Underneath: Short Tales of Horror and the Supernatural
By Dan DeWitt
Copyright 2011 Dan DeWitt
Smashwords Edition
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
How Many Years of Bad Luck Am I Up To, Anyway?
The contemporary definition of the short story is a work of prose fiction 20,000 words or less.
20,000 words. That's approximately eighty pages.
I suppose that, technically, that would be a short story, but it's not exactly coffee break material.
I love to read, but I've always hated getting started on a short story that turns out to be novella length. One of my favorite authors pulled that on me in a short story collection: the first half was a bunch of great short stories, the second half a pretty uninteresting novella that I still have never gotten through. For people who like to read on their work breaks, for example, it can be frustrating to have to spread a short story over several 15-minute chunks. Granted, that's kind of a First World problem, but still.
I wrote the stories in "Underneath" with that in mind.
The longest of the tales in this book weighs in at a shade under 4,000 words (approximately sixteen pages). The shortest, just under 1,500 (six).
Unless, of course, you count the approximately 17,000 words' worth of Orpheus preview, but I don't think you'll mind. I made it a point to give you a large sample of the players, the situation, and the action before cutting it off at a natural stopping point.
Lastly, for you other aspiring writers out there, I slipped a contest into the last story. Read its brief afterword for details.
All of that being said, let me show you what's underneath.
Dan DeWitt
20June2011
This is the only story that I have no idea where it came from. For every other story in this collection I can pinpoint a conversation, or an image, or something that made it want to be written. Not this one. I sat down to write some more of a novel-in-progress, but this is what came out. I really hope this guy finds what he's looking for.
* * *
He saw a silhouette a hundred feet away. The moon shone brightly enough for him to navigate along the quiet country road, but it was behind the sign and didn't illuminate the writing. He reached into the pouch at his hip and pulled out the flashlight without breaking stride. He put the beam on the sign as he walked and the reflective metal surface revealed, "Welcome to Haber! You'll Never Want to Leave!" Haber, he thought. That's one of those Scandinavian languages. It's ringing a bell, for some reason.
He checked his watch. The hands on the numberless face told him that it was 9:42. Sometimes, he felt like the last guy in the world who wore an honest-to-goodness traditional wristwatch. Growing up, it seemed that everyone, men and women, wore one everyday. Then came the Godawful digital ones, and then cell phones after that. But he'd held out. It never needed batteries or recharging, it kept perfect time, told him the date, he could even tell the direction by it if the sun was out (a trick that he'd learned from a long-lost friend). The only thing it really lacked was a month indicator, and he had overcome that with a simple piece of tape. Twelve months, twelve hashes on the watch face...it was a low-tech solution, but it worked like a charm.
The date readout said "31." The tape was on the twelve o'clock hash. December. He hadn't realized it because his travel days really left him unconcerned with nothing but eating, sleeping, and putting one foot in front of the other, but it was New Year's Eve! That was a time for forgetting the past and remaking your future! He smiled. He hadn't done that in days; he'd been so disappointed by striking out in the previous town that he'd just set his feet to the pavement and started moving. Now, something as simple as a cheerful greeting and slogan had brought him back to where he always wanted to be. He believed the sign with all his heart.
His pace quickened until the road dropped away in a steep incline beneath his feet. Haber proper, it seemed, lay nestled in a valley, bathed in the soft glow of the moon, which only added to the air of small-town perfection that he felt. Granted, he'd felt that in the previous town, and the town before that, but this time was different. This time, Haber would be the town where he would find the one person who would make his journey of the last few years, the miles on his feet, the dozens of pairs of shoes, the lonely days and nights, worth it. The one person who would make him whole again.
He checked his watch again: 9:56. He'd been so enamored with Haber that fourteen minutes had passed unnoticed. That was another good sign.
That person was down there somewhere, he knew it.
He knew it.
He didn't want to ruin everything by crashing the party early. He wanted to let Haber enjoy ringing out the old before inviting himself into their beautiful little community. A quick look around him revealed a row of wrought iron park benches looking over the town. More luck: this was an observation point, a place to get away from it all for a moment and just immerse yourself in what he assumed were magnificent sunsets over the town.
He moved to the closest one and removed his pack from his back. He'd barely bent over at the waist to sit when he heard a loud noise behind him and felt pressure on his hip. He yelped and jumped forward, then realized what it had been, and laughed at himself. It had been so long since he'd used it that he'd forgotten all about the rifle. He unslung it and leaned it up against the bench. The sidearm, he knew from experience, wouldn't get in the way, so he sat down and stretched out. He reached into his bag and grabbed a candy bar without looking. It was a Milky Way. There were a lot of Milky Ways in there. He occasionally washed it down with a sip of water from his insulated bottle. The crisp winter weather kept it refreshingly cold. He'd find a coffee down there later on, though. A good cup o' Joe was hard to find on the rarely-traveled country roads that he preferred to travel on. The highways just seemed so...impersonal...to him.
At this distance, the town was silent, but the silence wasn't absolute. The forest around him was alive with the sounds of its inhabitants going about business as usual, unconcerned with his presence. In his previous life, these kinds of moments, the moments where he blended in and nature forgot all about him, were rare. Now, since his rebirth as a wanderer who only tried to leave it as he had found it, they were par for the course, though no less peaceful or welcome. Their mating calls and fluttering wings drowned out any stray sounds that may have been coming from the town. Their celebrations must be muted here; it struck him as a reserved family town, and he envisioned a lot of small home celebrations as opposed to large bashes. He certainly could appreciate that.
He finished his candy bar, capped his water, and felt his eyelids getting heavy. He figured he could afford a nap. He put his pack on the bench and lay his head on it. He pulled the rifle across his chest and was asleep in minutes.
He awoke to the howling of a coyote. According to his watch, which had never failed him, he'd been asleep for just over four hours.
It was time to meet Haber.
His laces felt loose, so he bent over to retie them. As he did, an object on a chain fell loose through his open collar. He absentmindedly held the diamond ring in his hand, confused.
Where did I...?
Then he remembered. He'd known a guy once, a good friend of his, Dave, whose wife had died suddenly. In fact, she'd gone from sick to dead in a few short hours, and she had been in agony until the last. By the time Dave was determined to end her suffering for her, she was dead on the couch. In her death spasms, she had thrown her left arm out, where it came to its final resting place on the coffee table, right next to the open bottle of champagne and two crystal glasses. They'd been celebrating something, though he couldn't remember what.
He'd offered his condolences, but her death had broken Dave. He kept talking about going to find his wife, in complete denial that she was gone. He'd tried to reason with him, but Dave, determined to "find" her, had simply...gone. He really couldn't blame him; though he himself had never been married, he understood that the two of them had been deeply in love and he wasn't surprised at his friend's reaction. He wasn't sure that he wouldn't have done the same thing in his place.
Left alone with her body, he didn't know what to do. He wanted to give her a proper burial, but the December ground had been far too hard. So he'd carried her upstairs to the bedroom she and her husband had shared, arranged her in a peaceful pose, and said the best prayer he could think of.
He began to pull a sheet over her, but his eyes were drawn to her ring finger and the beautiful diamond on her hand. Fearful that someone would steal it, he slid it gently off of her hand and attached it to a simple chain he found in her dresser. He slipped it around his neck, kissed her forehead, and covered her. If he ever found Dave, he'd gladly return the ring, but it didn't feel right to just leave such a special thing unprotected.
Hope. Her name had been Hope. That's why the town sounded familiar; "Haber" was Danish for "Hope."
Why do I know that?
After taking a moment to appreciate the coincidence, he finished tying his boots, put the rest of his gear back on, and began walking toward the town.
When he got closer to town, he took off his pack again and stuck his hand in. He'd proven to himself a long time ago that the sickness did not and probably would not ever affect him, but the smell in these towns was often overpowering, even in the cold weather.
He rummaged through his pack for the mask. He pulled it out along with a Ziploc bag that had been with him since the beginning of his journey. He flipped through the contents. The tourist pamphlets showcased names like Hope Ridge, New Hope, Hope Falls, and Espoir, among others. Memories flooded his mind, all of them pretty much the same. Each place had a promising start but, eventually, he'd left each one without finding that person.
Those had all been merely way stations, though. Just places to rest and restock. Haber had always been his true destination. He knew that now.
He put the pamphlets back in the bag. He would throw them out as soon as he met the person he was looking for. That minute. That second. Because once he was with that person, he wouldn't need the memories of failure to drive him anymore. He would have found that love that had eluded him for his entire life. A love like Dave once had.
He tried to adjust the straps of the mask for a snug fit, but his fingers were clumsy inside of the thick gloves. He pulled them off and had much more success. He took a few test breaths, was satisfied, and started to put his left glove on, but was stopped by a glint of metal on his hand.
A wedding ring.
Where did I...?
Then he remembered. He'd known a guy once, a good friend of his...
This is the first of three zombie tales in the book. I love zombies; that's really all you need to know.
* * *
People who watched Donnie and me together as little kids often commented to my parents that we were closer than brothers. When I got old enough to hear those stories related to me, I understood that they were right. I have...had...a relative who fit the biological definition of a brother, but Donnie and I were much closer than that. We had a motto between us. More like a vow, really. I know that's something that kids just do, and then forget about as life takes hold, but we meant it.
"Beyond the end." We'd always be there for each other, no matter what. The end of school, a relationship, even death itself, we truly believed with the innocence of children...none of those things would keep us apart.
And we held to that vow. Even as those walking nightmares turned our town into a slaughterhouse and ate (or worse, turned) everyone we loved, we held to that vow. I was there with Donnie, holding his hand, telling him that we wouldn't be apart long, as the blood, too much blood, pooled beneath both of us on the frigid tile floor of the restaurant kitchen. I was there to help him along to the next step, whatever that might be, and I closed his pale blue eyes after he was gone.
And I was there when those eyes popped back open and he lunged for my throat. To my credit, I didn't run right away. I tried to help him. Then I tried to kill him, because I knew that he wouldn't want to be like that. I just didn't have anything to kill him with, and he wasn't giving me the time to look.
So I ran, coatless but fortunately wearing good boots, into the freak October blizzard, with Donnie on my heels.
There was almost no hope. I knew it then, I know it now. But instinct compelled me to try. No weapon to kill him with meant none for me, either. The best-case scenario was that I would freeze to death before Donnie could get to me.
I could live with that. That thought was okay with me. Even though Donnie was gone...far, far gone...I just couldn't let the thing that wore his face feast on his best friend. That's an insult that I refused to allow.
The first few minutes weren't too bad. I moved through the snow pretty well, putting some distance between me and him. Mind you, I was still aware that, though I was running from him, I was also running towards the same abominations that had taken the neighboring town. Again, it didn't matter. As the saying goes, I was headed nowhere, but making great time.
Then the cold hit me.
Hard.
And, because God or Mother Nature or whatever thinks he/she/it is hilarious, the snow intensified to the point where I could only see a few inches in front of my face. The wind whipped up, too, but that, at least, was at my back.
I could feel a gentle numbing in my ears first. I rubbed them as I powered through the increasing snow cover, but that only served to numb my fingers even faster. The numbness traveled inward, taking my forearms, upper arms, shoulders, neck.
But my feet? Good as ever.
Excellent boots.
I looked behind me. I couldn't be sure, but it looked like Donnie was gaining little by little. Even if he wasn't, even if my slowly-freezing head was playing tricks on me, it was only a matter of time. I didn't have to be a scientist to figure out that he didn't feel, couldn't feel, what I felt. He had a good half-inch of snow on him, whereas I only had a dusting. My otherwise-unoccupied mind theorized that was because, frankly, he was dead, and gave off no body heat to melt the snow from him. I imagined that the coating would be the only way that an observer would be able to tell which one of us was living and which was not.
The end was getting close. I didn't even try to deny it; I long-jumped over the first four stages of grief and landed right on acceptance. The best plan I could come up with was to get someplace inaccessible to Donnie so I could save both whatever was left of his soul and myself some serious hurt. Maybe, if I was lucky enough and there were survivors somewhere (please, God, let there be survivors), I would present something suitable for burial.
Even near death, it was important to have a goal in mind. Otherwise, what was the damn point? Of anything?
I willed myself to look around at my surroundings, at the woods I grew up playing in. Hide and seek gave way to pseudo-camping to paintball to our unsuccessful attempt to start smoking to making out with Gwennie Barber in...
...in the cave.
I was close.
It wasn't the cave proper that I was actually interested in, but rather the steep incline in front of it. I just didn't think that Donnie, whose coordination was shot to shit, could handle it. I wasn't entirely positive I could, either, but it was my best bet.
I looked back again. Now there was no doubt. He'd closed the gap. I hooked as sharp a left as I could manage and concentrated on my march: lift left foot, push, stomp. Lift right foot, push, stomp. Repeat.
I was there.
The incline looked intimidating to me. In my youth, after Donnie and I had figured out the path of least resistance, we'd take whatever girl we'd been dating at the time here. Or try to, anyway. The seclusion was a big part of the attraction, of course, but so was the climb. Any girl who'd be willing to climb it with us, well...there would be no mistaking their willingness. Neither Donnie nor I ever failed to, at bare minimum, get boob. Twice, I actually scored. Regardless of outcome, as I got a little older I realized that it was nice just knowing that they'd all trusted me enough to lead them, hand-in-hand, up a hill into a dark cave in the middle of nowhere.
Gwennie had been the last girl to make that climb with me. Then I got a car, and the world opened itself to me and my libido. For all I knew, the candles that we burned that night were still there. I had no matches, but it was comforting, to a degree.
I wanted Gwennie to be okay. I knew she almost certainly wasn't. Still, I hoped.
You probably don't care about any of this.
I reached the bottom and grabbed onto the first branch. This same branch had been the only starting point for every successful climb. Start anywhere else, and you'd end up at the bottom again (and not necessarily by choice). Donnie learned that the hard way, and still had the scar on his knee to prove it. I just about died laughing that day.
I couldn't feel the branch. I...I looked at my hand and saw that I hadn't even grasped it. It was just sort of resting there, Donnie's blood sticking out as the only colorful thing against a whitewashed background. I willed my hand to close, but no movement.
So that was it.
I turned around. Donnie was just too close now.
I collapsed onto my ass in the snow and rested my back against the tree.
All I wanted now was to hold him off long enough to die. Then, Donnie could do...what those things do best.
I heard the sound of snow crunching underfoot. I turned my head as quickly as I could (not quickly at all), and saw another human shape. I had a momentary burst of hope that I'd been rescued, but the frozen blood that had turned a white button-down shirt almost entirely crimson dashed those thoroughly. Maybe someone else had found themselves in a similar situation as mine. I'd fared a little better, for whatever that was worth.
It made a snarling noise and moved for me.
Donnie was on it immediately.
I'd seen this kind of behavior before. These things wouldn't eat each other that I knew of. They were, however, territorial as all Hell. At that moment, I was the territory, and I did something that I'd never done before in my entire life: I rooted against my best friend. I wanted the other thing to put Donnie down for good and, if it had to come to that, be the one that finished me off. Two birds, one undead stone.
Donnie, curse him, showed the same indefatigable resolve that I'd seen so often on the basketball court. He tore that thing apart. Quite literally. A severed arm landed close enough to me that I could have reached out and touched it. Or it, me.
He turned to me, all business again.
I tried to raise my arms in front of me, protect my face, my neck, anything. Nothing was working right.
Except for my feet. Still toasty warm.
I tried to focus on that feeling as Donnie dropped to his knees three feet in front of me and leaned in, teeth bared. He moved slowly. Even though he couldn't feel the cold, it was still doing a number on his body. Unless the weather broke soon, he'd eventually freeze, too, right next to whatever remained of yours truly.
I summoned every last bit of me to whisper something. I don't know how successfully my lifeless lips relayed the message, but what I was going for was, "Beyond the end, buddy." My eyelids drooped, and I began to slip away.
Donnie stopped.
Stared.
He was close enough that I could smell him. There was no smell of decay; he hadn't been dead that long. He smelled like cheap light beer.
He twitched, then sat back on his heels.
Stared.
I already know what you're going to think. That the cold had finally broken him down, as it had me. Or maybe he smelled the death on me and decided that I would be unpalatable. Or a host of other reasons. All or none of the things that pass through your head may have been true. But whatever else you may think, I don't really care.
I know...I know...what I saw in his eyes. A spark of recognition. Momentary. Instantaneous. Unrecognizable to anyone who wasn't at the edge of oblivion.
Real.
My mouth curved into what I think was a smile.
We win, Donnie. One last time, we win.
Feeling strangely protected, I closed my eyes, embraced the end, and went to see what waited beyond.
File this under the classic theme of, "Be careful what you wish for."
* * *
"If you need confirmation that your wife is cheating on you, I can give it."
A few months ago, Ray Dropp would have been surprised, or even angered, by the words of the man sitting in the passenger seat of his SUV. "Yeah, I figured. Bitch."
"I'd be remiss if I didn't give you an opportunity to call it off. It would be as if we never met, minus the deposit, of course."
Dropp looked at the man he had come to think of as his an independent contractor, his personal Mr. Fix-it, and shook his head. "No way." Mr. Fix-it accepted the answer wordlessly, but Dropp continued on. "You know, we actually tried marriage counseling once. I remember the counselor, this real homo, kept on about how we should do these communication exercises. It was the biggest waste of time, because that wasn't the problem. The problem's that she's a little whore. It's not just that, either. The punchline is that she's not getting my money."
"Hmmm," was the reply.
"What's that?"
Mr. Fix-it looked straight ahead, through the rain-soaked windshield. "I've heard the same story more times than I can count. It's pretty common in my line of work. A few haven't gone through with it; most have. I often wonder how many people regret their decision either way." He shifted gears. "What I do is permanent. Just so you understand this."
"Yeah, I get it, I get it. When?" Dropp listened to the details. He couldn't wait for tomorrow night.
* * *
Dropp followed the tail lights of his wife's Toyota. She thought he was out of town on business, so between that and the rain he wasn't concerned about her spotting him. He knew that Mr. Fix-it was in the passenger seat, because they were heading to a motel just outside of town. He had apparently planted the seeds for an affair during the week or so he had spent gathering information. He really was very good. A week! It had taken Dropp three to get into her pants when they had first started dating. She'd apparently conquered her intimacy issues since then.
Dropp cared about none of this. He just wanted to watch her die, and he had been very specific about this. He had no doubt that Mr. Fix-it would deliver. Hell, he might have some fun with Melanie first, and more power to him. She was a lot of things, but a lousy lay certainly wasn't one of them. Maybe he'd even drop the price a little.
They arrived at the motel. Mr. Fix-it had rented two rooms in advance, so there would be no messing with the desk clerk. No witnesses, either. Mr. Fix-it and Melanie got out of the car, and she was hanging all over him on the way to number 32. They entered the room, shut the door, and pulled the shades.
Now, the wait.
"Thirty minutes," Mr. Fix-it had said. "On the nose."
Dropp was anxious, but he wouldn't be the one to screw this up. He set the alarm on his watch for twenty-nine minutes and nodded off.
* * *
The beeping watch snapped Dropp awake. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, snatched the key to number 33 off of the seat, and entered the room as quietly as possible. He left the door slightly ajar, as instructed. He sat on the edge of the bed, grabbed the remote that he was told would be there, and turned to the auxiliary channel. Instead of snow or just a black screen, he had a great color view of the king-size bed in Room 32, as well as its occupants, who were sitting and embracing on the bed. Mr. Fix-it's back was to the camera, but there was no mistaking Melanie. The two broke the kiss, and Dropp got his first good look at his dear wife. Her hair looked fantastic, and she had even broken out some gorgeous lingerie that he had never seen before. "Unbelievable," he muttered.
On-screen, Mr. Fix-it spoke to her, and she mouthed something in return and reached for her purse. She rummaged through it casually at first, then with a bit more urgency. She upended it, but couldn't find what she had been looking for. Dropp was no lip-reader, but he could make out, "I'm sorry," coming from her pouty, crimson lips. Her would-be lover said something and poured her a short glass of wine, which she downed in a few swallows. He poured her another, kissed her on the neck, and left the room. Dropp went to his window and saw Mr. Fix-it get into her car and drive away.
"Now where the Hell is he going?" Dropp wondered aloud. Wherever it was, he had not been made privy to it, but he was sure it was part of the plan.
He forget entirely about Mr. Fix-it (and indeed, why he was here at all) when Melanie began slowly exploring her body in anticipation of her lover's return. Dropp was mesmerized, and almost missed the fact that she was staring at the camera. Not only was she aware of it, but she was performing for it.
That kinky bitch, Dropp thought, and for a split-second wondered if he was making a mistake. His rational mind took over and educated him that she had never performed for him that way. This realization only strengthened his resolve. Still, he enjoyed the show, and wondered how long he had before Mr. Fix-it returned.
It wasn't long, and he jumped when the man walked through the door.
"Where have you been?" Dropp asked, his question unintentionally laced with accusation. He regretted it when Mr. Fix-it shot him a subtle look that made him shut up immediately.
"Condoms. I told her I forgot them, and I had to run out to get some."
"She's been cheating on me for God knows how long, and she didn't bring condoms? Jesus, she could be carrying anything! I could be carrying anything!"
"Relax. She had some, but I took them out of her purse. I drove around the corner and came back here. Are you ready?"
"You bet your ass. When's it happening?"
"It's happening now. Do you see that wine on the table?"
"Yup."
"Poison. She'll be dead in ten minutes. She's dying, and you're watching, as we agreed."
It was done. There was no turning back now, so Dropp wanted to enjoy this.
"Now for the matter of payment."
Dropp was emboldened by the power he felt. "You'll get it as soon as she's dead."
"Not what we agreed on, but fair enough. I can wait."
"Shit, I feel like celebrating. I need a cigar or something."
Mr. Fix-it reached into the pocket of his leather coat. He pulled out three cigars of various brands. "On the house."
Dropp examined the selection. "Nice. My favorites." He considered them for another moment and selected one.
"I do my homework, Raymond." He took the cigar from him, cut it expertly, and then lit it as Dropp held it to his lips.
Dropp, a former two-pack-a-day cigarette smoker, inhaled deeply. Most cigar smokers didn't inhale. Those people, Dropp thought, were wimps. He watched the screen, and Melanie made a small jerking movement, followed by another, larger one.
"Her lungs are beginning to shut down, so screaming is out of the question. She'll suffer for a few minutes, but she'll be aware enough to see this." He pulled a remote control out of his pocket, and clicked a button. On the screen, Melanie's eyes grew wide in surprise. She was looking in the direction of her own television. In Room 33, Dropp noticed a red light come on inside of the air conditioning vent.
"What's that?"
"A camera. She can see us. A smart woman like that will have figured it out by now."
Dropp took another puff. "Nice touch."
"I know."
Dropp was so transfixed by the look of terror in his wife's eyes that he almost didn't feel the itching in his throat. It was regret, or guilt, he supposed.
"You know, you really should have taken your counseling more seriously."
Dropp found himself slightly short of breath, but forced out, "Wh-why's that?"
"Because the two of you have a lot more in common than you think."
The cigar fell from Dropp's fingers as he fell backwards on the bed, clutching his throat. Mr. Fix-it hovered over him and slipped a hand inside of Dropp's pants pocket. He knows where the money is. Of course he knows. He thought he was screaming for help, but no sound would come out.
"Except she paid me in advance."
I love this story. I started it with the intention of it becoming a novel, but I knew right away that it had no chance of being that long. I merely stripped out a few catalytic elements and it shortened itself. I submitted it to various places, and it was well-received, but no one thought it fit their genre. They were right, of course, but I still think it deserves a spot in the book.
* * *
On a snowy night that might have been Christmas Eve, a desperate man (his name is irrelevant, though John will do) resigned himself to killing his wife. As he walked slowly down the hall, knowing that he would soon end his own life, as well, the little girl in the room just before his destination called him "Daddy."
He stopped just outside her door and sight. He tried to ignore her and listen harder at the same time, but he failed at both. She repeated, "Daddy?"
Just keep walking, he told himself. You'll only make it harder. It's always difficult to argue with your inner voice, your conscience, especially when you are in absolute agreement with it. He had a job to do, and the sooner, the better. Still, he hesitated, and it was the next sentence that hooked him.
"Daddy, where's Troy? I think he ran outside." Her voice cracked, just a little. He cracked much harder, and for no good reason (or every good reason) he walked in the room, sat down on the bed next to her and said, "Daddy's here, baby." She smiled without opening her eyes, and she felt around for his hand. He helped her find it. Her hand was so fragile in the embrace of his, like an innocent little girl's should be.
"Go to sleep, sweetie."
"But I can't go to sleep without Troy!"
He fumbled for a response, and came up with, "I think he's downstairs eating."
"He already ate." Her voice cracked a little more, and grew a little smaller. "He already ate."
He looked out the window. The snowfall was impressive, to say the least. No way was he going to look for a dog in that mess. No way at all.
He caught himself by surprise when he said, "I'll take a look outside. I promise."
What am I doing?
Her eyes snapped open. Of course they were that beautiful shade of blue. "Thank you, Daddy!"
He choked out, "Now try to sleep, sweetie."
He got up. He supposed he should have wondered why he was suddenly feeling dizzy, but he didn't have to. He took two steps toward the door, turned around, bent over and kissed her on the forehead. He expected her to feel warm to his lips, but she was slightly cool. "I'll be back in a little bit." He pulled the blanket up to her neck, grabbed a photo of Troy to show to people, and walked out without looking back.
Once he was back in the hallway, he looked left to where he had been heading in the first place. She would be sleeping; he could almost hear her slowed heartbeat, and how it would pump like a jackhammer as she fought for breath for the few moments it would take for her to give up. It would be so easy. He knew that a decision had to be made, and he also knew that it had been decided as soon as soon as "Daddy?" had reached his ears. He knew that girl's future, and he was not going to make one of his last acts on this Earth deceiving one who trusted him so completely, if naively.
So he turned right, walked down the stairs, each footfall making a dull thud…like a slowed heartbeat.
John reached the bottom of the stairs, paused, and sighed. He pushed the door open, turned up his collar, and let the storm envelop him.
* * *
His truck was parked only a few feet away, still running. He had planned on killing his wife and leaving quickly. In the dead of night, in this storm, he didn't worry about anyone seeing him. Even if he was unfortunate enough to have someone see him driving away, there was no way they could identify him or know where he was going. He would just be a nut with four-wheel drive, out on a night when no one should be. If everything went according to plan, he and his truck would never be found at the bottom of the lake, because he didn't deserve to be found.
He had a little time to look for the kid's dog, though. That way he could at least tell the truth when he told her he couldn't find Troy. She would probably cry, but that wouldn't last too long. He'd be gone by then. He decided he'd walk around calling for the dog for a half hour or so; he could use the fresh air. He grabbed the car keys, and the plastic bag holding the cigar he planned on smoking at the lake just before…just before. What the hell, he thought, now or later, makes no difference, but I am smoking this tonight.
After about ten minutes of walking, John found himself downtown. The main drag really was beautiful under the blanket of the snowstorm, and it didn't hurt that there were no humans anywhere to screw it up. He breathed deep, savoring the crisp air, when a blast of icy wind and snow hit him square in the face. He turned away from it as fast as he could, which wasn't quite fast enough. He felt like he had been slapped with an open hand, and it brought a tear to his eye.
As he blinked it away, he saw the dog. Barely, but he saw the damn thing, standing under the eaves of Darby's Barber Shop (Darby's sign in the window, "$8 Trim", was always a chuckle-inducer for the men in town who had a sophomoric sense of humor, which was, naturally, all of the men in town). Reflexively he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the dog's picture, but of course he didn't have to. He tried to sound friendly, in spite of the storm, as he yelled, "Troy! Here boy!" The dog perked at his name. He cocked his head at the man walking slowly toward him, and it seemed he was waiting to be picked up.
The dog waited until the man was about five feet away before he bolted and disappeared around a corner.
Damn. A chase it is, then.
He broke into a jog. John ran several miles a week, so the bulky coat didn't present much of a problem. The footing wasn't all that bad, and he could see the tracks in the snow, so perseverance, and not speed, would be the key. He figured that the dog's tiny little legs would only carry him so far before he got tired, bored, or distracted by an attractive hydrant. He rounded the corner and loped down the alley, or, rather, an impression of an alley. It was merely the space between a restaurant and a computer repair shop. Clean and well-lit, it was nothing like the corridors of darkness seen in the movies, the kind of places where you just knew something bad was waiting for either star or bit player. As he walked, he passed a few garbage cans. With little thought, he opened one of them and rooted through it, looking for something that a dog might find appetizing. He found it beneath a ripped bra and an empty box of Triscuits: a chicken bone, some meat still hanging on it. He grabbed it by the cleanest, driest part and tried not to think how gross the whole experience was.
He was right about the dog; he hadn't gotten far before stopping to urinate on a nearby snow-covered bush. John whistled for him and waved the chicken bone. The dog showed some interest, but turned and walked into a large clearing.
The snow blew harder, threatening to take the dog from his sight. John quickened his pace, trying to walk sideways to avoid facing directly into the storm. He caught a glimpse of Troy, lost him, then found him again when he barked. The dog was actually playing a game with him.
Troy stood motionless in the center of the clearing. John heaved the bone in his direction, and it buried itself in the snow. The dog leaped to the spot and buried its snout in the thickening snow cover, tearing at the bone. John moved towards him. The dog noticed this, but gave him a look that said he would accept some company now, that the bribe had worked. Confident that his impromptu quest was nearing its end, he reached the dog and began to bend down to him.
It was then that he heard the first crack, followed closely by a second.
Ice.
The dog led him into the center of not a clearing, but a pond.
John knew with the third crack that there was nowhere for him to go but down. The too-thin crust of the pond broke, and John's large frame plunged straight down into water so cold that it felt hot. It hit him all at once, and his body began to shut down almost immediately as his head dropped below the surface. He shot a hand up, blindly groping for purchase on the side of the hole, but he could find nothing but a solid sheet. Somehow, in the span of just a few seconds, he had drifted away from the considerable hole in the ice. It occurred to him then that this was similar to how he had already planned to end his night, though he had skipped the part about killing his wife and went straight to drowning, instead.
His hand found something. It was not the ragged edge of a freshly-made hole, no. It felt more like a dog's leather collar. He tried to look up, but his body didn't respond. He merely held to the collar, feeling that the dog was tugging backwards. It wasn't the frantic movement of a dog trying to escape. It felt more like the animal was actually trying to pull him out, losing proposition or not. With fading lucidity, John understood that there was no possible outcome other than dragging this dog down with him, and there was just no sense in that. With great effort, he released the collar. He drifted down, down, and the darkness crept in around the edges until it overtook him.
John never felt the hand reach down and pull him out.
* * *
When he woke, he was lying on top of the ice, shivering. He was alone; very alone. The storm had waned, the moon shone brightly, and he could see for hundreds of yards in every direction. Whoever had saved him was long gone. They had given him a second chance at life, and didn't stick around long enough to find out how he intended to waste it. He struggled to his feet, amazed that he could move at all. He had no idea how long he had been lying in the snow, but it had been long enough for the storm to cover the approaching and retreating footsteps of his unidentified rescuer.
But he had only a faint dusting of snow on him, so he couldn't have been lying unexposed for long.
He was convinced that he had never fallen through the ice. That had to have been some kind of delusion, because he wasn't wet.
A few seconds later, he realized that wasn't entirely true: one sleeve was in danger of freezing solid, as it had been dipped in water up to the shoulder.
What the hell just happened? John wondered, trying to get his bearings both physical and mental.
He began to trudge carefully back the way he had first come, sure that direction would be safe, as he had already traversed it once. He jammed his hands deep into his pockets, and his numb fingers closed upon an object that could only be a waterlogged dog collar.
* * *
John stared through the window of the toy shop, despondent because he had failed to catch a dog for a worried little girl. He couldn't even grant that one simple wish. He had learned long ago (more than three years ago, in fact) that wishes were never horses. It was shame that she would know it at such a young age, too. He sighed and began to travel back to where, he hoped, she would be sleeping peacefully, and threw a casual glance back at the toy store for no reason at all. In that moment he saw an object that had escaped his notice for the ten minutes or so he had stared directly at it. It was a stuffed dog, and it looked disturbingly like good ol' Troy.
That's too weird, John thought. That can't be coincidence.
He decided that he needed that dog, and he wasn't above breaking and entering to get it. He had enough cash on him to cover the cost of the toy and the lock, as well. It won't do me any good where I'm going, anyway. He grasped the knob, looked furtively around him, knowing that the chances anyone else was foolish enough to be out this late on a night like this were remote, and opened the unlocked door with little problem. Only the tinkle of the bell above the door broke the silence.
Definitely not a coincidence.
He moved quickly, grabbed the dog, checked the price tag and did a double take. "That much? I'd have a hard time paying that for a real dog," he said to the empty room. "Empty" only applied to other people; a hundred sets of eyes still stared at him. John noticed their plastic gaze. What otherwise would have been creepy seemed almost…approving. He opened his wallet, emptied it, and left more than enough cash neatly arranged on the counter next to the register.
He closed the door firmly behind him, double-checking to ensure it was locked.
* * *
John paused in the doorway, clutching the toy dog. It had seemed right to put Troy's (wherever he was) collar around the doll's neck, so he had.
"Daddy?" That same fragile voice asked.
"I'm here, sweetie." He sat on the bed next to her.
"Did you find him?"
He gritted his teeth. She's out of it; she won't notice. I hope. "Yeah. He's okay. Why don't you go to sleep now?"
She was drifting down again. She yawned, "I love you, Daddy,"
He kissed her on her forehead, told her he loved her, too, and tucked the toy dog into the crook of her arm (Please don't let her notice). She went to sleep with a smile, warm and content. He watched her for a few minutes, and shed some tears for her. He was not ashamed.
John collected himself and walked to the door. He looked at her one last time. She was beautiful, and he would hold that picture in his mind until the end.
He went to talk to the night nurse.
* * *
"Excuse me, but the little girl in there."
The nurse helped him out. "Carolyn."
"Carolyn. Why is she here?" He was afraid of the answer.
That answer came in the form of a disease that John could barely pronounce. "She doesn't have long. But she's been an angel the whole time she's been here."
He swallowed hard. "Where are her parents?"
A shake of the nurse's head told him all he needed to know. She sprung from her chair as an alarm went off. John knew without looking that the alarm came from little Carolyn's room, and he was certain what it meant. He watched the nurse leave to do her job and discover what he already knew. He left the desk area and entered the room two doors down from Carolyn's. This was his best chance, now while the nurse was distracted.
His wife, Denise, lay there, as she had for just over three years, ever since a night a lot like this one conspired to take her from him. It had succeeded in destroying them both. She was comatose, with little chance for recovery. He was healthy, and had no chance. Many nights he had come close to doing what had to be done and had chickened out, if that was an appropriate term for deciding against murder. Tonight, however, he was determined.
She. Wouldn't. Want. This.
He reached for a pillow, and saw the toy dog, nestled in the crook of her arm. He staggered backwards several steps. There was no mistaking that it was the same doll; it wore a collar that still looked a little wet. He moved forward again, confused. He poked the dog as if it were an illusion. His wife moaned a little bit, but she had done that many times before; the doctors had repeatedly told him it was an involuntary reaction, and his optimism had faded a little more each time until he had none left.
She moaned a second time, and, just as he knew that Carolyn had gone without seeing her, he knew that this noise wasn't like all the rest. He stared at her; he was sure he saw her eyes move behind the lids, like she was merely dreaming. Maybe it was just wishful thinking, but it was enough. He leaned into her ear and said, "I'm sorry, baby. I stopped believing in you for a while. I was wrong. Don't make me wait long, okay?" He kissed her on each cheek, tucked the dog in a little more snugly, and walked down the hall. He glanced into Carolyn's room and saw the nurse standing over her, possibly reciting a prayer for the poor girl. What he didn't see was a toy dog.
The snow still fell, but the wind gusts had turned into soft breaths, and he reached into his pocket. He pulled out the cigar which, another miracle, was intact and bone dry. He clipped it, flipped open the butane torch, and lit it slowly and deliberately, careful to not miss a spot. He took a deep draw and held it; it was better than he could have hoped. He sat on the cold steps and passed time by focusing on an individual flake as it fell to the ground, and then another after that.
The door opened behind him. It was the nurse. "Did you know her?" she asked him plainly, as she wrapped her coat around her.
He considered telling her the whole story, but decided against it. "No. She just looked lonely." He took another draw and blew it downwind from the nurse. "Is there anyone to take care of her?"
"The state."
"I don't think so. Send it all my way. Everything. I don't care who I have to go through."
The nurse looked ready to respond when they both turned towards the sound of scratching at the door. "Hey!" the nurse exclaimed. "Is that your dog?" She opened the door and let Troy out. He bounded towards John and licked his hand.
What the hell, John thought. "Yeah. He is."
Being a father of a young boy myself, writing anything involving children (of any age, really) affects me much more now. I also have a better grasp of how far I'd go to protect him. But this is just an innocent dance in a small town, right?
* * *
"You know something, sweetheart," Jarv Wheeler said to his daughter mid-waltz, "this is always my favorite night of the year."
Dahlia looked at him, amused confusion on her face. "Favorite night of the year, Dad? Unless you have a secret daughter, this is our first father/daughter dance." She giggled.
He stumbled briefly. "Well, you know what I mean. I've been looking forward to this for a long time, that's all. Now mind your feet; remember, it's a box."
"Sorry. I know. My feet feel a little weird."
Damn. "Do you want to sit down?"
"For just a minute, yeah."
They went back to their table. She watched the other dancers. He watched her closely.
"I thought that I'd know more people here. A lot of my friends said they'd be coming."
"Well, it's early, and this dance is way out of town. I'm sure that they're on the way. Me, I don't do 'fashionably late' anymore. Cuts into my pre-bedtime naptime."
"You're so old."
"No argument here. Are you thirsty? Diet Coke or something?"
"Sure."
Jarv rose and planted a kiss on her forehead. She smiled and turned her attention back to the dance floor as he headed to the bar. He put a foot up on the brass rail and signaled to the bartender, who came over almost immediately. "What'll it be, boss?"
"Gin and tonic and a Sprite, please."
"You got it." The bartender began to pour the gin and asked, "Which one's yours?"
"What? Oh," he gestured in Dahlia's direction. "Black dress, red sash."
"Beautiful girl," the bartender replied without a hint of lecherousness. "Got her mother's looks, I see."
Jarv laughed a genuine laugh. "I count that as a blessing every day, my friend." He took a sip of his drink, nodded, and dropped a five into the tip jar. "Every damn day." He air-toasted the bartender and walked back to the table. Dahlia was rubbing a hand on her calf, as if it had fallen asleep. He checked his watch, and his heart sank. He took a deep breath and plastered on a smile. He put the drinks down and said, "Here you go, sweetie. They were out of Diet Coke. Sprite okay?"
"Sure." She took a healthy sip and rubbed her leg some more.
"Does your leg hurt?"
"It doesn't hurt. It's just kind of...numb. Maybe my shoes are too tight."
"Maybe. You think another dance would wake them up?"
She kicked off her shoes and said, "Let's find out!"
The DJ put on a fast number, something with a heavy dance beat that Jarv had no hope of recognizing. He heard a few girlish squeals that signified that this was currently a big teen hit. Dahlia furrowed her brow and said, "I don't think I've heard this before." The expression on some other faces suggested they thought the same thing. She stopped caring in a hurry, threw her hands in the air, and did what happy teen girls do: tear up the dance floor. If her legs still bothered her, she either didn't notice or didn't care.
He did his best to keep up.
A few minutes later, the DJ mercifully segued into a slow number, and Jarv, breathing hard, enveloped his daughter in his arms. "How are you feeling?" he whispered.
"A little better, I think." She rested her head on his shoulder. "That's funny...I don't remember this song, either..."
He kissed the top of her head and thought, Too soon.
* * *
When the dance was over, he lifted her head. Her eyelids fluttered but didn't fully open. He blinked away the beginnings of tears. I'm getting the timing down, at least. That's something...no, that's nothing. Nothing at all. He shook her a little, but got no response.
"Is everything okay, sir?"
Jarv turned around and saw one of the chaperones, a woman about his age who looked dishearteningly familiar. She wore a look that was half-concern, half-reproach. "Oh, yes, I just think that my daughter might have confused my drink for hers."
The woman smiled. "That does seem to happen at these things sometimes. We have a few cots available, if..."
"No, I think we're going to call it a night."
"Of course. Let me walk you to your car." She walked a few paces ahead of them and handled the doors.
Jarv had Dahlia's arm around his neck and wrestled her to his truck. He fumbled with his keys and dropped them. The woman (he still didn't know her name) picked them up and deftly unlocked the passenger door. He placed her in the seat and she handled the seatbelt. He closed the door gently. "Thank you."
"My pleasure, Mr..."
"Jarvis Wheeler."
"Jarvis. I'm Maggie Tynes. I'm what you might call a councilwoman here. One of our duties, the rest of the council and I, is to chaperone this gathering. I recognize you. You were here last year. Had a similar experience, as well, if I remember correctly. I always remember correctly."
He didn't respond.
She pulled a pen out of her breast pocket. "Give me your hand." He held it out to her, and she began to scribble on his palm. "As you've done this at least twice, I can assume that you've gleaned a lot of information, just not quite enough. You wouldn't be the first to falter like this. This," she released his hand back to him, "should solve your problem."
He stared at his palm. My God. That's it.
"I'm not going to ask how you found our dance. What I will implore you to do is be discreet about who you share your knowledge with."
He still said nothing, but nodded.
"Very discreet."
"I understand."
"But when you do decide to share, and you will, share it fully so that we can avoid a repeat of your...amateurish attempt. It's not fair to the young women, and I don't enjoy watching it happen time and again. Every time I interject myself into others' affairs I put my own position at risk."
Jarv fumbled for the proper thank you. He impulsively kissed her on the lips. She met him, shared the kiss, and it was over.
"It's been a long time since a man has done that. Longer than you can imagine. Now go. I hope to never see you again."
"I'll try."
* * *
Jarv put his hands under his daughter and lifted. Her weight was a welcome burden; he'd bear it forever, if he could.
She stirred and her eyes opened. "Daddy?"
"Yes, baby?"
"Are we home?"
"Not yet. almost."
"Oh. Okay. I'm just really tired."
"Then sleep, sweetheart. I'll take care of everything."
"Can we have one more dance? I think I can dance one more."
A "no" formed on Jarv's lips, but he bit it back. Selfishly, he supposed. "If you think you're up to it." He maneuvered her feet to the ground and tested to see if she could bear her weight.
"I totally am." To prove her point, she released her arms from around his neck and stood, unsteadily, but on her own.
Jarv reached through the car window and turned the radio up. He held her right hand with his left and placed his right gently on her waist, ready to catch her on a moment's notice.
She made it through the entire dance, but had closed her eyes somewhere along the way. "Thank you for the dance, Daddy. I think I need to shut my eyes for a little while." Her last words faded away, but Jarv could make out, "...don't know that song, either..."
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