Ghouls

At a quarter past one, only a few customers remained. Vicky could taste closing time; the thought of bed and sleep titillated her. She went to the farthest corner and began wiping the tables down, a scurrying shape in the dark. Someone touched her shoulder then, and she cringed before turning, suspecting a late visit from Lenny; but the dread lifted when she saw Kurt standing behind her.

“Did I miss last call?”

“No, no, we’re open till two,” she said. “Sit. I’ll get you something.” She got him a beer from the bar, returning in seconds. She was surprised at how happy she was to see him.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve been in here,” he said. “I remember once when I was about sixteen, Glen and I made fake mustaches out of our own hair and tried to get a seat. We thought it would make us look older. We weren’t two steps into the place before the bouncer threw us out. He told us to come back when we could grow real ones.”

“The curiosity of youth, right?”

“Oh, sure. Nothing wrong with that.” Kurt glanced across to the dark, empty stage. “What happened to the ‘speculative’ dancers?”

“They usually knock off at one. That’s when everyone starts going home.” She thought that he looked almost vulnerable in normal street clothes, and younger. The candlelight brought his face out in relief, flickering softly. She caught herself wondering what it would be like to kiss him. “What brings you out so late?” she asked.

“Wasn’t tired when I got off work, nothing but kung fu movies on the tube. That’s what I hate about four-to- twelves, it’s always too late to do anything when the shift’s over.” He sipped his beer and seemed to experience a childish rush.

“What’s the latest on Cody Drucker?”

Kurt couldn’t help but smile. “We still haven’t found the old coot. I just can’t figure out what anyone would want with a dead body, especially his dead body.”

Vicky grinned at the grim hilarity of it all. She reached into her apron for a cigarette. “It’s weird, even for this town.”

He reached across the table and lit her cigarette, but he held the flame up, suddenly staring at her.

“What’s wrong?” she said.

He strained his eyes on her face. “Your— You look like you have cotton in your mouth. What—”

Vicky looked down at the table, frowning.

“He hit you again, didn’t he? He punched you in the mouth.”

Reluctantly, she nodded. She trained her gaze on the orb. “So what else is new?”

He gripped the table edge, his face suddenly ugly with anger in the reddish light.

“Lenny got pissed this morning when you came over. He thinks I’m cheating on him, I guess, and he smacked me.”

Kurt closed his eyes and winced. “Christ, I’m sorry. If I hadn’t come over, it never would have—”

“It’s not your fault, it’s just… It’s nothing.”

“What do you mean nothing?” he said, leaning over and trying not to raise his voice. “Every time I see you, you have new bruises on your face from that guy.”

“Forget it.”

“He shouldn’t hit you. ”

“I know, but he does, and there’s nothing I can do.”

“There’s plenty you can do.”

“Look, Kurt, you don’t understand.” She was trying hard not to be mad at him, and herself. “You worrying about it only makes it worse—”

“Hey, Vik” came the coarse, boisterous voice of the barkeep. “you gonna blab all night or maybe think about getting the rest of these tables done so we can get out of here?”

Fat tool, she thought. Clean them yourself. She glanced back and saw that the Anvil was empty. “I have to go now,” she told Kurt. “Got a lot to do.”

“I’ll hang around and drive you home when you’re done.”

“No, that’s okay. If Lenny saw us…well, you know. Thanks anyway. And thanks for coming by.”

Kurt smiled at her, warmly now. He grabbed his beer and left.

The closing chores were rushed, frenzied; she needed to get out. Her back aching now, she mopped the floor, wiped down the rest of the tables, but the task she hated most of all was cleaning the stage mirror. It wasn’t easy getting all those butt-prints and fingermarks off the glass without leaving streaks. At last, haunted by the smell of Windex, she grabbed her jacket and slipped out, deliberately avoiding the barkeep’s endless offer to drive her home; he had black teeth and was always trying to peer down her blouse. Outside, she zipped up her jacket—the temperature surprised her—and when she was a dozen steps across the empty gravel parking lot, the electric ANVIL sign winked off, and she was submerged in darkness. She walked off the lot faster than she would have, never used to this sightless ritual. The Route was strangely lacking streetlights; she could barely see. Perhaps the state had a mandatory quota of nighttime traffic fatalities and sexual assaults before they could spend the money. From the woods, the rustling of animals mocked her. What if they weren’t animals? She could scream all night and who would hear? The moon watched her from treetops. She drew her collar close and quickened her pace.

The road stretched on, silent, vacant. She hurried without knowing why, stoked by phantom thoughts. It made the short walk home seem miles long, but then the house loomed into view, its traits reduced to a growth of shadow, an extension of the forest’s blackness. Lenny wasn’t home yet—at least the night might end on one good note. She had to slide her way up the front walk to the porch, had to feel for the proper key, and by the time she’d gotten inside, her actions had grown frantic. The deadbolt clicked heavily, and she sighed.

Safe again, she thought, and put aside her purse and coat. Dim light accompanied her as she went through the house and up the stairs, each light flicking on in turn, her hand sliding blindly along the walls for the next switch.

Safe.

She rushed to get ready for bed, leaving her clothes where they fell as she stripped them off. An old white nightgown slid over her body; it tickled her breasts and abdomen, and made her aware of a draft. She crawled under the bedcovers and buried herself.

Safe?

She turned off the bedside lamp. The click of the switch was bizarrely loud, like the snap of a stick or a small bone. Darkness filled the room, throbbing.

From what?

She couldn’t escape the moon. It peered in on her now from the north window, a white, hapless shape in the sky. A minute and her eyes adjusted. Could she actually see the moon moving? Objects in the room began to surface, like apparitions, and the walls looked uneven and seemed to breathe in the faint, radiating moonlight. She tried to figure what it was about this night that frightened her so.

She pushed the thoughts away, forced herself to think of relative things. Lenny was probably on another of his binges; otherwise he’d have been home by now. Sometimes he would disappear for two or three days at a time, for a festival of sex and dope. She guessed he was at Joanne Sulley’s right now, feeding his head in any number of ways. Better her than me, Vicky thought. Another cruel fact of her life, that her only moments of peace came when her husband was with another woman. At least she didn’t care anymore.

Her heart was thumping. She could feel the moon touching her face; it seemed to want to slither down her chest like hands. She gave up trying to divert her thoughts—there was no point. She was afraid and she didn’t know why.

But then she heard sounds.

It was a faint, crisp, faltering sound, like someone walking through the woods very cautiously, so as not to be heard. She lay there for a long time, eyes open in the dark, and she listened. The more she tried to convince herself that it was her imagination, the more apparent the sound became. Someone was in the backyard.

She drew in long, thin breaths. Her feet touched the floor, tensely, reluctantly; the covers poured off her body, and she got up. She stood perfectly still beside the bed, hands poised absurdly in front of her, as if waiting for the dark to lead her away.

Walking almost on her toes, she went to the window. A feeble breeze pushed the drapes out from the wall; the window was open about six inches. She stooped stiffly, then went down to her knees. Her fingers gripped the