The Year of the Storm (14 page)

DANNY

P
ike paused to take some oxygen. He'd been talking for a long time while Cliff and I listened in absolute silence. It was getting dark outside, and the trees swayed in the evening breeze. Way out on the highway, I heard a horn blow and the squeal of brakes, but the sounds didn't seem real. All I could think about was the painting, this strange and brave boy named Seth, and if that little cabin held my mother and sister.

Pike lit a gas lantern, and the flickering flames threw shadows across the walls. I slid closer to the chair where he had leaned the painting. Looking closely, I could just make out the shadows inside the window, distorted wisps against the pale moonlight.

He stood. “Piss break,” Pike said, and stepped through the front door.

I looked at Cliff, who appeared to be half-asleep. “I'm going in. I'm going to slip and bring them back.”

Cliff opened his eyes wide enough to stare at me. I couldn't tell if he was worried or just felt sorry for me.

A few minutes later, Pike came back in and lit a cigarette.

“There's still a good bit more.”

I nodded. “I'm listening.”

Pike smoked the cigarette. Full night had fallen outside, and I was amazed at how dark it got back here with no power, no moon or stars to break through the interlocking branches of oak, pine, and elm. Like being in the storm shelter, I thought.

I closed my eyes and tried to imagine being there, up against the back wall in total darkness. I tried to imagine moving through the wall, just phasing through it like I was Kitty Pryde from the X-Men, and coming out on the other side to a swamp at dusk and a little cabin and Mom and Anna.

Pike cleared his throat and began to speak.

WALTER

A
couple of days later, I walked over to Seth's, hoping to find him at home and his father gone. What I found was the exact opposite.

I knew something was wrong when I saw the blue lights through the trees as I drew closer to his house. Sheriff Branch's car was in the yard and Mr. Sykes stood on the porch talking to Branch. I didn't see Seth.

Confused, I stepped out of the trees. Mr. Sykes saw me and pointed. Branch turned around. “You, boy.”

I froze.

“Get over here.”

I debated bolting for the trees, but my curiosity got the better of me.

I walked slowly to the porch. “What's going on?”

“I'll ask the questions,” Branch said.

I nodded and stood with my arms wrapped around myself.

“You seen Seth?” Mr. Sykes said. His voice was firm and he looked at me like I might be the one responsible for all of his problems.

“No.”

“This is his little boyfriend,” Mr. Sykes said to Branch. “If anybody knows where he is, this one does.”

“I'm not his boyfriend,” I said.

“Now I don't care which way you sit in the saddle, son, I just want to know about Seth. When did you see him last?”

“I'm not answering any questions until you tell me what's going on.”

Branch shook his head and tipped his hat back. “How about this? How about you answer my questions or I take you in for obstructing justice?”

I held out my hands, wrists together. “Okay.”

Branch cursed and spat on the ground. “You're dumber than you look. Get in the car.” He pointed to the backseat.

He turned back to Mr. Sykes, and I bolted, full speed, back into the trees.

“Son of a bitch,” I heard Branch say. I didn't turn around to see if he was following me.

I headed straight for the shelter hoping to find Seth there. Even if I didn't, I knew I could hide underground until I figured out what to do.

I climbed down the ladder and pulled the hatch shut above me. I crawled on my hands and knees to the back wall, to the place to where Seth and I had slipped before. He wasn't there. I was alone.

Leaning back against the wall of the shelter, I closed my eyes and tried to think of the place, the swamp, the moon, the little cabin with the orange lamplight burning inside. I had the place in my mind pretty well, when I realized I might be doing it wrong. Was it the painting Seth imagined or the actual place? Shit, I didn't know. I tried both. Neither worked. I was still in the dark twenty minutes later when my hand fell on the paper.

As soon as I touched it, I knew Seth was gone for good. It was his note, not a suicide note, but a good-bye note. It was too dark in the shelter to make any of it out, so I tucked it in my back pocket and thought about where I could go. I knew Branch would talk to my parents and I'd have to deal with him if I went back home. I didn't have anywhere to go, so I stayed put, hoping that maybe Seth would come back. He didn't. I fell asleep, leaning against the back wall.

—

W
hen I woke, I didn't know where I was. I'd have similar experiences in Vietnam when we were thrown into mudholes for days at the time, that feeling of dislocation, of being quite sure that your life had ended and this was what was waiting for you—just darkness and confusion. Fear is the best name for it, really. You'd get your head screwed on a little tighter and latch on to something solid. Might have been the ground itself, just a handful of hard-packed earth or some clumps of grass or once even a piece of feces gone brittle. Then you were back in the world, at least enough to carry on.

That day when I woke up in the shelter, I didn't have a clue about Vietnam. It was still years away. What I did know was a darkness that might not ever let go. I pulled out the note from my pocket and ran my fingers over it, trying to touch the pen strokes to make out Seth's words. I wanted to believe it said he was going away for a while, to the swamp, but just until things cooled down. He'd be back and we'd carry on as friends because we were best friends and that is what best friends did. They stuck together. I savored this vision for a while, letting my hands caress the page before climbing the ladder into the light.

I found a warm morning, birds singing in the trees, the smell of wood smoke coming from either my house or Seth's; I couldn't tell. I plopped down on the ground and opened the letter up. It was printed in Seth's handwriting on a piece of yellow legal paper:

Walter,

Gone for good. You'll be able to get on better without me, I think. By now you know my father is evil. You know what he did. I hope you're wise enough to keep clear of him. Please, Walter. Do that for me. Stay away from my father.

By the time you read this, I will have done what I can to make it right. You'll probably want to go to the authorities about this. Don't. He's too dangerous. What's done is done. Like I said, I have tried to make it right.

I've decided the swamp is the best place for me. I'm finally going to do it. My only regret is that you're not here with me.

Seth

The paper, wet with my tears, wilted between my hands. I read it again, over and over, wishing it said something different. Finally, I crumpled it into a tiny ball. As soon as I did this, I regretted it and tried to straighten it out, but it was ruined. Still crying, I opened the hatch and climbed back into the shelter. I went to the back wall and beat my fists against it, hard and then harder, hoping somehow on the other side, Seth would hear me.

I
t never really crossed my mind to follow Seth's advice and stay away from his father. Part of me hoped I could prove his guilt and somehow Seth would know and come back. Another part of me was just angry. For Seth, for those two girls.

I'm afraid that one of the reasons Seth slipped when he did was for me. Sure, he was bound to do it eventually, and maybe it was his court date that pushed him to go when he did, maybe he left to avoid what would almost certainly be an unsympathetic judge, but I think it was more than that. Seth was the kind of person who always thought of others. This is part of my guilt too. It should have been me trying to protect him, but instead it was the other way around.

The next day, Sheriff Branch picked me up at school. He made me sit in the back of the cruiser and he took me down to the station. I'd had some time to think about things and had something resembling a plan, even though I suspected it would be a miracle if it worked.

He sat down at his desk and pointed at the chair for me.

“I know you know where he is.”

I stayed quiet. I wanted to play this just right.

“Son, this ain't playtime. This boy has skipped out on a court date. His father has reason to suspect he might have been involved with those girls.” He leaned forward, his leather chair creaking. “You tell me the goddamn truth or I'm going to lock your ass up.”

I didn't say a word.

“You ever been in our jail before, boy? It's only one cell, so if you're there and we bring in somebody else, say a drunk, or God forbid one of them perverts from up on the mountain, you'll be sharing the toilet with him. So tell me.”

“I'm scared,” I said in a weak voice.

“Scared? Just tell the truth. The only thing you've got to fear is that jail cell.”

“No, that's not true. I have someone else to fear.”

“You talking about Seth's daddy?”

I nodded.

“You think he's out to hurt you?”

“Yeah.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Seth said he killed those girls.”

“We've been down this road and I think that's a bunch of bullshit.”

I shook my head. “That's not all.”

Branch drummed his fingers on the desk, waiting.

“He killed Seth too.”

“Now, this is just ridiculous. I—”

“You wait,” I said. “Seth isn't coming back. He's dead.”

I must have convinced him because Branch didn't speak for a moment. He only looked at me, studying my face. Finally, he stood up. “Get the hell out of here. He'll come back and when he does, I'm going to nail your ass to the wall.”

I started toward the door, but paused right before going out. “You'll see. He's gone.”

—

T
he thing that ate at me the most was the part of Seth's note that said he was going to do what he could “to make it right.” What did that even mean? Would he come back and kill his father himself? That was the only conclusion I could draw, and if that was what Seth had meant, I wanted to make sure he wouldn't face his father alone.

I began to watch him. What I found, while crouching in the trees near his house, disappointed me. He was a boring man who went to work every day and came home every evening. At dusk, I watched him through the kitchen window as he cooked his supper. He didn't drink, at least not that I could see. Of course, when he moved away from the kitchen windows into the deeper parts of the house, he might have been doing anything.

A week of this got me exactly nowhere. Seth was still gone, and the kids at school still hated me. My father still hated me. My mother was still a lost soul who locked herself in the bathroom for hours at a time. Maybe Seth did have the right idea. I started spending time in the shelter, just sitting in the dark, trying to go there, to tell him he was right to get out of this godforsaken world once and for all.

But I didn't have whatever Seth had. Maybe it was imagination, maybe it was just that my life wasn't as desperate as his, but I couldn't do it.

Soon I was sleeping there and not going to school at all. I'd sneak into my house for some food late at night and then slip back out to the shelter. It was on one of these nights that I finally found the proof I was looking for.

It happened by accident. I couldn't sleep and had decided to wander over to Seth's house to see if his dad was still awake. In the darkness, I must have taken a wrong turn because the woods grew thicker and soon I was lost. Despite the lantern I carried, I got confused and I couldn't find my bearings, something that's easy to do in these woods.

Then I saw something. It was up ahead, a hulking shadow covered in kudzu, just a shape in the dark. It was a little hunting cabin that was almost invisible to the naked eye except from the back, which just happened to be the direction I'd come from. It must have been the same one Seth had mentioned before, which meant I wasn't very far from the storm shelter.

I probably don't even need to say that the cabin, the one I found that night, is this same cabin. Rebuilt by Seth's father, my uncle, it looks basically the same, minus a few vines of kudzu, as it did in 1961.

I stopped a dozen or so feet short, studying the place for any signs of life. A few moments passed and I saw nothing. I crept a little closer.

I paused to listen at the back window—the one in the room right down that hallway. There were no sounds other than the crickets and bullfrogs down by the pond. I took a deep breath and pressed my face against the glass. It seemed empty. Abandoned.

Circling the cabin, I looked for a way in. The door on the front was locked. I went back to the window and tried to open it, but it was stuck in place. I tried again, this time putting everything I had into lifting it, but I wasn't strong enough. I'm not really sure why I felt it was so urgent to get inside, but I did.

I cast around for a rock or heavy stick to break the glass with. Waving my light around, I spotted a fallen tree limb, picked it up, and swung it like a baseball bat. It would do. Back over at the window, it took me three swings to break through the glass and another few swipes to knock loose the shards so I could pull myself up and through.

I tumbled inside, just managing to get my hands up before I hit the floor face-first. I was lucky I didn't land on any of the glass. Other than a few pieces of half-finished furniture, the room seemed empty. I made my way into the short, narrow corridor that led to the back, holding my light out in front of me, feeling like I'd found the very answer to all my problems right here in this cabin, but I had to just unwrap it, you know? I was close, so damned close, but not there yet.

If my light hadn't gone out, I might never have found the cellar. It was an old oil lantern I'd swiped from Daddy's shed, and I hadn't bothered to get more fuel for it. I watched in dismay as it dimmed, casting flickering shadows against the wall, and then went completely dark. I set it down and reached out blindly, determined to keep searching.

In the hallway, I stubbed my toe on something. I sprawled forward and hit the wall. I lay on the floor for a moment, shivering. It was like I'd crawled into some monster, and a false move would wake it up, and once that happened he'd swallow me forever. I touched my head to see if it was bleeding. Only a little. I sat up. The moon was rising and its light filtered through the cracked glass. I saw what I'd tripped on.

There was a rug, a big throw rug embroidered with every animal imaginable—deer, elk, wild turkeys. In the center was a tiny rise, like a bump in the floor. I pulled the rug away and saw that I'd stubbed my toe on a metal latch that led to a trapdoor in the hardwood floor. I didn't even think about it. I opened it up and saw a ladder leading to a cellar. I was halfway down it when I noticed the ladder seemed encrusted in a dried, flaking substance. The smell of copper and rust and something deeper, older, invaded my senses and I knew it was blood.

I kept going.

A beam of moonlight filtered through the hole and as I neared the bottom. I let myself drop. I landed on my feet but was almost knocked over by the overpowering stench of blood and waste as I covered my mouth, trying to keep from vomiting. It came anyway. Thankfully, only dry heaves because I had nothing in my belly to expel. Once my stomach stopped seizing, I turned around slowly, letting my eyes adjust to the deep black of the cellar.

Nothing came clear—some shapes slouching into themselves, the swirl of odors too strong to comprehend—until I saw them standing there against the back wall, two girls glowing in the dark, so bright I thought I'd go blind.

They were dead, ghosts or something even less than ghosts—afterimages, photonegatives burned like heat into the cellar wall.

For an instant, they were everything. I lost sight of why I was there, what I was doing, who I was, even. I felt a sadness cinch so tight in my gut that I doubled over, dry-heaving again, my cheek cold against the dirt floor.

Then they were gone.

The afterimages stayed in my vision like those floaters you get from staring into the sun too long, but the girls were gone and if I'd wanted to (and part of me did, believe me) I could have forgotten them, pretended they never showed themselves, written it off as my mind playing cruel tricks on my soul. But I refused to do that.

I pulled myself up and slid carefully to the back wall. The wall was sticky to the touch. I felt around some more until my hand landed on something else, a leather strap attached to the wall. After some investigation, my heart sank when I realized what it was—a shackle. Two sets. The same crusty blood clung here and had been smeared against the back wall. For an instant I saw them again—or heard them—this time moaning, begging for mercy, but Sykes wouldn't give them any. There were shouts and cries, and deep moans, things that I never heard before or since, not even in Vietnam, and I understood then what Seth had meant about his father being evil. I clamped my ears with both hands, but the sounds wouldn't go away. Instead, I heard new ones, dripping in the hollows, the empty spaces of the screams, flesh being torn away, bones cracking, and all the while the cries for mercy. But Sykes wouldn't give them any. Not even a drop.

When it finally ended, a long silence remained. It was like wind had come through and blown everything away. I couldn't even smell the blood.

I didn't need to. I'd experienced everything I needed. I clenched and unclenched my fists, trying to keep my lungs working evenly, trying to feel the anger as it seeped out into my fingers and toes.

I was halfway back to the ladder, a plan formulating in my head about a visit to Sheriff Branch's office, when the cabin door slammed shut somewhere above me. I slipped back toward the back wall, pressing myself flat against the place where he'd shackled the girls. I reached into my pocket for my switchblade and waited. I prayed he didn't have a light.

That was one prayer that didn't get answered. I saw the light bending into the cellar as he drew nearer. He was whistling. Damn if that didn't almost do me in right there. That whistling. I still hear it in my nightmares sometimes. I wanted to rush him, run at the ladder, climbing up it as I swung at him, but I held on. I had to make this count.

For Seth. For those girls. But mostly for me. Up until that point, I had been just sort of drifting. Now I had a purpose, something I knew was right, something I knew that I could do. A man could do a lot worse than that feeling.

My hand itched to pop that blade.

He stopped whistling, and I knew he'd noticed the cellar door was open. There was another long silence. I heard my own heart thudding against my rib cage, the sound of my breath coming out in a stifled wheeze.

One more step, the floorboards groaning. Another, this one not as loud. He stopped again. His boots creaked as he settled his weight right above me. I looked up, wondering how strong the barrier between us was, and if I could stick a knife through it.

“Somebody down there?” he called out. His voice sounded pleasant. Almost jovial.

I didn't breathe.

“Well, I don't suppose,” he said, “that this door opened itself.”

The floorboards above me groaned as he took another step.

“Did you like what you found down there?” he said. His voice changed to a falsetto. “I didn't mean to kill them. Just happens sometimes when you're trying to get them to do right.”

I clenched the knife in my sweaty palm, determined not to let him bait me.

“Not a talker, huh? Or maybe you think I'm a damned enough fool to come down there.” He laughed and began to whistle again. The light moved, the floorboards talked, there was a loud slam, and I was completely in the dark.

—

I
was in the cellar for a long time. Because of the darkness, I can't say exactly how long. Four days is my best guess, but it might have been more as each moment bled into the next. I was hungry, but not frightened. That might sound strange, even hard to believe, but no part of me was afraid, not anymore. When you're as hungry as I was, fear will always take a backseat.

There were bugs, creepy crawlies that I managed to put my hands on in the dark. I ate them as reflex, not even considering what they were, popping them inside my mouth like candy, sometimes swallowing them whole, feeling them squirm down my throat. I trapped a rat in the corner of the cellar using an empty jar. At my lowest moments, I wanted to eat it alive too, but I'd heard about the diseases they carried. Still, I kept it under the jar, ready if I got desperate enough.

Luckily, it never came to that.

Rats and bugs weren't the only things I shared that space with. The past lived in that cellar. As I began to slide in and out of consciousness in my weakened state, I saw the girls again, their dresses shining in the dark, their hair like silken coal. They were unaware of me, and time and time again I listened to them moan for help. When they finally stopped, there was only a moment's worth of silence and absolute dark before I heard the small boy crying. Then I saw him, not two feet from where I lay, hunched over the body of his mother. What kind of ghosts were these? The boy was Sykes, and Sykes wasn't even dead yet.