CHAPTER ONE
Rory burst out the back door and into the morning dark—the early spring kind that makes equals of sky and of earth.
The sky seemed to him to descend at night. To meet the ground. Today, it pressed heavily down on him, like a silent theater with no stage or spotlight. And Rory—the moving piece—was the focal point.
He checked behind him as he ran. Waiting. Expecting the thing to follow. Nothing came. But that probably meant it was still back there in the house, with her.
He turned as he exited his open yard. Saw the outline of the old playground with the broken slide and three dying ash trees. Bare branches reached from the base of the trunk, grasping at life the only way they could now. They were the only decoration in the wide-open field between neighboring houses, a row of strong roofs and peeling paint.
He slowed again as an orange glow played across the darkness. He breathed in something familiar. Beyond the dead-fish stench of standing water. It was sharp and metallic. Stronger than a bloody nose. He could taste it. Rory turned. His own house was engulfed in flames. Flames bursting from the back windows; a pillar of smoke clouding over the smooth, black heavens.
There’d been house fires like this, many times. Except before, it’d never been his own. It had every characteristic of a real fire. The flames scorched his eyes with their white leaping brilliance. As the heat stung his face, that encompassing terror returned.
Angry house, he’d called it, for as far back as he could remember; probably since he could talk. Yes, the fire looked angry; violent even, with those orange thrashing flames. Consuming the wood, melting the siding. Hungry for destruction and desperate to escape, all at once. But ever since he saw that real house fire last year, the one his mom could see, he’d felt the big difference. That house was abandoned. Nobody inside. And there was no fear that time. No fury. And now, a
new question was born. Was his house the new angry house because of what happened inside?
He couldn’t go back. She’d forced him to run. His fear for her twisted itself up with the all-encompassing alien one. Confusing him.
“Mom,” he choked. His eyes stung, and his nose started running. “It’s not real,” he whispered, then closed his eyes. Who cares about the stupid fire? He saw what happened inside before he left. The monster, and his mom. The bad screwing up the good.
He ran in the strange empty silence for a while, until a loud scraping sound made him jump. He looked down. A tornado of wet leaves danced at his feet.
His heart pressed against his throat and he swallowed. His hands were numb with cold. He stuffed them into the pockets of his pajama pants and continued on.
The leaves scraped each other again, this time more loudly. But when Rory looked down, the leaves lay still on the ground. Some protested in brilliant yellow. Others were brown and rotted from having been under the snow all winter.
There was no wind. Chills crawled down his back. It was like something borrowed the sound of the leaves and made a pattern with it. A harsh scratching, strung together by a softer dry brushing. Like speech.
Keep going, it said.
No. Of course it wasn’t talking, Rory thought. He checked. Nobody there.
Straight ahead, it said.
He made it to the top of a hill. Up ahead, the pre-sunrise glow settled upon a parking lot. Weeds thrust their way up from underneath. Green raked across, choking the crumbled asphalt. The lot led to—and wrapped around—a small brick building with a wide back door and a dumpster. If it weren’t for the cars and a light on inside, the place would have seemed abandoned.
Rory’s gaze settled on a nondescript white box truck. A man hopped down from the cab of it, seeming impossibly miniature. A man with big shoulders and a beard. Rory glanced down at his feet, and began the quick shuffling steps that would bring him down the hill, to the lot.
***
Stanton Avery scanned the parking lot as he turned off the main road. Only two cars in the
lot. One was the owner’s. The other, an early-80s black Mustang with a cardboard window. He swung his truck around back and jerked the parking brake up with an angry quickness. He thought he’d known who’d be here at this early hour, and hated being surprised by someone different. But this seafood place was the best in town. And, therefore, his top customer.
To Stanton, early morning was the most tolerable part of the day. He imagined that the night—in all its stillness—refreshed the earth. He felt like all the bodies in the world heated it up and soured the air. Why else would the air feel so crisp and fresh in the morning, when the world had been quiet and still for hours?
Damned human emissions, he thought, squinting to himself, an expression that resembled a smile.
Stanton hopped down from the truck, eager to get in and out quickly. He shook his head at himself when he looked at the maybe eight better spots he’d passed up. I wanna be where the people aren’t. In a few minutes, more people would be pulling in to start prepping for the day. Better get moving.
He loaded his first stack of crates off his truck onto a dolly. Clearing his throat loudly, he gave the back of the dolly a hefty shove with his boot and pushed it toward the propped-open door.
“Crabs are here!” Stanton called, craning his head toward the kitchen, competing with the blaring radio. Some guy yelling for everyone to hurry up and come buy his cars before they float away and disappear. Stanton moved the dolly very slightly forward and back.
After some footsteps, a voice came from around the corner, “I hear you say you got crabs?” followed by a high-pitched, staccato giggle. Jimmy, the dishwasher, leaned against the doorway with one elbow, grinning maniacally.
“You’re here early,” Stanton said flatly.
“Yep, when I leave without finishing the dishes, they make me come in early with the prep guys to finish up.”
“Gotcha.”
“You aren’t the
guy who normally drops off. When Javier comes, he always laughs at my jokes.”
“Does he really…” Stanton replied flatly.
“No. But he smiles politely.” Jimmy grinned again, showing his long, surprisingly clean dentition. “So he gets more jokes outta me.”
“Don’t waste them all on me.” Stanton mirrored Jimmy’s exaggerated smile.
Very briefly, Jimmy fixed a blank gaze upon Stanton. “Where is he, anyway? He never takes a day off.”
“Hard to say.”
“I hope he’s okay.”
“I’m sure he’ll turn up.” Stanton gestured with his hand. “Where do you want this?”
***
Stanton turned and headed to the back of the truck to retrieve the rest of the order. He opened the roll-up door again and reached in, dragging more crates of fish toward the edge of the cargo area.
“Hey mister?” He thought he heard a voice. A frightened whisper. He turned, checking the rest of the lot. Nobody there.
He turned around to stack a third crate. Two small hands were wrapped around the edge of the second one. He tipped the crate to the side to avoid crushing the tiny fingers. The crabs shifted, and he almost lost his grip.
“Hey!” Stanton yelled at the kid. His voice came out hoarse and almost angry. He stopped, then stifled a laugh, observing the boy’s horrified expression. He felt a little bad. He must have looked and sounded crazed. The kid hung back, staring at him with wide wet eyes, his face pink as though he’d been crying. He looked up at Stanton, shielding himself with one arm. Is he crying because of me? Stanton wondered. He set the crate back on the truck and turned to the kid.
He softened his voice. “Where are your parents?”
The boy’s eyes widened. Then he shook his head—firmly and quickly—in response. The corners of his mouth turned down and he looked away, pretending
to see something off in the distance.
“An emergency happened to my mom.” He sniffed, and brushed the back of his hand against his nose. “I mean . . . she needs help. It’s an emergency.”
“What’s going on?” Stanton’s stomach clenched. “What happened?”
“A monster came in our house and got her. She told me to run.”
“Can you tell me your name?”
“There’s no time!” the boy reached for Stanton’s hand, and then drew away again. “Are you going to help me, or no?”
Stanton never got involved with other people. What’s a little kid mean by monster? It could be anything. He always felt getting involved was like picking up a mess nobody else wanted. He liked things simple. He didn’t know many simple people. Here, though, it seemed the only possible option was to help.
“Yeah, I can help you.”
“Who’s the kid?”
Stanton and the kid turned quickly to Jimmy, who was leaning in the back door again.
“I’m Rory,” the kid said nervously. Hands on his hips, elbows out.
“We ain’t got all day.” Jimmy’s hands were palm-up in a disbelieving shrug.
Stanton stared hard at Jimmy for a minute. He felt the hollow of his cheek twitching ever so slightly, just above his jaw. He hated when lightweights acted like they had weight to throw around. But it wasn’t worth it. He grabbed the crates from the back of the truck and hoisted them onto the dolly.
“Sorry, something came up. Gotta run. I’m sure you can wheel them in.” He turned to Rory. “Can you tell me which way if we drive?”
The kid’s eyes were dinnerplates. Dinnerplates with a little twitch in one corner. “I’m scared,” he whispered.
“It’s okay to be scared. You’ve got me a little scared too.” Stanton tried to laugh a little. The kid’s eyes did not get any smaller. He was breathing kind of
funny, like he’d been running too fast for too far. He’d seen unkind gym teachers push a kid that way until they threw up.
I honestly don’t want to go, he thought. But there was no alternative. They could call the police but he figured that’d take longer. No five-year-old could run very far on foot. The house had to be close.
“Just hop in,” Stanton said. “She’ll be okay. We’ll figure it out.”
Rory nodded and ran around the back of the truck, gravel leaping behind him. Stanton yanked his door open and climbed into the driver side. Rory was already inside buckling up.
He accelerated toward the main road. Jimmy still stood just outside the door, stuck in the same confused shrug.
Me too, man, Stanton thought. Me too.
CHAPTER TWO
“Rory! Babysitter will be here any minute! Where are you?”
“We don’t have to go anywhere . . . why do you need to know where I am?”
Rachelle couldn’t think of an answer, so she didn’t respond. She was looking for her hairbrush while thinking of her lunch in the fridge, and whether it was too old to eat at work. Maybe it just needed to be thrown away. She rushed down the hallway toward the kitchen. She stopped when she saw Rory. He stood in the dark bathroom doorway, holding a handmade radio.
She gasped, short and weird. Like a hiccup. “Why do you have that—”
Rory’s eyes widened at her reaction. “I just found it.”
“Where?”
“In the back of the linen closet?”
Rachelle straightened her shoulders, and her expression. She pretended not to notice the inquiry in his voice. “Oh.”
She turned away and stalked into the kitchen. She took some gray-looking meatballs out of the fridge and unceremoniously dumped the container into the garbage. Her thoughts followed her down the hall.
Just don’t even ask. Let it go, and it’ll end up ignored on the dining room table like half the junk in this house.
Rachelle paused, and leaned against the fridge, eyes squinting shut. After half a moment of quiet, she shouted without turning toward the kitchen doorway.
“What are you going to do with that thing?”
Silence.
Stop it. Just stop asking.
The quiet between her questions ushered the memories in. Nights spent lying in bed with that radio sitting on Chad’s old headboard shelf, listening to callers tell “true” stories of the paranormal. A late-night program on some channel.
She tried to remember the station, but couldn’t. Chad was the one who’d known about it. He was always finding stuff for them to listen to, or watch. She, usually leaving him at two or three in the morning, her brain a dizzy rolodex, flipping between horror movie scenes and carnal thoughts, windows down to keep awake until she got home.
Then she pictured the l
ong trip East she took, away from Chad; Rory growing inside her. She couldn’t remember packing the radio in the car, let alone the last thing she said to him. He hadn’t known it was their last time. Rachelle’d never ceased to wonder at his opinion of her after. How long had he taken to forget her?
She shook her head. Something she’d pushed away and hadn’t allowed for a few years now was returning; like a boulder in her belly. A meal that would never digest. She continued squinting against the quiet. She felt a void of sound and a loneliness with terror at the edges. A dread of what would happen if she allowed this feeling to grow. She opened her mouth to ask again about that fucking radio.
And then the static came in.
At first, the sound was like the transition between stations on any normal radio. But then the sound seemed to grow, to radiate. Before long, the sound was colossal, vibrating in her ears. Rachelle narrowed her eyes as if it’d help her understand the sound better. Waited for something to happen that would explain it. It seemed like it was coming from the bathroom. She walked slowly, cautiously, toward the source.
She stood in the mouth of the hallway. Rory sat on the floor at the back of the couch, radio in front of him. His face was contorted. He was covering his ears. He looked pleadingly to Rachelle with teardrop eyes, as if waiting to be told what to do.
“Rory?! Turn it off!” She screamed, covering her own ears as well. The sound was disorienting and she couldn’t gauge whether he could hear her. The static was deafening now that she’d gotten closer.
Still covering one ear, he swiftly reached for the dial and switched it off.
The sudden silence swelled in Rachelle’s ears. Relief washed over her. She smiled at Rory, bewildered. It never made that noise when Chad used it. Rory opened his mouth to speak.
“What—” he began, but then stopped, lips pressed tightly together, eyebrows knotted. He stared at the entry to the kitchen, then quickly back at her.
In that space was a lar
ge, mottled-brown coyote. It looked up at her with calm, amber eyes, as though it belonged there. Like it’d wandered in from the kitchen to investigate the sound.
Dread banged a single silent drumbeat in her skull. The coyote turned its head sideways, observing her with that disturbing stillness. Its eyes roved back and forth in quick, tiny motions, studying her face. Its fur was matted with dirt. A wild animal. Why is it here? How? Her stomach was suspended, frozen. She was still.
It leapt at her face. Bashed her against the wall. They slid together until they hit the ground.
She pushed and pulled with her lungs, and no reaction. Like she was broken. The animal was still on top of her. Heavy, like a furry sack of cement. As solid as it was strong.
“Rory,” she mouthed over and over. Nothing happened. She couldn’t get up. The pressure in her side, in her middle, caused everything in her to cringe inward. It was the only thing she could sense; the only thing she could focus on.
The creature had her pinned against the corner where the wall met the floor in the hall. A black nose in her face; two circles and three slits, just like a dog’s. She had the strangest feeling like the nostrils were eyes that watched her. The animal’s actual eyes were wide, round, and curious. Its eyebrows moved occasionally up and down, as though it were processing something. She felt its paws move off her chest and press down the fronts of her shoulders.
It sniffed twice, and pulled back its lips, slowly. A quiet growl started in its throat. It barked and lunged at her face, its teeth closing down on her cheek.
The pain was dulled and unreachable. Shock behind frosted glass. She pulled her head back too fast and it bashed against the wall. She took half of a labored, gasping breath, and shouted “Run!”
Its eyes flashed in challenge. Drilled the fear still deeper, into her. She couldn’t make any more noise if she wanted to. She heard loud breathing. Was it Rory? Or her? Then Rory started making croaking sounds in protest.
“Please . . . just go,” she stage-whispered to Rory.
Slow scuffling footsteps sounded from the hall. The back door clunked open. Rory was g
one.
“Get off me,” she pleaded. It watched Rory leave, and looked back down at her, considering the sound escaping her mouth.
She shoved the thing with all her strength, moving its body just enough to wriggle herself free. Scrambled backwards into the bathroom.
It followed. Crawling quickly on its haunches, claws ripped the carpet. Lips taut and teeth gnashing.
She kicked the bathroom door closed, but it bounced open again. Moving to her hands and knees, she crawled up and shoved her shoulder against it. The snout pressed its way in, six inches from her face. It was sniffing, searching for her. It caught her scent, then opened its mouth and bared its teeth again. With a horrified gasp, she shoved again. The nose retreated, and the door set abruptly into the jamb with a loud knock.
She pressed her feet hard against the door. Her mouth was dry. Her chest, hammering. She felt and heard a bang so loud, she expected the wood to crack. She slid back on her butt. The door bent inward from the center.
Rachelle gasped at the sight. The door stretched in about a full foot. The swirls of wood moved with the curve of the door. It looked fake, a cheesy effect in a B-movie.
Her feet still against the door, Rachelle reached toward the bathroom cabinet for a weapon, anything pointy or heavy. She tried to push away the knowledge that slamming a door on its face didn’t produce any cry of pain whatsoever and just focus on finding absolutely anything to stab or bludgeon it with.
Nothing was there. Just a teak wood cabinet with a half-used toilet paper roll on the edge of the counter and a toothbrush she definitely wouldn’t be able to reach without letting go of the stretching door. She let out a choked yell of frustration, and immediately panicked that the sound would further incense the creature.
She snapped back around to check the door. Her mind—a thing that’d wound itself to the
precipice of a break—suddenly shredded to ribbons.
A normal door. A quiet house. Like it had never happened at all.
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