The phone clicks, goes silent, and then buzzes out a tone.
A thump reverberates through the door.
I ease the phone back into the cradle and shift my weight, pressing my back against the door and bracing my legs against the vinyl floor. This position feels strong, but I’m not sure how long I can hold it.
(Each thump is followed by silence.)
Each thump is followed by silence.
I keep trying to remember what I saw in the freezer. The mist flowing out was clear. Was it cold though? Am I sure that the freezer was actually frozen, or was that mist more of a warm fog? I’m not entirely positive why it makes a difference to me. Whether or not the body was frozen, it was in that confined space and there couldn’t have been any oxygen. So how is it on the move now?
More troubling than the temperature of the mist is what was around the body. The head had been really close to the top of the freezer, and that freezer was enormous. There could have been an entire cow’s worth of meat in that thing. How many human bodies would fit in a freezer that size? Three? Four? Did I see more bodies stacked below? How many things are climbing the stairs right now?
My legs are beginning to tremble.
The door creaks behind me.
I’m almost certain that the strain on the wood is coming from the other side. I’m not pressing any harder than I was before. This is crazy—everything is going sideways. The last time everything went sideways on me, I wasn’t taking things seriously enough and I paid the price.
There might be one perfect thing to do, and I’m determined to figure out what that is.
I need to act like my father.
Here’s why I say that: when I was a little kid my mom would get really frustrated or disappointed with me. She would always shake her head, sigh, and say, “You’re acting just like your father.” That, I knew, was her gravest insult. I had never met my father. The man had been long gone before I was born. From the way she spoke about him, I knew him to be the source of her deepest pain. Therefore, I understood that “acting like my father” meant that I was causing her the deepest possible amount of pain. As a little kid, that was devastating.
I as grew older, I started to realize how unfair she was being. She was flogging me with my own genetics, like it was my decision who she had bred with. The only witness to my father’s lack of character was her. I had no way to dispute or even really understand. That’s when I decided that it was up to me to interpret the meaning. I decided that my father had been extremely smart and logical. Therefore, “acting like my father” was the highest compliment.
I need to act like my father.
There may or may not be something in the cellar, pressing against the other side of a thin door with a weak latch. It may or may not be a monster that was lifeless in the freezer until I woke it up. The police may or may not be rushing to my rescue.
When the phone rings, the sound interrupts my analysis.
I run.
Home
(I make it home by sunset.)
I make it home by sunset.
Technically, it’s before sunset, but the sun has descended below the hill. If I’m counting on direct sunlight for safety, that ship has sailed. I’m back in the house with the door slammed behind me before the dust has even settled in the driveway outside. I run from window to window, making sure that everything is shut and locked. This time, I don’t stop on the first floor. I close and lock everything upstairs as well. I even lock the hatch that leads up to the attic and close the chimney flue.
In the back of the pantry, a door connects to the shed.
The plank door on the shed—where I park the tractor—slides shut and I put a padlock through the hasp. David’s door is locked. I don’t know why Uncle Walt called it David’s door. It’s probably some inside joke. I continue on to the barn, making sure everything is shut tight before I climb up into the loft and then through the door to the roof deck.
From up there, I can see down the road. I can’t see Mr. Engel’s entire house, but I can see the tops of the two trees that flank his house. I’m just in time to see the flashing police lights coming down the road. They cut through the amber glow that precedes sunset.
“Good,” I whisper. There are two cars. They took me seriously.
I could get the telescope from its case in the barn and get a better look. I play that out in my head—me watching from a distance, isolated and helpless.
This is when the second-guessing starts. Should I call someone? Should I…
“Be there,” I say.
I should. I should be there.
Did I tell the operator where the freezer was located? Did I give them my name?
(I pull up and wait.)
I pull up and wait.
It’s a strange thing to hope for the worst. A big part of me wants to be vindicated. With the truck’s engine still idling and my hand on the gearshift, I almost want to see a bloody figure stagger out from the doorway, proving my panic justified. That would be terrible. How can I wish the worst for someone who has taken a job in service to the community?
I shouldn’t just sit here. I should go in and…
“Get shot,” I whisper.
Good point. I should definitely not go inside unannounced.
I lay my palm on the horn and get ready to signal my arrival.
Two officers come through the front door of Mr. Engel’s house. Neither is covered with blood.
One raises a radio and
