Silas: A Supernatural Thriller (4 page)

“This what you want?”

Silas panted and yipped in reply.

“Okay then.”

I tucked the puppy’s rear end in the crook of my elbow like a football, strode into the family room, collapsed on the couch, and turned on
Sportscenter
.
The talking heads bantered back and forth about the day’s games.
Did the Sox win again today?
I wondered.

As replays flashed across the screen, Silas worked his front paws into the fabric of my shirt. His tiny claws dug into my stomach, but it didn’t really hurt all that much – in fact, I found the sensation almost comforting. Eventually he stood up on all fours, marched around in a circle, and curled into my lap, resting his chin across my right forearm. I felt his chest rise and fall and his tiny heartbeat drum away. His ears twitched and those green eyes glanced at me sideways, as if he didn’t want me to notice.

“Okay then,” I whispered, leaning my head back and closing my eyes. With his warmth pulsing over my lower abdomen, I felt no anger, only exhaustion, and I knew sleep would come easily, even on the uncomfortable couch. As I thought this Silas let out what I can only describe as a purr, as if saying,
you’re welcome.

Maybe the little guy wasn’t so bad after all.

6

The following weekend, Wendy’s best friend and college roommate, Cyan, visited from
Pennsylvania
. Cyan was a petite and intense woman, which was the opposite personality I would’ve expected an art professor at Villanova to possess. I dreaded these little stopovers. Wendy and Cyan’s conversations would unavoidably turn to their love of ceramics and stoneware, which in turn led back to me – had I written anything new, was I interested in going back to school, would I be miserable spending the rest of my life working a job I was overqualified for? During these exchanges I’d end up turning inward and pine for Monday, when I could finally go back to my “mindless profession” and not have to think of the
coulda
’
shoulda
’
woulda’s
.

Thankfully this particular visit was different, and all because of Silas.

Cyan was just as smitten as Wendy. She showed up on Friday night and the two of them spent the evening in the dining room, chatting it up and playing with a pup who clearly savored being the center of attention. I stayed out of sight, sitting in my easy chair reading the latest
Requiem Fire
book, one ear always tuned in to the commotion in the other room.

It went on for hours. At one point Cyan went on a rant about how to properly care for a dog, chastising Wendy for not bringing him to the vet or starting him on heartworm pills. I loved it. For once I wasn’t on the receiving end of a Cyan Marshall tangent.

On Saturday the girlfriends decided it was time for a
Rhode Island
camping trip. The weather, unseasonably warm all week, got their juices flowing. They packed the tent, blankets, and a cooler in the back of Cyan’s Plymouth Voyager. Silas hopped around them and yipped as they loaded the car. I could almost hear him saying,
We going on a trip mommy, you gonna bring me, yippee!
When Wendy opened the passenger door he leapt in and made his way to the driver’s seat. He proceeded to stand there, paws on the steering wheel while stretching his body so he could see over the dashboard. The girls cooed, saying, “Oh, how cute is he?” in unison. I would never admit it out loud, but I agreed.

I kissed Wendy goodbye and the longtime friends drove away. I could see Silas pacing in the back seat before the car disappeared around the corner. A strange sort of warmth surged through the back of my head. It was a sensation I hadn’t felt in a long time – a creative spark. An image appeared in my mind, accompanied by that damned Art Lonnigan tune.
5, 7, 2, 1, in a land once said.
I didn’t care. I had to capitalize on the situation before it went “poof”, as it so often did. Even when my neighbors, Joe Talbot and his daughter Jacqueline, emerged on their front stoop and waved me down, all I could do was flap my arms in reply.

“Not now, Joe!” I told him. “There’s imagination afoot!”

I dashed into the house, yanked my old laptop from its burial chamber in the closet, blew off two years worth of dust, lugged it into the dining room, plugged it in, and turned it on. The internal motor whined. It had been so long since I’d used the thing that I worried it wouldn’t work.

But work it did, and much better than I remembered. I opened the word processor and started typing.
FADE IN
, I wrote. The pictures floating about in my brain started to betray me, fizzling out like doused flames. I ran my fingers over the keypad, hoping that I could reignite the inspiration before it was too late.

“C’mon, Ken, do it.”

EXT:
Woodland
setting.

“That’s more like it.”

A man – Paul – enters the scene. He walks with his head hung low. He is virtually naked.

“Yeah, here we go.”

From behind a tree emerges a child. The child is dirty, with long hair and features so vague that Paul can’t tell if it’s a boy or girl. The child approaches him and holds out a hand.

CHILD: Papa Paul, is that you?

That’s when everything went blank. I tapped my foot, feeling impatient, but still nothing would come. And when I say nothing, I mean
nothing.
It was as if my thoughts had been sucked out in some cosmic purge. I pounded the keys randomly –
;
aidfj;lkcxjv;isaj
– screamed, “Shit!” and slammed the laptop cover shut.

I jumped from my seat, thought about snatching a beer from the fridge, and then decided a cranberry and vodka cocktail would do the trick faster. In the end even that was too slow, and I drank the vodka straight-up. I poured a full pint’s worth and kicked Silas’s water dish. It bounced across the floor and spun to a stop after hitting the wall.

For the next hour I sat in front of the television, letting useless images flash across my vision. There was an
Action News
special about a missing girl named Molly
Ferenz
that I quickly flipped past. I wanted to wallow, but in my own pain not anyone else’s. Each time I sipped from my glass I winced. As I approached inebriation I found myself wishing Wendy was there, to hold me the way she used to, to assure me everything would be okay. It was something she’d done far too many times over the years – aka whenever I had writer’s block. I closed my eyes and thought of happier days, when ideas flowed smoothly and we were more than content to sit in our separate rooms and work. It had been a long time since I’d felt that, and it was all my fault. Then I thought of the way Wendy’s doe eyes shimmered with joy when she laughed and I beat myself up even more. Though I’d seen that look on her face many times over the last week, the realization came over me that her happiness wasn’t
my
doing. It was
his.
Silas’s. How appropriate.

I felt useless. Used-up. Inadequate. So I performed the one duty I’d become best at over the years, an act that came easily when mired in a period of self-hatred.

I slept.

7

Squandered years tend to carry with them an immense weight that can drag a man down, physically as well as mentally. I found out as much one day in late April.

I’d been sitting at my desk in my company’s
Hartford
office building, arguing over the phone with a
Florida
orange distributor about how much we’d have to pay for fifty crates of merchandise. He assured me the cold they’d experienced over the winter had driven up prices, while I argued there’d only been two days of sub-freezing temperatures over the last four months. Heat erupted in my neck as the guy on the other end of the line started up with yet another barrage of excuses. My mouth opened. I wanted to scream. Every fiber in my body stood on end.

That’s when
it
happened.

My chest seized up and my left arm went numb as I struggled for breath. Saliva gathered beneath my tongue and bubbled over my lips. My coworkers gathered around me and stared. I was in so much pain all I could do was lie there and writhe.

An ambulance whisked me away to
Saint
Francis
Hospital
, where a fleet of doctors and nurses examined me. They affixed an I.V. and put me in a private room, where I passed in and out of consciousness for God knows how long. I still couldn’t feel anything from my chest on down and my heartbeat seemed erratic. I wanted to cry out, to beg for help, but the energy it took to clench my teeth against the pain left the rest of me drained and unresponsive.

After a while I passed out. The drugs the doctors pumped into me helped. It was the weirdest sleep I’d ever had, though. There were no dreams, only a strange mishmash of images that collected in my brain during brief forays into awareness that played in a loop behind my eyelids. I couldn’t hear anything and the odd smell of copper was the only scent my mind registered. I figured this was it. I’d die alone on that stretcher, surrounded by folks who cared for me only because they were
paid
to care. As I lay there, I realized how little my life meant in the grand scheme of things.

When I finally woke up I saw Wendy sitting beside me, holding my bandaged hand. Her face, withered and distraught an instant earlier, brightened.

“Oh, Ken!” she proclaimed, leaning forward and kissing my face.

“Hey, Wendy,” I replied. My voice sounded small and tinny in my head.

“How do you feel?”

“Been better.”

She chuckled. “Of course you have.”

“What happened to me?” I asked. “How long have I been out? Have you seen the doctor?”

She put a finger to my lips. “Quiet down, okay? I need to go get him. He’ll explain everything to you.”

The physician came in. He was a young man, probably not much older than me, with a voice that was soft yet succinct. I sensed a hidden tenor beneath the calm flow of his words.

Disappointment. The scathing, judgmental kind.

“Mr. Lowery,” he said, “your cholesterol is way above where it should be. Your blood pressure is through the roof. There’s not enough iron in your blood and your blood sugar is far too low. You haven’t been taking care of yourself, have you?”

“I guess not,” I muttered.

“Well, that’s all going to change. And don’t you even
think
about smoking another cigarette. You’re done with that nasty habit for good.”

The thought of losing my crutch filled me with panic. Wendy squeezed my hand. I stared at the young doctor in desperation and said, “What? Why not?”

“You had a heart attack, Mr. Lowery. A few of them, actually. Minor, yes, and not imminently life-threatening seeing as you received medical attention rather quickly. But if you don’t change your ways, more will come. If that happens, the episode you had today will feel like rocking on a hammock by comparison.”

So there you have it. I had a heart attack. At thirty-two years old. I’d always assumed this sort of thing was reserved for the old and out of shape, neither of which described me.

I guess I was wrong. Again.

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