Silas: A Supernatural Thriller (13 page)

“Seemed like a nice enough guy, eh boy?” I said, reaching down to give Silas some much-deserved attention. When he didn’t bring his head up to greet my hand, I glanced down.

Silas was on the floor a few feet away, nose pressed to the carpet, staring at me with squinting, bloodshot eyes. He breathed in short gasps and his body shook.

His looked terrified, which in turn caused my own panic meter to rocket skyward. I thought of his reaction to Colleen Miller, of how he knew Bridget Cormier was in trouble. I considered the strange way he’d acted only moments earlier, along with the weird comment the pudgy electrician left me with. I knew right then that there was more to Nick the Electrician than I’d originally thought, and it scared the hell out of me. I leapt from the recliner, dashed down the hall, and leapt up the stairs, not caring the slightest if I woke Wendy up in the process.

Suddenly, I didn’t feel so exhausted.

19

Nick Goodman wouldn’t get out of my head. Whenever I thought of his plump cheeks and five-day stubble – traits which had initially been endearing – a lump rose in my throat and fear slithered through my veins. I felt like a ship captain who sees monstrous black clouds on the horizon and realizes he’s completely isolated by surging ocean waves.

Once daylight ascended after my brief roadside meeting with Nick, Wendy left for work. I’d wiled away the last few hours in the spare bedroom, but she never even came in to check on me. The sun rose over the trees, slowly evaporating the early-morning fog. Time passed. It came to mid-morning, the most crisp and unsullied part of the day. My eyes burned from lack of sleep and I had to stop myself from rubbing them. Silas, after looking so frightened only hours earlier, was now in a position more befitting for him – curled up on the bed, sleeping. His snores sounded like water rushing through a cave.

Nine o’clock
came and went, and Nick Goodman never showed. No large van rolled down the street and no heavyset man waddled to the Talbot’s front door. The traffic on our side street was sparse, just like every other normal day.

At nine-thirty Joe walked outside. His hair was wet. He sat in a wicker chair on his front stoop and sipped a cup of coffee. Thirty minutes later he went back into the house. Forty-five minutes after that, he and Jacqueline reappeared. They played catch for a little while. Jacqueline looked adorable, what with the way she chased the ball around while her flowing black locks, the mirror image of her father’s, whipped about her face as she twirled and ran. The sound of their laughter infiltrated my skin, seeped into my blood. I kept my vigil nonetheless, making sure to duck out of sight whenever Joe’s eyes shifted my way, hoping beyond hope he wouldn’t catch a glimpse of me and question why I was watching them.

At eleven-thirty they went back into the house, presumably for lunch. A green, slow-moving SUV rolled by a short time later. It captured my interest for a moment, but ended up speeding off after stopping at the house three down from the Talbot’s. Then the mailman came, at twelve-twenty five, trailed a few minutes later by a convertible filled with four scantily-clad high school girls from the next street over, probably on their way to nearby Bigelow Hollow, a glacial lake, to hang out and catch some sun. In no way did I blame them. It was a scorcher by high noon, at least ninety-five and oppressively humid. Sweat drenched my shirt and my body odor was enough to gag on. I thought about joining them, taking Silas for a much-needed jaunt into the lake, but I couldn’t tear myself from my seat.

At one-seventeen I heard the Talbot’s back door open. Giggling followed, along with the rhythmic whine and creak of their swing set. I pictured the scene in my mind: Joe standing behind his daughter, gently pushing her when she swung toward him; Jacqueline with a grin plastered on her face, kicking her legs out with each swing, hands grasping tight to the chains. I felt a twinge of sadness, thinking that Bridget Cormier would never swing again, would never do
anything
again.

Silas shifted and let out a dejected murmur. “What’s the matter, bud?” I asked. He lifted his head and his stomach grumbled. As if on cue, my own followed suit. “Yeah, I’m pretty hungry, too,” I said. “Let’s go get some grub.”

We left our post by the window and wandered downstairs. Silas looked as exhausted as I felt. I shrugged my shoulders and noticed that even that simple gesture felt like it took way more effort than it should’ve. I’d been so obsessed I hadn’t been taking care of myself…or my trusted companion, either.

I went to the kitchen and made a ham sandwich, and then opened the cabinet under the sink and grabbed the bag of dog food. Silas sat down next to his bowl, waiting patiently. I frowned and shook the bag. There were only crumbs remaining.

“Sorry, boy,” I said, dumping the sparse balls of dry food into his dish and topping it with the last two slices of ham. Silas stuffed his nose into the bowl, devouring what little food there was in a matter of seconds. When finished he sat back up and gazed at me with pleading eyes. I slumped against the counter as a needy whine leaked from his throat.

“I know,” I said.

I walked to the front door, stepped outside, and peered around the corner. The Talbot house glistened beneath the glare of an unrelenting sun. Whoops and cackles could still be heard in the backyard. Everything seemed normal. I shook my head.

“Get over it, Ken,” I whispered. “Nothing’s gonna happen. You’re being silly.”

I slapped my hand against the door, suddenly angry for skirting my responsibilities, and stormed into the house. I grabbed the keys to the Subaru and ruffled the hair on Silas’s head. “Sorry, dude, you can’t come today,” I said, thinking of how quickly the inside of an automobile can grow fatally hot on days such of these. “Don’t worry. I’ll be right back.”

The car was sweltering as I slipped into the driver’s seat. Breathing proved difficult, and I was glad I’d made the decision to leave Silas behind. I checked my wallet. There were only four loose singles in the money pouch. I hoped Agway accepted Discover Cards.

“You’re an asshole,” I sighed to myself, and drove away.

The Talbot house sagged like a grieving mother as I passed it by.

*
 
 
*
 
 
*

I made my way home with a brand new fifty-pound bag of tuna-and-rice flavored dry dog food propped up in the back seat, my stomach filled with greasy fast-food goodness, and a soda nestled between my legs. I had a smile on my face, a
true
smile, for the first time in God knew how long. Simply being out of the house made me feel better, so I took the long way home, crawling down the road while Miles Davis’s trumpet blasted from my stereo. I wanted to hold onto the sensation of freedom as long as I could, afraid that once I got back to the house my fear and hopelessness would return and render me useless, possibly for good.

With this thought in mind I decided to loop through the hilly areas in the town of
Somers
, ogling the massive houses resting on pristine, manicured lawns the way I had as a wistful teenager captivated by the trappings of money. The mansions looked just as I remembered them – plush, tall, polished exteriors with massive windows and long, winding driveways upon which sat a variety of expensive automobiles. I presumed I would feel the same sort of unsullied virtue I’d felt as a child while eyeballing these strongholds of excess. Instead, all I felt was disgust. It was disappointing to say the least.

As I drove through
Union
, I glanced at the dashboard clock. The fluorescent green numbers flashed
5:05
.
I’d been away, lost in my own world, for almost four hours. How could that happen? I thought of Silas, waiting for me to return with his stomach rumbling, and another boulder of guilt dropped in my gut. There I was, so intent on diverting myself from the stress that poured its way through the cracked dam of my personal life, that I’d neglected the only being who hadn’t abandoned me.

“Asshole,” I grumbled again, and started for home.

Twenty minutes later I turned onto
Chestnut Street
. My fists locked tight to the steering wheel. There they were, two automobiles residing in mine and Joe Talbot’s respective driveways like boxed obelisks of doom.

Wendy’s car and the
Staffordville
HVAC
van.

I swallowed hard and pulled into my driveway, taking my usual position beside Wendy’s Jaguar.
Stop beating yourself up
, I thought.
You’re letting paranoia get the best of you. This Goodman guy probably overslept. Shit, he
was
out at three in the morning. His company probably read him the riot act because of it. He deserves a break.

If only I could make myself believe that.

I stepped out of the car, only to hear Wendy screeching inside. Her high-pitched wails rose above Silas’s persistent barking. The mingling sounds were primal, full of rage, like a lion pouncing on an unsuspecting wildebeest. I imagined my wife in the kitchen, anger pouring from her throat as she brought a frying pan down time and again on our dog’s hard noggin. I broke out running.

As soon as I burst through the front door, Wendy’s inflection was clear. She screamed, all right, but it wasn’t out of fury. There were sobs in there, as well, causing her voice to crack.

“Just stop!” she wailed. “What’s wrong with you!”

I bolted down the hallway and into the living room. Wendy stood against the wall in front of the entrance to the sun porch, hands cupped over her face, her body shuddering. Silas stood on the sofa, front paws digging into the backrest, his nose pressed against the window. He let loose an endless series of yowls and woofs. His gums were pulled back, exposing his teeth. His drool slathered the glass, clinging to the pane in sticky blotches.

“What’s going on?” I asked, having to yell to be heard. Wendy dropped her hands and turned to me, frantically. Tears and eyeliner dripped down her cheeks.

“Get him to shut up!” she pleaded. “He won’t stop!”

I made my way over to the couch and placed a hand on Silas’s back. Lowering my eyes to his level, I glanced out the slime-covered window. Silas didn’t respond to me – instead he seemed to take it as a cue. His barking eased to a menacing grumble and he dropped from his roost. He ran out of the room. When his barking resumed – as persistent as before – it came from the front door.

“What’s
his
malfunction?” asked Wendy, her voice hitching as she wiped the tears from her cheeks.

I shrugged.

“You better figure it out,” she said. “I’m not gonna take this shit from him, too. He doesn’t listen to me anymore. It’s like you’re the only one that matters. It’s not right.”

I started to open my mouth but turned around and walked away instead. It wouldn’t do any good to defend myself. She was angry, and justifiably so. And besides, I had more pressing issues to deal with at the moment.

Silas waited impatiently, scratching at the front door. I paused, contemplated calling the police, and then brushed that thought aside. What would happen if this was all in my head, if it was nothing but a big misunderstanding?
Just check it out
, my brain told me.
If anything’s wrong, call the cops then.

I shooed Silas aside and opened the door. We went out together, me marching with a nervous pep in my step, him trotting beside me sans leash. He continued his guttural rumbling as we made our way across the thin patch of lawn that separated my and Joe’s house but surprisingly he never took off. It was like he knew the only way we could do this was to do it
together.

We approached the service van and something caught my eye. I knelt down and ran my finger over the front quarter panel. It was caked with thick dirt, with a good amount of reddish clay mixed in, much like the consistency of the soil in one particular rolling field. My mind replayed the event, seeing the fresh tire tracks in the grass. I slammed my fist against the wheel well.