Adam's Woods (5 page)

He counted the stairs from memory and matched them with the sounds. He tried to deny them existence, tried to revive his reason which only a moment ago had denounced the man as a myth, explained his fear as a choice and not a reaction. But the shuffle and creak persisted until it stopped just outside his door, and he knew the scent of his own fear would betray him.

The silhouette appeared as he’d seen it a hundred times in his waking nightmare, exactly the same shape and size, and the boy experienced something he’d never expected. He felt relief. Finally, it would end. Finally he could have peace. The man could only kill him once. His body, rigid with pure animal terror, relaxed, and he waited, hoping it wouldn’t hurt too much before he died.

The man peered in at him, his face a void, his body a shadow, a shape of a man only defined by the lack of light, the dark from the deepest cavern kneaded, shaped and then fired in Lucifer’s kiln and sent forth. He could smell the swamp, an odor of decay and scorched meat, feel the smile so perfectly innocent of good, almost childlike in its evil purity.

He closed his eyes and waited. The man shuffled into his bedroom, sniffing for the tang of his terror, then breathed deeply when scented, sighing in approval of its vintage.

The window next to his bed exploded inward, shards of glass catching the moonlight as they spread outward like a new miniature universe. An animal, maybe a large dog, moving fast, landed on the bedroom floor and stood up on hind legs. It’s yellow eyes, reflective not of the moon but some inner light of unknown source and allegiance, turned to the boy. Its massive head dipped in what seemed a nod, and then swung to lock eyes onto the man with the knife, who stood shifting side to side in the dark, appearing unsure whether to attack this creature or flee.

The beast didn’t wait for a decision but launched across the short space and closed with the predator become prey. The man slashed wildly at his attacker. Too late he appeared to understand that killing children in their beds did not qualify him to stand against this monster. The boy watched, amazed at the swift and violent movements nearly devoid of any sound.

The werewolf, he was sure of it now, grabbed the man’s knife hand as it came down for another useless blow and twisted. The arm fell to the floor with a thump, and the boy could sense the man's mouth open for a scream, but the fangs in his throat prevented it from escaping.

A violent shake of the beast's head ended in a sharp snap, and the man went limp. The werewolf easily caught the dead weight and gently lowered the body to the floor. He bowed his head in what seemed a prayer, and as he turned around to face the boy his long snout receded, hair and claws retracted, the size of the skull decreased, until a muscular man with dog tags around his neck smiled at the boy. His hair was cut close to his skull, his chest massive with a long diagonal scar that began at his abdomen and ended at his clavicle, a pair of shorts the only clothing he wore.

He smiled and knelt down next to the boy, who gazed at him in wonder, not considering that he perhaps should be afraid.

“
Edwin Ramses, First Sergeant, United States “Special Dark” Forces,” he said and put out a hand that for a moment appeared as a large paw. The boy felt as though Wolverine had stepped out of the pages of an X-men comic book. He pulled his small clammy hand from underneath the blanket and the man took it in a solemn shake.

“
I’m sorry to come in like that, but I was afraid I wouldn’t make it in time. By the looks of things I made the right choice. You’ll be safe now, kid. But I’ll keep an eye on you anyway, just in case.”

The boy, ignorant of protocol, suddenly sat up and grabbed Ramses in a fierce hug. The man stiffened slightly, then relaxed and put his arms around him. The boy felt the strength there and knew that he would be able to draw from its memory anytime he felt afraid.

Eric grinned as he read the last two pages to himself. He couldn’t resist putting Ramses into the new book just for fun. He needed
something
to lighten his mood. And it didn’t hurt to pretend that Superman could conquer all, or rather his lycanthrope counterpart.

He’d come back to the motel from the lake, and instead of sleeping took his laptop out of the case and began to write. After allowing the memories to run their course and the resultant purging, he felt more determined than ever to finish this tale, to come to grips with the past, to emerge as whatever sort of man he would be in its aftermath.

But the story would need to be grim at least until the end, which as of now he had no idea how it turned out, and he saved the document featuring Sergeant Ramses for himself then deleted it from the draft and began to write again:

He closed his eyes and waited. The man shuffled into his bedroom, sniffing for the tang of his terror, then breathed deeply when scented, sighing in approval of its vintage.

Still there was no sudden sharp pain, no overpowering stench, nothing that signaled the beginning of the end of him. He heard footsteps again, but not towards his bed but away, and confused the boy opened his eyes.

The man paused at the doorway, and he felt the terrible weight of the smile, and then he disappeared in the direction of his parents’ bedroom. The boy tried to scream again, but only managed a croak but found he could move and threw off the blanket and sheet, already running towards the door.

He flung himself into the short hallway and there through the open doorway of his parents’ room he saw the knife rise and fall in a frenzy of murder, saw one hand rise from under the cover in a pathetic defense to fall limp onto sheets spreading with darkness.

The man turned to look at him; whatever direction he faced, no matter where the light source, he could sense but not see any features. But before he could register any definite impressions, the boy slid to the floor in a dead faint.

The man watched him fall, and then turned back to his work, inspecting it for quality. Satisfied, he turned and stepped into the hallway to regard the boy sprawled on the floor. He reached down and gently stroked his cheek, then straightened and made his way past the top of the stairs to the other short hallway where his brother slept.

To finish his work.

Eric saved this version into the draft and shut down the computer. He loved having the laptop that allowed him to write virtually anywhere. He’d never followed a strict routine, but wrote wherever and whenever the mood struck. He and a fellow author had tried it once for kicks in a graveyard at night while writing ghost stories, and maybe he’d channeled a spirit or two onto the page. He doubted it, but it made a great anecdote and speculation when doing speaking engagements.

He stood and picked up his phone, intending to call Harry, but instead paused and then slowly dialed the number he’d seen on the sign outside of his boyhood home. He let it ring four times and planned to hang up after the fifth when a woman answered.

“Collins Realty, this is Mary, can I help you?”

He almost dropped the phone, nearly pushed the end button, but instead brought it back up to his ear.

“Hello? Is anyone there?” Mary asked.

“Yes, I’m sorry. Is this Mary Collins from Lincoln Corners?” His voice sounded strange in his ears. A vision of a small, thin girl with raven black hair and large glasses emerged from his store of memories. This time the pause came from the other end of the phone. When she spoke, the words came with a hint of wariness.

“I used to live there. My office is in Drake City. Who is this?”

Realizing his last chance to back out, he paused one more time, took a deep breath, and said, “It’s Eric Kane, Mary. How are you?”

“Eric...oh my goodness. It’s been so...long.” He knew at that moment she’d thought of Adam, knew there was no way she couldn’t think of Adam and those dark years. He waited for the silence of a dead line and if so, he would not call back and go home to Pittsburgh. But she spoke again, her voice stronger, friendly, and he felt like crying again but in gratitude.

“Eric, how are you? I can’t believe this. I’ve followed your career, read your novels even though I usually don’t do horror. I’ve always wondered how you were, thought of trying to get a hold of you, but I never...I just...”

“It’s okay Mary. I understand. But to be honest, I didn’t just call to talk. I mean not that I don’t want to talk, but I wasn’t aware I was calling you. I was in Lincoln Corners and saw that my old house was for sale, and believe it or not, I might be interested.”

“Wow. I know it’s not my place to say, but...do you think that’s a good idea? Oh, I’m sorry Eric. I haven’t seen you for twenty years and I’m presuming I know what’s best for you. I just don’t know if I could...I mean if it was me...please, say something before I get in any deeper.”

He laughed, and it felt good. Talking to Mary always had. Even as children he could confide in her the things that he could never tell the guys. “I know exactly what you’re saying, Mary, so no problem. And no, I don’t know if it’s a good idea, but even so I’d like to see the house.”

“Well, sure. Let me see...” He heard the shuffling of papers and then a pause. “How about tomorrow morning at ten? And if you like, we could go to lunch back here in Drake City afterwards. It’d be great to catch up.”

“Yes, that would be fine. One nice thing about being an author, I can set my own hours, so if that’s not the best time for you we can do it whenever.” He hoped it wasn’t a bad time, though. He really wanted to see the house now that he’d crossed the line with the phone call, and he really wanted to see and talk to Mary. He tried to imagine what she might look like now, but the large glasses and skinny legs kept getting in the way.

“No, that’s fine. It’s been kind of slow lately, and anyway it’s not often that I get such a blast from the past...”

A fade in her voice. Adam again, he thought.

“But...okay!” she said, too brightly, “Ten it is. How about we meet there and I’ll give you the tour. Or maybe it's the other way around.”

“Sounds great. I’m really looking forward to seeing you again.”

“Me too, Eric. Tomorrow then.”

He said goodbye and hung up, and caught his reflection in the mirror above the sink outside the bathroom. He was smiling, an expression he hadn’t found on his own face very often for some time. It was like meeting another familiar stranger from somewhere in his past. Eric went to the front desk to pay for one more night, then back in his room dialed up Harry before he called up the National Guard to look for him.

Eric pulled into the driveway of the house the next morning behind a late model pick-up truck with big magnets stuck to the doors advertising Collins Realty. He got out and looked around, at the Rices’ old house on the left, and the Carolls’ on the right. They both looked pretty much the same as he remembered, and the effect was eerie, that he’d not only come back to Lincoln Corners but had also gone back in time as well. Didn’t anything around here ever change, he wondered?

A woman came out of the house and through the porch, the storm windows installed over the screens, and walked down the front steps.

Oh yes. Some things did change.

The thin girl had morphed into a lovely woman. Not a knockout, but certainly not the girl that didn’t get asked to dance. Her straight black hair flowed to the middle of her back unimpeded, and she still wore glasses but ones that fit her face and heightened the intelligence in her eyes. She was a little on the plus side, a far cry from the stick figure girl of memory, but she carried it well, even in the simple jeans and t-shirt she wore. Very well, he thought. She was almost as tall as him, but in possession of a lot more curves. Eric realized he was checking her out, and he cleared his throat in embarrassment. He thought he detected the flicker of a smile in response, but it was drowned by her grin on approach. Any other time and place, he might have been smitten.

“Hello, Mary,” he said, not sure if they should shake hands or slap a high five like when they were kids.

“Eric, so good to see you,” she answered, and hugged him without hesitation. He tried not to feel the softness, tried to disregard how good her perfume smelled, but failed miserably and wondered how much longer he could keep his vow of celibacy. It wasn’t as if he had a good reason for it.

“It’s ready for inspection. That is if you are.”