Sandman

by William W. Johnstone

Genres: Horror; Supernatural suspense; Suspense

Synopsis

KIDS DO THE DARNDEST THINGS . . . Paul Kelly had a very big temper for such a small boy. When he tired of his toys he smashed them. When a dog or cat got in his way, he kicked them. And when other children told on him, he made sure they were very, very sorry . . . CHILD’S PLAY . . . But that was nothing compared to what Paul discovered next. Which was that if he didn’t like certain people, he could make it so he’d never have to see them again. Ever. And no one would suspect such a little boy of such a horrible deed. Of such monstrous powers. No one would ever guess that killing could be much more fun than playing with dump trucks and sandboxes. Especially the way Paul did it . . .

Release date: November 22, 2016

Publisher: Lyrical Press

Print pages: 337

Sample

“I hate you!” the boy hissed at his parents. His eyes shone with a strange, almost unnatural light, and through his hate and anger, he smiled, baring teeth, a cruel curving. His teeth were very white. “I hate you more than anything in this whole world. I wish you were all dead and rotting in the grave!”

He ran out of the cottage and onto the sun-caressed and sea-kissed beach before his father could catch him and give him a whipping.

“And I hate you, too, Janis!” he called over his shoulder. “I especially hate you. You damn bitch!”

“Paul!” his father shouted. “You get back in here, and I mean right now!” Mark looked over at the cottage where the newlyweds were staying. But they were nowhere in sight.

He marveled at their stamina.

“Dead! Dead! Dead!” the boy shouted over the soft whispering of the waves on the sand. “That’s what I wish you all were—dead!”

“Little twerp!” Janis muttered, giving the running form of her younger brother a dark look.

“That will be quite enough of that, young lady,” her mother told her, although sometimes, like today, she silently agreed with her firstborn’s assessment of Paul.

She left Janis sitting and muttering darkly, and went outside to sit on the steps beside her husband.

Yuppies, it would seem at first glance. They were in their mid-thirties, very attractive people, trim and fit, each with a career that brought in six figures a year, and they lived very comfortably. Affluent would fit them nicely.

With two lovely children.

Well . . . one lovely child. Janis.

Janis was a sweet girl. Ten years old and blond and already showing signs of blossoming into a beautiful woman.

And there was eight-year-old Paul. A rotten little brat!

He was highly intelligent and cruel as a rattlesnake, nice-looking and a sneak. Paul could have the manners of a prince and then turn around and spew verbal venom as deadly as any cobra’s.

Mark shook his head. “I just don’t know what else to do, Connie.” She could see the tears in his eyes. “I thought this vacation would bring us all closer. Iron out . . . whatever has been troubling Paul. Looks like I blew it again. I just can’t get through to the boy.” He wiped his eyes with a handkerchief and then blew his nose. “We’ve got a problem kid, my dear.”

“I know. And if we’re to blame, I’ll take my share of it.”

He cut his eyes to her. Serious and questioning eyes. “What blame, Connie? What have we done? Believe me, I’ve searched my soul trying to come up with something we did wrong.”

She opened her mouth to interrupt. He waved her silent.

“No, let me finish. I’ve got to get this off my chest. You know me, Connie—Checklist Charlie. That’s me. Before we left, I sat down and made a ledger—things that we have and haven’t done with and for our kids. Connie, we’re not perfect parents—I’ve never met the perfect parent—but we’ve tried. We try to maintain a Christian home without being strait-laced about it. We’ve never been drunk in front of the kids. Never. And we’ve geared our work around our kids. We spend more time with Janis and Paul than any other parents I can name. We always do things as a family unit. I’ve watched other couples our age, our friends. They don’t spend nearly as much time with their kids. Is that it? Have we spent too much time with ours? I don’t think so. But our work and our lives are geared around them. We include them in nearly everything we do. I’m at my wits end, Connie. I don’t know where to turn for help. I don’t know what to do. And I don’t like what I’ve been thinking lately. It scares me.”

She wasn’t at all sure she wanted to hear it. But then some of her own thoughts about Paul had not been filled with motherly love. “What have you been thinking, Mark?”

He sighed. He’d been doing a lot of that lately. “Connie, do you, well, believe in the bad-seed theory? That some people are just born bad?”

“Do you?”

They both looked around. Janis had left the main room of the cottage and gone to her bedroom. The door was closed, music filtering out to them.

“Go on, Mark,” Connie urged. “Say it.”

He met her eyes. “The boy is bad. He’s vicious, and we both know it. He’s been that way since he was old enough to comprehend. And you know he did that at a very early age. Too early. We can’t have a pet. They all disappear. You know why as well as I do. Paul kills them.”

She went on the defensive. “We don’t know that for a fact, Mark!”

“Come on.” There was a weary note in his voice. “Who killed the lovebirds—tore their heads off? Who set the canary on fire? And thought it was funny? That little—” He bit back the profanity he would have directed at his own son. “We’ve had three dogs since Paul was four years old. They all disappeared. I found the bloodstains, remember? Disappeared out of a chain-link fenced back yard. And Paul doesn’t have any friends. None. The kids hate him because he’s a bully. Smart as a whip and mean as an aroused grizzly. And I might as well get it all off my chest: I just don’t trust him.”

Connie sat for a time in silence, even under these strained conditions enjoying their closeness. “He steals, too,” she finally said.

“Yeah. I know it. I’ve watched him sneak into our bedroom and go through my wallet. And your purse. I’ve whipped him for it. But I can’t whip him anymore. I just can’t.”

“He peeks in on his sister while she’s undressing.”

“I didn’t know that!” He expelled breath. “Connie, we both come from families who used the belt and the switch. Not often, but when we needed a spanking, we got a good one. Just the same, I don’t want to whip the boy anymore. Not now. It would be out of anger and not out of caring. I’m afraid if I did whip him, I’d lose what little control I have left, and I’d hurt him.”

“I’ve marveled at your restraint the past couple of days, honey.”

“Thank you.”

“What are we going to do, Mark?”

“I don’t know. Take him to see a doctor when we get back, I guess. But I do know one thing.”

She waited, dreading to hear what she had felt in her heart for a long time.

“It just can’t go on like this.”

Again, she waited.

“He’s sick, Connie. Paul is mentally ill.”

“Hey, little mon!” The tall man with the pretty honey-colored lady caught Paul, swung him around, and deposited him gently on his feet, in the sand. “What you all upsot about?”

The boy jerked free and faced them, no fear in him. His eyes blazed with a wild light. “Getoutof my way or I’ll kill you!”

The man and woman laughed, but it was a strange-sounding laugh. Hollow and deep. The woman said, “Oh, will you now? Non, I don’ tink so. I tink you need someones to talk to. Am I rat?”

The man wore no shirt or shoes. Only a pair of very clean and very white trousers. The woman was slender and pretty, dressed in very bright colors, a multicolored bandana around her head. She wore a heavy necklace of strange-looking amulets.

And Paul knew they were amulets.

He stared at the pair. “I haven’t seen either of you around this place before. Where did you come from? And I’ll tell you right now: I don’t like you!”

The man laughed and laughed. He bent over and slapped his leg. “Ma mon, you too little to be speakin’ to me lak dat. I’m a big black mons. You just a little white boy. Ain’t you ’fraid of me?”

“Hell, no!”

Again, they laughed. Exchanged odd looks. Odd to Paul.

“How come you was in such a hurry, ma little mon?” the tall man asked.

Paul stepped back and studied the man and woman. He had not seen them as he ran. And that was odd. They seemed to have materialized out of the sand. That was even more odd. Paul had prowled the area around the cottage, at night and during the day, for at least a mile in every direction, except out to sea. But he had never seen these people before. He knew the cottages along this stretch of beach were very expensive, but he sensed the pair were not tourists.

“I’m running away,” he finally admitted.

“Ma little mon, you can’t run nowheres far. You on an island.”

“I know that. But I can run for a while. Before I have to go back.”

“Dat’s de truth. And if you don’t go back?”

“The police will come after me.”

“How come you running so hard away from your parents, mon?”

“I never said it was from my parents.”

“Dat’s true. But I speak de truth, too, don’ I, little mon?” His eyes never left Paul’s face.

And both his eyes and the woman’s eyes blazed with the same wild light found in Paul’s eyes.

And Paul knew it.

“Yeah. OK. You’re right.”

“You won’ sit down and talk to me and ma woman?”

“Why should I?”

The man shrugged. “Why not? You ain’ got no ones else to talk to, rat?”

Paul plopped down onto the warm sand. But it felt different to him. Softer, more pliable. And . . . He struggled for the word.

Friendly.

The woman sat on his left side, the man to his right. “Your poppa done give you a lickin’, huh?” the woman asked.

“Not yet. But he will.”

“You been bad boy this day?”

Paul noticed the man was picking up handfuls of sand and allowing the grains to slowly trickle through his strong fingers.

“They say I have.”

“But you don’ tink so yourself, hah?” she asked.

“I am what I am,” Paul said. “I cannot help being that.”

“Dat’s truth, too,” the man said. He ruffled Paul’s blond hair. “What you won’ from us, little boy?”

Paul slapped the man’s hand away, and cut his mean eyes from him. “I haven’t asked you for a damn thing!”

The man laughed. “Hoo, but you did ax. Dat’s why we come.”

“Come from . . . where?”

The woman waved her hand around and around. The wooden amulets jangled with her movements. Paul could see she wore no bra under her dress. Her breasts moved, too. “From out dere, little mon.”

Paul grunted.

“You ain’t got no friends nowhere, has you, boy?” the man asked.

“I don’t need friends. Nor do I want them. I hate people.”

“You don’t won’ friends unless you can control them. Ain’ dat rat, boy?”

“Maybe.” Paul wondered how the man knew that. But not really. He thought he knew why, thought he’d known all along.

“Other peoples make fun of your birt’mark, don’ dey, hey, boy?”

Paul sat very still. Now he knew. “I won’t ask how you know about my birthmark.”

“I tink you already knows,” the woman said.

And Paul did.

It came to him in a wild rush. And his smile became a savage thing, ugly to look at.

But to the man and woman, it was beautiful.

“We was once lak you.” The woman’s voice was low-pitched, yet hollow sounding like the man’s. “Long time back. We comes back now and den. When ones wit’ us calls. Lak you done called las’ night.”

Paul thought about that. He had slipped out of the cottage last night, as he had done every night since his arrival on the island, and walked the deserted beach, by himself. No fear in him. And as the sea breeze whispered around the boy, the waves licking at his feet like a warm blood-salty tongue, he had thought the darkest of thoughts. Evil.

And he knew he had come home.

At last.

“You see now, don’ you, boy?” The man spoke, his eyes on the shore. “’Pose we could hep you, little mon. What would you do wit’ de power you axed for las’ night?”

“Did I ask you for anything?” Paul lied. He had, but he wanted to be sure of the man and woman. His father might have sent them, to trick him.

Paul sensed he was very close now, and he knew he must be very careful.

“Yeah, you axed.”

“Yes. I did, didn’t I?”

The man and woman waited.

“You’ve been in my dreams, both of you. You’re the ones who told me to urge my father to bring us here.”

“Rat.”

“Am I special?”

“You special. Me and Nicole been waitin’ a long time for you to come.”

“You’re Mantine.” Not a question.

“Rat.”

“You’re dead.”

“Rat. But I comes back whenever I wants. Me and de woman. You got to tell us, boy. What you won’?”

“I would have my way,” Paul said savagely.

The woman began to chant very softly. Paul could not understand the words.

Mantine began to strike the sand with the palm of his hand.

“I would recruit others to follow.”

Nicole continued to chant.

Mantine struck the sand with his hand.

“I would serve, like I served hundreds of years ago. ”

The chanting became a dark voice. The sand-striking a drumbeat.

“I would destroy!” Paul damned himself as he had done in centuries past.

The chanting stopped. Mantine began to mold a pile of sand. He spat into it, moistening it. Then the woman leaned over and spat into the sand. Paul could see her bare breasts moving as the dress parted.

Paul spat into the sand.

He watched as tiny figures were formed in the sand.

“You got friends now, Paul,” Mantine told him. “Dey do what you tell dem to do.”

“How many friends?”

“How many grains of sand does you see?”

“Thousands.”

“Den dat’s what you got. Touch de sand, Paul.”

Paul touched the damp sand. It was very hot to his fingers, almost unbearable. He grimaced against the pain.

Under his small hand, the grains began to move and glow. The glow became intensely painful, but Paul would not remove his hand. Then voices began to speak out of the glow. Screaming was heard. Profanity. The sounds of sexual assault, of depravity, torture, and more debasement than one could endure and still remain sane. It was horrible.

Paul loved it.

He was touching home. Touching the dark soul of his real father.

Mantine said, “You leave de islands in a short time, boy. But me and Nicole be rat behind you. De t’ree of us is togedder at las’.”

“It’s been so long, brother and sister.”

“Yeah. But now dere ain’t nothin’ kin pull us apart no more.”

Paul looked at Nicole’s breasts. Felt an ancient stirring within him, and knew he had never been a boy. Not really. Only inside a child’s shape and form.

“Dey’s a bucket back yonder.” Mantine jerked his head. “You fetch it, Paul.”

Paul scrambled for the bucket. How he knew where it was did not enter his mind. He suddenly knew lots of things. Slobber leaked from his mouth as hot memories flooded over him. He was not worried about destroying the shapes Mantine had molded from the sand. He knew he could call them back whenever he wished.

And he would.

Soon.

Like . . . that night.

Paul laughed, a strange and evil, deep and hollow laugh. His blood ran hot within him.

It was good to be back home.

When he returned to the man and woman, they were both walking around and around the pile of sand figures.

Paul began to fill the bucket with the searing hot sand.

He found a small piece of shell, and made a tiny cut in his arm, letting the blood trickle onto the sand.

Nicole started to hum and chant and dance.

Mantine sang: “Dance a little step. Mak’ a little sound. Turn de eart’ into a partner, and de sand into a mon.”

Paul stood up and then whirled around and around, the mark on his arm burning and throbbing. Around and around, faster and faster, he whirled.

Mantine and Nicole began to fade.

Paul stopped.

Looked around him.

He was alone.

Sort of.

The bucket of sand was at his feet.

Paul knelt down. Dug his fingers into the searingly hot sand. Words poured from his mouth, words spoken in a language that had been dead and forgotten for thousands of years.

The words were filth. The man-boy cursed God. Spoke of unspeakable things he would do to his sister, his mother, his father.

The blue sky darkened; the wind picked up. And the waves were no longer gentle; they crashed angrily against the shore.

Paul stood up, clenched his hands into fists, and shook them at the sky. He screamed, a high-pitched dark-tinged cry of defiance.

Then he brought his fists down to his sides. The sky was blue once more. The waves gentled.

The boy looked around him. All appeared normal. He had not been observed.

He picked up the bucket of sand and walked back up the beach. When the cottage came into view, Paul changed direction, and came up behind it. His mother and father were on the porch. He looked into Janis’s room. She was lying on the bed, listening to the radio. She wore only panties.

Paul licked his lips.

Silently, he slipped into his room and carefully filled up several socks with the sand. He packed them at the bottom of his suitcase. Then he filled a bottle with sand, packing it carefully so it would not break. He scraped the bucket free of every last grain of sand. He had a thumb-size pile left on a piece of paper.

He thought of the newlyweds next door, and laughed. He had slipped over to their cottage at night and listened to them make love. He’d do that again this night. With some friends.

Smiling, he walked into the kitchen and began to make a sandwich.

He heard his sister say, “He came back.”

There was a definite note of disappointment in her voice.

You’ll get yours soon, Paul thought.

He continued preparing his sandwich.

“Paul!” Mark called. “Come out to the porch, please, son.”

Janis came into the kitchen, to stand and stare at him.

“What do you want, bitch?”

What’s the matter with his voice? she thought. It sounds . . . weird. “Daddy is calling you, Paul.”

“I’m not deaf. Just hungry.”

Janis turned to leave. But she stopped and looked at her brother.

Paul stared at her through eyes that shone with centuries of evil and hate and savagery . . . although Janis could not know that.

Yet.

She dropped her gaze and walked from the kitchen. Paul made her nervous. She didn’t trust him, and never had. She knew something was wrong with her brother, but she didn’t know what. He had never been a little boy. Never. He had always seemed so old.

And he was a sneak and a thief. There was one thing Janis and her friends agreed on: Paul Kelly was a turd, a nerd. And they were afraid of Paul.

She walked out to her parents on the porch. “He’s fixing a sandwich.”

“How does he look?” Connie asked.

“Like he always does.” Hateful, mean, weird, she silently added.

Mark picked up Janis’s thoughts by watching her face. “He is your brother.”

The girl looked at her father. “He is?”

“Now, Janis, don’t be silly!” Connie spoke sharply. “Of course, he’s your brother.”

“Then how come he has that stupid-looking mark on his arm and I don’t?” She knew why; she just liked, in her own way, to agitate.

“It’s only a birthmark, honey,” Mark told her. “We’ve been through all this before.”

“Yes, but you never told me how he got it.” They didn’t know she had overheard them talking about it one time, about how Paul always refused to let anyone, even his parents, look at the mark. Really pitched a big fit about it.

“It’s just a skin blemish, honey. No one knows how they happen; they just do.”

They all heard the shower running.

“When your brother finishes his bath, Janis,” Mark told her, “your mother and I wish to see him. Please tell him that.”

“I will not go into his room until he is out of the shower and fully dressed.” Janis stood her ground.

“Why, honey?” her mother asked.

“Because he’s a nasty little creep, that’s why!”

Connie knew what her daughter was talking about, and with her eyes, she cautioned Mark not to pursue it.

He complied, with a sigh.

They all heard the shower stop. The cottage by the sea pulsed with silence.

“Go knock on his door and ask him if he is fully dressed,” Mark said.

Janis shook her head. “That won’t do any good, Daddy.” She met his eyes. “He’d just lie about it, and hope I’d come in and see him naked.”

Her father stared at her. “Let’s just try him and see, baby. ”

They walked through the house. At Paul’s door, Mark nodded at Janis, motioning for her to knock and ask.

“Paul, are you dressed?” Janis called. “Can I come in?”

“Sure, sister! Come right in.”

Mark flung open the door.

Paul was standing naked in the center of the room, holding his penis in his hand. His face paled when he realized he’d been tricked.

“Get out of here, Janis,” Mark told her. To Paul, he snapped, “Put some clothes on, boy!”

Paul slipped into shorts.

“What is the meaning of this intrusion?” he asked.

Mark stared at him, aware that his son’s voice had changed. It was much deeper, kind of hollow sounding. And the birthmark on his arm seemed to be bigger.

Would it grow as the boy grew?

Mark didn’t know. It didn’t seem likely.

He shook his head. “Paul, I would like an apology from you. For the things you said this morning.”

Paul laughed. “That’ll be the day! ”He had started to say When Hell freezes over, but that would have been too disrespectful.

Blind fury seized his father. He jerked off his leather belt and advanced toward the boy. But Paul stood in the center of the floor, not one bit afraid. “You arrogant brat! I’ll beat your butt until—”

“Mark!” Connie shouted from the doorway. “You said you wouldn’t!”

Mark yelled his reply, his voice shaking with anger. “Stay out of this, Connie. He’s not going to talk to me like that.”

Mark swung the belt, the leather popping against Paul’s backside.

Paul reached out on the second swing. With a savage cry and amazing strength, he tore the belt from his father’s hand. The buckle ripped the flesh of Mark’s palm as he jerked it free.

“Oh, my God, Mark!” Connie cried, as blood dripped from his hand.

“If you ever try to hit me again, I’ll kill you!” Paul hissed.

Connie drew back, disturbed by the strange voice coming from the boy.

But Mark stepped forward and backhanded Paul with his good hand. Paul’s feet flew out from under him and he landed on the bed, one side of his face swelling and reddening from the blow.

As he lay on the bed, he screamed filth at his father.

The fury suddenly left Mark. He looked at Connie. Opened his hand. His palm was badly ripped, blood leaking out with each heartbeat.

Paul continued to scream, gutter-profanity rolling from him in waves.

Mark ignored him. “It’s going to need stitches, honey. Come on. Drive me to that clinic up the road.” He looked at Paul and roared: “Shut up!”

The filth stopped abruptly.

Mark wrapped a handkerchief around his hand. “You and Janis will stay here, Paul. In the house. If I find you’ve left, I guarantee you a world of hurt. And that is a promise, boy.”

Paul spat at him.

“But the ocean . . . !” Connie protested.

“I have no intention of entering that filth-ridden sea of sharks and tourists,” Paul declared haughtily. “I shall stay in the house and pray that you bleed to death before you reach the clinic.”

Mark looked at Connie and grinned. “Are you sure you picked up the right baby at the hospital?”

“Mark!” She looked at Janis. “Stay with your brother. I’ll tell that young couple next door to keep an eye out for you.”

Despite the throbbing in his hand, Mark joked, “From their bedroom, honey? They’re on their honeymoon, gal!”

“Oh, Mark—come on!”

“Your attempts at humor are pathetic,” Paul told his father.

Mark sighed and tried to ignore the boy.

“Do I have to stay alone with creepo?” Janis asked.

“Yes,” Mark told her, “you do. If he tries anything cute, pick up a lamp and bop him on the head with it. Maybe that will bring him to his senses.”

“I hope you’re joking.” Connie looked at her husband.

“I assure you, I am not.”

“Don’t worry, Daddy-bear,” Paul’s words were infuriatingly mocking. “I shall stay in my room like a good little boy.”

“That would be a welcome relief.” Mark walked out of the room.

“Get a cloth and clean up the mess, Janis,” Connie said.

“I’ll clean it up myself!” Paul told her. “I would rather not have to look at her ugly face.” He glared at his sister.

“Whatever,” their mother said wearily.

She left the room and walked to the car, catching up with Mark.

“God! What’s happened to his voice?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he’s caught a cold. But when we get back to the mainland, Paul is going to see a shrink.”

“I think it’s time.”

Paul hissed at his sister, like a snake. “Get out of my room, you pig!”

“With pleasure, creep! You’re lucky Daddy didn’t stomp you.”

Paul merely smiled at her and rubbed his crotch.

“God, Paul, you’re sick!”

She slammed the door hard.

Turn de eart’ into a partner and de sand into a mon; the words returned to Paul.

Smiling, humming the chant Nicole had hummed, he poured some sand onto the bloody floor.

As the boy began swaying back and forth, the birthmark on his arm glowed and throbbed, almost painfully. But Paul didn’t notice.

The sand came together in a sticky glob, then coiled like a nest of snakes. The coiling ceased as figures appeared on the floor. Stretching their stubby arms and legs and soaking up the blood, they rolled in the gore, blindly seeking out every drop of blood.

“My friends,” Paul whispered, “go. Become as one and seek them out. Then return to me.”

Paul opened the window and the sand figures, like snakes, slithered from the bedroom and slipped onto the sand by the house.

On the way to the kitchen for the cleaning supplies, Paul ran into Janis in the hall. He wondered how long she’d been there, and if she had been spying on him.

“Get out of my way,” he snarled at her.

“God, Paul, you are such an ass! You’re so smart, but you’re so icky!”

“Shove it, sister.”

Her face crimson with anger, Janis ran outside, to the porch.

Paul’s eyes followed her. “You’ll die, bitch,” he whispered. “After I’ve had some fun with you.”

The birthmark on his arm throbbed.

Paul had always known what the birthmark looked like; but he had to look real close to see it. The lines were fine, as if they’d been painted by a master.

They had, of course.

The circle was almost perfect. Inside the circle, there was a five-pointed star. Behind that, almost hidden, was an upside-down cross. Paul hadn’t been real sure what it all meant.

Until today.

He smiled.

Because of the birthmark, Paul almost never, even inside the house, wore tank tops or sleeveless T-shirts. And he never swam.

He had been taunted by others all his life because of the strange-looking birthmark. His gym teacher, high on the list of people Paul hated, made him undress in the locker room and expose the mark so people could laugh at him. But he’d soon get his.

Paul had a long list. But he was careful not to write it down. He kept it in his mind, feeding on his hate.

And the hate-fires never burned very low.

On the porch, Janis waved at the young couple in the next cottage. T. . .