Bedbugs (7 page)

He was positive that he recognized that voice, but from where?

It had been years since he’d heard it, but after a heart-stopping moment, from deep in his memory there came a flash of recognition.

That sounded like Ray Makki . . . his best friend—his best best friend until sixth grade, when Ray had. . . .

Had what?

Pete frowned as he tried to remember. He hadn’t thought about Ray Makki in years. Had Ray moved away from Hilton? Pete wasn’t sure. He thought for a moment longer, and then remembered.

No! . . . Ray hadn’t moved away!

Murky memories shifted heavily inside his mind, like tired beasts, rolling over in the darkness.

“Why don’t you come out so I can see you,” Pete called, mildly surprised that his voice worked at all.

“. . . I . . . can’t. . . .”

Why not?
Pete wanted to ask, but he didn’t have the strength. There wasn’t enough air in his lungs.

Instead, he took a few steps forward, propelled against his will toward the last flight of steps that led down into the dark basement.

Cool air thick with the smells of mold and rot washed up the stairwell into his face, raising goose bumps on his neck and arms. A hot scratching clawed like sickness at the back of his throat.

Why? . . . Why can’t you come out where I can see you?
he wanted desperately to ask, but he already knew the answer.

The darkness inside his mind shifted, and it assumed a solid, horrible shape.

The answer to his own question hissed in his mind like water splashed onto a hot stove.

Ray Makki can’t come out because he’s dead! . . . He died back when we were in sixth grade!

The memory left a bitter sting in Pete’s mind.

Still moving slowly forward down the stairs, Pete’s feet scuffed like sandpaper on the worn steps. He shook his head, fighting hard against the disorienting sensation that this was all a dream. In fact, he found himself hoping—praying that it
was
a dream, but that raised another, more terrifying question.

How long have I been dreaming?

At the bottom of the stairwell, Pete paused for a few seconds, trying to bolster his courage before turning left toward the boys’ bathroom. The heavy green-painted door was shut tight, but he could see something outside the door . . . something on the floor—an indistinct blur that glowed a sickly white.

As Pete stared at the vague shape, it shifted subtly toward him, making a faint scraping sound on the cold cement floor.

Pete took a halting step backwards as the figure gradually resolved out of the darkness like a slow-blending special effect in a movie. His breath shot out of him with a short, painful gasp when he recognized eleven-year-old Ray Makki’s pale, white face, peering up at him from the darkness of the basement.

This can’t be real! . . . This is impossible! . . . He’s dead! . . . Ray Makki is dead!

“. . . I’ve . . . been . . . waiting . . . for you . . . Petey . . .”

The apparition’s voice resonated with a low warble that didn’t quite sound like an eleven-year-old boy.

Pete’s legs almost gave out on him. His stomach did a slow, sour flip as he staggered backwards, his hands reaching for support.

Moving like heavy smoke, the apparition shifted and began to rise from the floor, resolving all the more clearly until Pete could see the jagged splash of black that streaked the boy’s thin neck like spilled ink.

“. . . he . . . left me . . . here . . . but you . . . saw him. . . .”

“No! I never did!” Pete stammered. The darkness was pressing in around him. “I . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t see you or anyone! I didn’t see
anything!
”

“. . . oh, yes you did, Petey . . . and you . . . didn’t tell them . . . you didn’t tell . . . anyone . . . what the janitor . . . what Mr. Clain . . . did . . . to me. . . .”

“No, I wasn’t—I didn’t see—this isn’t real!” Pete shouted. His voice threatened to break on every syllable. Tears filled his eyes as he raised his clenched fists and pounded them against the sides of his head, but it didn’t make the voice or the vision go away.

“I didn’t
see
anything! I don’t
remember
anything! Please, dear God! Let me wake up! This
has
to be a
dream!
”

“. . . no . . . it’s not . . . a dream . . . Petey . . . I’m right here . . . I’ve been . . . waiting here . . . all the time . . . just waiting . . . for you . . . to come back . . . I knew . . . you would . . . eventually . . . I’ve been waiting . . . a long time . . . a
very
long time. . . .”

Pete took another step back, but his heel hit the bottom step, and he almost fell. He reached out to catch himself on the handrail, but instead his hand curled around something he immediately knew wasn’t wood. Looking down, he saw that he was holding onto the bony wrist of an arm that was reaching up out of the darkness for him.

“. . . you should have . . . told them . . . about what . . . you saw . . . about the . . . things . . . the terrible things . . . he did . . . to me . . . to you and me . . . before he . . .
killed
me. . . .”

“No! Nothing happened!” Pete blubbered through his tears as he started backing up the stairs. “I don’t remember seeing
anything!
”

“. . . yes you do. . . and you . . . got away. . . .”

Something snagged Pete’s shirt sleeve and pulled. Without looking, he knew that it was a hand . . . the bone-white hand of his long-dead friend.

Please let this be a dream!
Pete pleaded desperately inside his mind.
Please let me wake up now!

But every sensation, every feeling was much too vivid, too real to be a dream.

Pete pulled back and heard the soft hiss of tearing cloth as his shirt sleeve ripped. Nearly blind with panic, he turned and ran up the stairs, taking them three at a time. He waved his arms wildly, trying to keep his balance, but he slammed into the wall. The impact knocked the wind out of him, but he kept going. Once he reached the landing, he gripped the handrail—sure that it was real wood, now, and not dead bone—and pivoted himself around. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a rapid shifting of motion at the top of the stairs and lurched to a stop so fast his legs collapsed underneath him, and his shins banged painfully against the steps. Pure, perfect terror gripped his heart when he looked up and saw Mrs. Doyle, standing with her hands planted on her hips as she stared down at him and scowled.

“. . . You’d better hurry up, Mister Garvey. . . you’ll be late for class . . . as usual. . . .”

Mrs. Doyle folded her arms across her massive bosom, squirting the pale flab of her underarms out from the tight-fitting short sleeves of her faded dress. Her face was expressionless except for her eyes, which blazed like red, angry coals. Her thin, colorless lips looked like an ancient bloodless wound that hadn’t healed.

Pete was transfixed by her fiery stare until he sensed a rush of motion behind him. Cold air washed over him like the murky sweep of water. He knew that Ray Makki or whoever or
what
ever was down there in the basement was gathering its strength to come up the stairs after him. He almost fainted, but then a small portion of his brain told him that, if this wasn’t a dream, then the apparition at the top of the stairs was just that—

An apparition.

It couldn’t stop him.

“I’m comin’ right now, Mrs. Doyle,” he shouted in a high-pitched, trembling voice.

Clinging to the wall and shying away from her, he darted up the stairs to the second-floor landing. He looked down to the far end of the hallway and could see the door to the outside, glowing with a bright, surreal blaze of afternoon sunlight. The sunlit, living greens of the maple leaves and their shadows vibrated with an impossible intensity. He started walking toward it, but no matter how much he wanted to break into a run for the door, something weighed him down, puffing him back and slowing his steps to a sludgy, dragging crawl.

He was halfway down the corridor when all of the doors leading into classrooms on both sides of him suddenly opened wide.

From inside each room there came the harsh scraping of chairs and the soft scuff of shoes on old floorboards. Papers and books rustled as desktops creaked open and slammed shut with dull, hollow reverberations.

Muffled voices and faint laughter drifted like heavy currents in the hot air. As Pete moved slowly past the classroom doors, looking in amazement left and right, he saw pale, transparent figures of children, some of whom he recognized, shifting against the deep brown shadows that filled the rooms.

“. . . you should have . . . told someone, Petey . . . you shouldn’t have . . . left me . . . all alone . . . to die . . . all alone. . . .”

Ray’s voice seemed to surround Pete as it echoed with a soft rustle that never quite seemed to stop. It filled Pete’s head like a racing, muffled heartbeat that sounded almost like . . .

—Running feet—

“Jesus
Christ
, Ray! Honest to
God
, I didn’t see
anything!
”

“. . . yes . . . you . . . did . . . I . . . saw . . . you . . . there before I died. . . .”

The floorboards creaked horribly under Pete’s feet as he kept moving toward the front door, but the corridor seemed to telescope outward, shifting away from him no matter how fast he tried to move. All around him, the schoolhouse was filled with gauzy, fluttering figures and choruses of disembodied voices and echoing laughter.

Then, suddenly, a figure appeared in front of the door that led outside.

The shape was backlit by the harsh glare of sunshine, so Pete couldn’t make out the features, but there was something horribly familiar about the silhouette. Slouch-shouldered and crouching, the figure loomed forward and raised its arms like a football player about to tackle an opponent.

“. . . come here, Petey. . . you know, I’ve been waiting for you . . . waiting a long time . . . for you . . . to come back to me. . . .”

Pete stumbled to a halt, suddenly aware that the voices in the classrooms had ceased. He stared, dumb-founded at the figure that was standing between him and the front door. A cold dash of chills ran up his back when he recognized the school janitor, Mr. Clain.

“. . . you should have . . . been next . . . to die. . . .” the figure said. “. . . I had you both . . . but you got away . . . from me . . . and I had to . . . kill myself. . . I hanged myself . . . down there . . . before they caught me . . . because of . . . what I’d done . . . to your friend . . . to your . . . best friend. . . .”

“Jesus,
no!
” Pete whispered hoarsely. “You aren’t real!
None of you are real! You can’t be!
”

“. . . but I am . . . and it’s still . . . not too late! . . . I can still . . .
get
you. . . .”

“Like hell you can!” Pete shouted.

His voice burst like a gunshot from his chest. Tensing every muscle in his body, he lowered his head and started running, charging toward the front door. Wind whistled in his ears, and below that, just at the edge of hearing, he could hear Ray Makki’s wailing voice.

“. . . please . . . don’t leave me here . . . Petey . . . don’t leave . . . me . . . here . . . alone . . . again! . . .”

—Running feet—

Pete pumped his arms furiously. His sneakers slapped the floor hard as he ran. The dark figure blocking the doorway loomed larger in front of him, swelling and expanding until it blocked out the sunlight entirely. Pete thrust his hands out in front of him, prepared either to wrestle with the apparition or else reach through it and slam the door open. His long, agonized scream was abruptly cut short when he smashed full-force into the wall of wire-reinforced glass.

Cindy was standing on the other side of the door, bending forward as she peered into the school. She let out a high, winding screech and threw herself backwards when she saw Pete running down the hallway toward her.

In a blinding instant, she heard a sickening, wet
thud
as Pete slammed into the door. This was followed by a shattering explosion as broken glass, glittering in the sunlight, sprayed like a fountain of diamonds into the air. A few needle-sharp fragments showered the walkway, but most of them were held back by the wire mesh embedded within the glass. They sliced into Pete’s body like hundreds of tiny knife blades. A bright scarlet spray of blood shot out through the shattered glass.

Ryan was playing behind the maple tree. The loud crash drew his attention, but Cindy wheeled around quickly and scooped him into her arms, shielding him with her body so he wouldn’t see as his father pushed the door open and staggered out into the afternoon sunshine. Cindy watched, horrified, as Pete took a few staggering steps and then spun around in a lazy half-circle before dropping down dead on the sidewalk.

T
he dull brown wash of afternoon sunlight pouring in through the windows seemed to take forever to shift across the floor as Petey drifted down the empty hallway. The floorboards slid like slick oil beneath his feet. He was tense as he waited to hear the harsh clang of the school bell, signaling that—as always—he was late for class.