice went hoarse with fright. “What’s that?”
The floor creaked loudly just in front of her. Overhead, blackness squirmed. “It’s just a bat, Steve. They get in sometimes.”
Breathing heavily, he took her arm and led her back toward the light.
“There’s just the one window in the other room.” He could see only her face, a pale oval. “Looks intact. No one could have…”
“No, no one could have. Look.” She tilted the lamp. In the layered dust, her narrow footprints crossed Steve’s large, broad ones. There were no others. She closed the door and began struggling with the bolts.
He walked into the kitchen. “And you’re sure this back door was locked?”
She followed him. “I only opened it for you.”
“Well, I can’t figure out how anything could’ve gotten in here.” He gazed down at the gouged and shattered cellar door, at the hammer on the floor. “What did you say happened to this door?” He stared at the claw end of the hammer.
She started to speak, then spun around. Soundlessly, Matty had entered the room behind her. Silent and stone-faced, he kicked a piece of chair out of his way, then pressed himself between the stove and the wall and pointed down.
Steve leaned over the stove. “Crap. That would do it all right.”
“What?” She looked. Blackness sank deep in a large hole behind the stove.
“Looks like it goes under the wall and right outside. Look out.” He waved her back, and she drew the boy to her. Steve took hold of the stove and, straining, inched it away from the wall. “You have any more of those boards you were using?”
“…knew there was something wrong the day Lonny was…when I found Lonny and we came home and the dog ran up, but he couldn’t have been outside because I locked him in the house and the door was still…”
He said nothing, just hammered planks across the mouth of the tunnel, while the boy stood back, watching.
For what seemed like a long time, the words poured out of her. “…what really bothered me the most, I mean, was the way he talked to it, really talked to it, whispered through the door and it seemed to listen and…”
“Okay,” he grunted. “This ought to hold.” Careful of the gas pipe, he got to his feet and came around, shoving the stove back against the wall.
“Oh God, listen to me. I sound like a crazy woman.” And she started to laugh. “Good going, girl. You finally made it.” She sat in the sole upright kitchen chair, her head in her hands, as her whole body trembled.
Brushing himself off, he stepped closer, wanting to touch her, to hold her. “You’ve really been through it.” He looked around at the shambles of the kitchen; it was as though their talk of the night before had called something into being, summoned it here.
“I can’t remember ever having been hysterical before. God, where’s Pamela?”
“Don’t you think she could’ve just gone somewhere?”
“And left Matty alone?” She practically giggled. “And look—there’s her handbag. You don’t know. She carries it with her everywhere, like a little girl, all around the house even.” Suddenly, she grabbed the boy and shook him. “That string bag! Where did it come from? Does Chabwok bring you things? Does he leave presents for you on the stoop?”
“’Thena, stop it. Think. Isn’t there someplace Pam could have gone?”
“No place.” She let go, and the boy shrank from her. “Not her mother’s. No place.”
“You said some of the townspeople left. Couldn’t she just have gone with them?” He waited for her to respond, then followed her gaze. On a shelf about the stove, a jelly glass held wilted crabgrass and black-eyed susans. “You say Matty spoke to…your visitor? Athena, listen to me. You think the boy might know something? Would you like me to talk to him?”
After a pause, she nodded.
“Come here, son.” He put his arm on Matty’s shoulder and led him toward the living room. Matthew complied, following easily, yet scarcely seeming aware of Steve. He might as easily have gone in the direction of any gust of wind. Rising, she followed them as far as the doorway and stood, watching.
He seated the boy on a still-intact section of sofa, and scratching noises came from underneath as the dog shifted.
“Your name’s Matt, right? Mine’s Steve.” Smiling, he held his hand out, but the boy never blinked.
She saw the tension grow in Steve’s shoulders as he studied the weary pain in the boy’s face. Unable to watch, she turned away.
For long minutes, she sat alone in the kitchen, knowing she must resemble one of those women they used to get in the ambulance, hysterical mothers whose children had been injured through negligence.
She looked at the broken dishes.
“’Thena! Come quick!”
He had hold of the boy’s upper arms and kept shaking him. Oblivious, the boy mumbled with his eyes rolled white. “…try run…they can’t…slip, sink inna sand…run blood…taste…Pammy…”
“I can’t make him stop.”
“…through woods…blood…running safe place…hurt…”
As though mesmerized, she stood before the boy, listening. “Who, Matthew? Who’s running?”
“…trees…hitting branches…tearing…” The boy grimaced in pain. “…blood-hot…” He slurred the words like a drunk. “…shed…”
“The shed out back?”
“No doors…no windows…trees in front…”
“Matty? Baby?” She took his hot face in her hands. “Is it Chabwok? Is Chabwok moving toward the house or away from us?”
“Oh my God.” Steve stared at them.
“Matthew, it’s important. We have to know.”
The boy’s voice seemed to thicken. “Running through trees.” Moaning, he tore himself from them and vomited on the floor. Hanging over the sofa, he gagged and groaned while Steve held his head. At last the boy stood up straight.
“I think he’ll be okay now,” said Steve. “We’d better get him upstairs.”
“Matty?” She reached out a hand, but he moved away with wobbling steps. “Matty?”
Wordlessly, he began to mount the stairs, putting both feet on one step before going on to the next.
“Steve? What’s wrong with him?”
They peered up through the banister spokes. “Look at his face,” Steve whispered. “Like he’s sleepwalking. Come on.” They both followed, he making an effort to move quietly, she leaning heavily on the rail. “Where’s he taking us?”
