Glimpses: The Best Short Stories of Rick Hautala (45 page)

What if someone had broken into the house while he was at work?

Or maybe a friend had stopped by and opened the door after knocking and not getting an answer?

But—no, Merit was
positive
he had locked the door.

He mounted the steps and paused once he was under the shade of the porch. Cautiously, he poked his head into the house and glanced into the living room. The TV was still there, so that ruled out a break-in. As he eased into the hallway, though, a powerfully pungent aroma assailed his nostrils. The stench of rot mixed with a rich, loamy aroma lingered in the air. It smelled like fresh overturned soil.

When he cocked his head to one side to listen, he was sure he could hear a faint buzzing sound … like dozens if not hundreds of flies had congregated somewhere in the house.

“S’anyone here?” he called out, surprising himself with the strength of his voice. “Al—? That you—?”

Maybe his brother had stopped by to see if he wanted to go fishing before it got dark. Merit knew the only time his brother dropped by was when he wanted to drink Merit’s beer and eat his food, freeloader that he was.

Then another thought struck Merit.

What if all of this was Al’s doing?

What if this is some twisted practical joke he’s playing?

It’d be just like Al to think something like that was funny.

He called out again to Al, but no reply came. Everything was silenct except for the buzzing sound at the edge of hearing. Merit took a deep breath, adjusted his belt, and then walked boldly into the kitchen and placed his empty lunch pail beside the sink as he looked around.

He’d been right about one thing. The buzzing sound was flies, all right. The window screen over the kitchen sink was crawling with them. The sound rose louder as they beat their wings furiously and darted back and forth, seeking escape. Grumbling under his breath, Merit reached into the mass of flies and slid the screen up. Most of them flew away, and the few that didn’t, he crushed with his thumb and cleaned up with a napkin before pulling the screen back down.

Merit decided that a shower before supper would help him relax. All in all, it had been one hell of a last twenty-four hours. Maybe a blast of hot water would ease up the stitch of pain in his left side, too. Moving slowly, he walked down the hallway to the stairs and slowly climbed them. When he was halfway down the hall to his bedroom, he realized that the dense loamy smell was getting much stronger.

“What in the name of …?” he said softly, but he couldn’t say anything more when he opened the bedroom door and saw the compost heap piled up high in the middle of the bed. Black clumps of moist soil had stained the bedspread and pillows, and the seething mess littered the floor all around the bed.

Unable to tear his eyes away from the sight, Merit started backing up until he bumped into the bedroom wall. The compost heap surged as if agitated by his presence. Huge chunks of rotting black earth shifted and started moving toward him. The strangest thing of all was, the compost heap no longer looked like a simple pile of rotting vegetation and soil. Damned if it didn’t look like the thing was a human body that had been lying down and was now struggling to sit up.

Merit grunted and doubled over when the pain between his ribs suddenly intensified. The jab of cold was so intense he cried out. He eyes began to water as he stared, unblinking, at the compost heap which now, undeniably, had gathered itself up into a pile with a large rounded knob on top. From either side, thick clumps that looked like horribly deformed arms protruded. Defying gravity, they curled up, rising to the top of the pile, which now—most definitely—looked like a distorted head. Two dark ovals opened up where the eyes should be, and a squat nub formed into what looked like a squashed nose. Below that, a long, wide gash widened, looking like a distorted mouth.

“No … no,” Merit whispered as he slapped his hands uselessly against the wall, trying to will this sight to go away.

But the compost heap continued to shift until it clearly assumed the rough outline of a human. The gaping opening where the mouth should have been dripped thick clots of dirt and slime that looked like dark, stained mucous or blood. Twisted lips, wiggling with maggots and worms, opened and closed as though it was struggling to speak. And then, with a sound that froze Merit’s blood, a voice distorted by a bubbly gurgle rasped, “
Hello … Honeybun
…”

“No! … No, this is
not
happening,” Merit said, his voice twisted into a low moan of abject terror.

He shook his head and rubbed his eyes as though he could make the illusion go away, but the pile of rotting muck on the bed continued to seethe upwards as it assumed a more distinct human shape.

“I … thought … you … might … miss … me
,” the pile of moldy earth said, its voice a distorted, watery rattle. “
I … was … so … lonely … out … there … behind … the … barn
…”

Unable to move or even breathe, Merit gaped at the monstrosity as two large chunks shifted to the edge of the bed and clumped down onto the floor like thick, black-crusted legs and feet. The bedsprings creaked horribly beneath the shifting weight as the compost heap shifted forward as if to stand. Merit finally broke through his amazement and moved swiftly to the closet door where he kept his shotgun. He flung the door open and reached inside for it, feeling around blindly for it because he didn’t dare take his eyes away from the horror that was getting up off the bed. The instant he felt the cold metal of the gun barrel against his hand, the thing heaved itself up from the bed and stood to its full height. The top of the quivering mass of lumpy black earth almost touched the ceiling. Maggots rained down onto the floor like spilled rice. The only difference was, this rice was squirming around on the rug. The stench of rot ballooned in the bedroom as the thing lurched forward with its arms spread wide.

“
Didn’t ... you ... miss ... me ... Honeybun
...?” the black pit of a mouth said thickly. “
Aren’t ... you ... sorry ... for ... what ... you ... did ... to ... me
...?”

Merit experienced a momentary flood of relief when his fingers closed around the smooth barrel of the shotgun. Raising it quickly, he opened the chamber to make sure it was loaded. Then he snapped it shut and raised the gun, taking careful aim at the compost heap. His hands were shaking so badly his aim kept wavering, but he fixed it on the distorted head of the thing.

“You can stop right there,” he said, his voice wavering. “I ain’t sorry ‘bout what I done, ‘n if you don’t stop right where you are …”

“
But ... Merit ... Honeybunny
…” the compost heap said in a low rumbling voice that sounded vaguely like Lydia’s voice. “
I ... want ... you ... to ... come … with ... me...
”

“No way in hell!” Merit shouted. “Now you
git!
”

He jabbed the shotgun at the compost as it continued to slide across the floor toward him. The stench grew stronger and almost overpowered him, but he raised the shotgun to his shoulder and narrowed his left eye as he aimed and then unloaded both barrels.

The twin blasts slammed into Merit’s ears like hammer blows. He opened his eyes to see clumps of black earth spray into the air and splatter against the wall behind the bed. Shotgun pellets ripped into the wallpaper, shredding it and making large divots in the plaster beneath. Black smears of wet ooze dripped down the wall to the floor in wide ink-splash swatches. For an instant, the compost heap staggered. Then it righted itself and started moving forward again.

“
Now ... that ... wasn’t ... very ... nice ... now ... was ... it ... Honeybunny
…” the black hole of the mouth said, widening to the size of a basketball.

“You keep away from me!” Merit shrieked, his voice so strained it was pitched two octaves higher than normal.

He didn’t dare turn his back to the thing so he could try to find the box of shells he knew was on the top closet shelf. The seething black horror towered above him, its arms spread so wide they touched opposite walls, leaving huge smudges on the wallpaper. The mountain of chunky black earth, crawling with maggots and worms, swept up like a tidal wave and then came crashing down on top of him, engulfing him in suffocating blackness that oozed and writhed all around him. Horrible things clawed and scraped at his flesh, and when he fell and hit the floor, the air was forced from his lungs with a burning gasp. Within seconds, the weight of the compost heap squeezed the life out of him.

* * *

“What’s that over there?”

“That? Oh, that’s nothing but an old compost heap,” Merilee Bryant, the real estate agent from Century 21, said as she walked with Ben and Sarah Cauldwell out behind the Parker’s barn.

It was a hot August afternoon, and this was the seventh showing she’d had this week for prospective buyers. Following Merit and Lydia Parker’s mysterious disappearances, Merit’s brother Al had put the house on the market without even bothering to clean it out. Al claimed all he wanted was some quick money so he could pay off his son’s college expenses, but Merilee knew Al’s reputation and was fairly certain he’d drink as much of that money as he could. With the prices houses were going for these days, even this far out from Portland, Al was going to be set for years.

“Compost, huh?” Sarah Cauldwell said, wrinkling her nose as she took a cautious step back from the large, sloped pile. It stood more than head-high. She glared at her husband as he knelt down beside it and dug his fingers into the rich, black loam. He made a ball of the stuff and squeezed it until it compacted in his hands.

“Sure,” Merilee said. “You take grass clipping, leaves, and any vegetable waste, mix it with some dirt, and it turns into the best fertilizer going.”

“It looks like an old garbage pile,” Sarah said, taking another step away.

Merilee looked back and forth between the man and woman, wondering if this was going to be another
no sale
. She could definitely sense some tension lurking below the surface between these two. The hostility was subtle and barely repressed. Merilee could feel it like a taut wire about to snap. In all her years selling real estate, there had been plenty of times when one partner loved the property and the other wasn’t so sure. She hoped this time it wouldn’t kill the deal. She needed the commission. On their walk-through of the house, things had seemed encouraging, and she didn’t want something as insignificant as a compost heap to be a deal breaker.

“I certainly don’t want to live where there’s a pile of … of
garbage
in the backyard,” Sarah said. She waved her hand in front of her face. “Phew. It stinks, too.”

“No.” Ben looked at his hand, which was stained black from the compost. “Like Merilee says—it’s great for gardening.”

“
You
can use it if you
want
to,” Sarah said, her voice thick with disdain. “But you can count
me
out.”

“It’s my understanding,” Merilee said, “that if you do it correctly, it won’t smell at all. Just like rich soil. This one probably just went bad because the people who lived here didn’t manage it properly. You need to cover it over so the bacterial action can work”

“And you know,” Ben said rather meekly, “we can use it to grow roses in front of the picket fence out front. And maybe I’ll have a little tomato patch out back here.”

“If you
do
have any gardening—” Merilee said. She was about to say more, but she hesitated when she thought she saw the compost heap shift slightly. Maybe it was just some of the stuff sliding down because of the handful Ben had scooped away. After a second or two, she regained her composure and continued, “Composting is the way to go. Anything you put in here will rot away in a few days or weeks, leaving behind nothing but fertile soil.”

“Really? It will decompose
anything
?” Ben’s eyebrows arched for a moment as he stood up and looked at the real estate agent. He brushed his hands on his pants legs, leaving behind wide, black smears. Placing his hands on his hips, he looked past the barn, down to the wide field that bordered a pine forest at the far end. Then he turned and looked back at the house, appraising it. After clearing his throat, he said, “You know what? I think we should make an offer. I
definitely
think we’d like living here.”

“I don’t know, Honeybunny,” Sarah said, frowning and biting her lower lip as she shook her head slowly from side to side.

“I’m not so sure I like the idea of living so far out from town,” Sarah said.

“Ahh,” Ben said with a dismissive wave of his black-stained hand. “It’s not all
that
far out. And you know I could use a little peace and quiet.” He glanced at Merilee and smiled. “There’s nothing wrong with a little peace and quiet, now, is there?”

“No. Nothing at all,” Merilee said, smiling to herself because she knew she had just clinched the deal. “Everybody needs a little peace and quiet.”

If anyone thought about it at all, people visiting the
Aisne-Marne
Cemetery in
Bois-de-Belleau
, France, that day in late April would have assumed the older man and the little girl were father and daughter. No one ever would have believed the truth.