Part One: Evening Falls
Evening came as it always did, which is to say, unlike any other. To the west, a deep rose hue lit up the horizon while overhead, thick rafts of clouds glowed with alternating bands of red and violet that cut across the darkening sky like inflamed cat scratches. Ben Skillings sighed loudly as he settled down on the wooden bench on the edge of the rocky embankment by the bend in the river. Narrowing his eyes, he took a deep breath and held it for a moment before finally letting it out slowly.
The October night air made him shiver as he stared across the expanse of water in front of him. The wind, carrying with it a strong intimation of the on-coming winter, swept down from Canada. In the middle of the river, the water rippled with each sudden gust that shattered the reflection of the sky into dazzling slashes of red, orange, and violet. Closer to the shore, multi-colored maple leaves drifted by on the current, looking like flickering tongues of flame dancing on the water.
Night was coming fast, and Ben knew that this night, like every other night, sleep would not come easily if at all. His mind was fogged by exhaustion, but by his best estimate, it was going on three months, now, since he had last slept. He knew exactly when his problem had begun, too, but he couldn’t help but snicker softly at the thought that the word “problem.” It didn’t come anywhere near to capturing the scope of what was happening to him.
His eyelids felt heavy. Every time he blinked, it felt like the insides were crusted with sand that scoured his eyes. A generalized weakness wrung him out, making him feel limp and weak. He imagined that, to anyone who might be observing him, his body might resemble a huge, melted candle, dripping over the bench.
As he shifted his gaze closer to shore, he watched the red and yellow leaves flicker in the gathering darkness. Even when he looked straight at them, they looked like guttering candle flames, flaring up with brilliant forks of red, orange, and yellow. He was sure he was hallucinating from utter exhaustion, but the light that reflected in the inky swirls of the water hurt his eyes.
It’s been three months … three months since—
Before he could complete the thought, a strangled whimper vibrated in his throat and a cold, numbing sensation blossomed in the center of his chest. Pressure squeezed his chest, making it impossible for him to take a deep enough breath.
“She’s gone, and she’s not coming back,” he whispered out loud, watching the gray mist of his breath drift and dissolve into the deepening black of the night.
A lonely ache deeper than any physical pain filled him as he considered the very real possibility that everything he was looking at—the sky, the sunset, the river, and the dense stand of trees that lined the opposite shore—all of it might not be real. It wasn’t the first time he had entertained the idea that—like his wife—he might be dead … Or maybe he was in a coma in a hospital … or back at home in Philly, safely asleep in bed and dreaming all of this before waking up and finding Mary in bed beside him.
There were so many times when he earnestly wished that were the case, and he would awaken to discover Mary, asleep beside him in their bed. But on a bone-deep level, he knew that was never going to happen.
But no … Mary was dead. She had died the last week of June—June 27th, to be exact. A Monday. And it was just about three months ago, so he had no doubt exactly when his “problem” had started.
He and Mary had been married for eleven years, long enough for their relationship to settle into that comfortable routine all marriages eventually fall into, but he missed his wife terribly. He missed simply seeing her and being with her day after day and having her as a part—an important part—of his life. He missed not feeling the warmth of her body in bed next to him at night, and he missed not smelling the traces of her scent on her pillow when he rolled over to hug her during the night. He missed the simple human touch that we all need in order to survive, and most of all, he missed the daily sharing that people develop when they’ve been together a long time.
Worst of all, as hard as it was to accept, he also knew that she was never coming back to him.
“Never,” he whispered, the tangled fog of his breath drifting from his mouth and disappearing into the night. He sniffed, choking back his tears, and leaning forward, pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes as he fought back the salty surge of tears that blurred his view.
“… Never ...”
The echo was so faint Ben wasn’t sure if he had uttered the word aloud or if it had resonated in the night.
So far, October had been warmer than usual. Because there had been so little rainfall throughout the summer, the foliage wasn’t nearly as vibrant as it usually was. Even the leaves of the sugar maples that lined this side of the river had mostly gone directly from green to brown. Every evening, if it wasn’t raining, Ben had sat here and tried to enjoy the autumnal scenery in the fading light. The wind gathered the dead leaves into drifts along the riverbank and blew them in chattering gust down the paved walkway where they rattled like old bones on the cold ground.
Ben cringed when he sensed someone walking toward him from behind. The scuffing tread of footsteps scraped the asphalt with a gritty sound that set his teeth on edge. Turning slowly, he looked to see who it was. In the deepening darkness, he wasn’t at all surprised to see no one there. For the past three months, he’d been having auditory and visual hallucinations. Nearly every night, while lying in bed, he would hear Mary whisper his name. He wouldn’t realize she wasn’t really there until he rolled over and reached for her, feeling the cold, empty space where she should have been.
“I miss you, darling,” he whispered, turning once again to look at the river. Another powerful gust of wind blew straight into his face, making his eyes tear up. The feeling that an unseen presence was lurking behind him was growing steadily stronger, coiling inside him as he cringed, waiting for a cold breath or the touch of a dead hand against the back of his neck.
“Is that you, baby?” he whispered, widening his eyes but still not daring to turn around. “Are you here with me?”
The footsteps had stopped, and the utter silence of the night made his tremble. Shifting forward on the bench, Ben listened to the steady sibilant hiss of the river as it rushed over the stones that lined its muddy bank. The sound grated his ears. The leaves floating by on the water flared up so brightly they cast sharp-edged shadows that swung slowly to the side as they shifted past him. The glow in the western sky was gone now, and Ben was left wondering how long he had been sitting here. Time seemed to have been suspended, and he sensed how it stretched out in front of and behind him like a winding black river that slid silently over its muddy bottom.
After taking another shuddering breath, Ben thought he could muster enough strength to stand up and walk back to his apartment. He was hungry, but he knew that, no matter what he prepared for supper, he would lose his appetite as soon as he sat down at the table and would end up staring blankly at his food, his mind lost in a dense, timeless fog. And then, like just now on the riverbank, he would begin to see and hear things … things that he knew weren’t really there but which seemed, on some level, to be more real than even he and the bench he was sitting on were.
His knees popped as he stood up slowly and brushed the seat of his pants. The sound of his fingers rubbing against the worn denim was loud and grating. It sounded like someone filing a stone with a metal rasp, and set his teeth on edge as he started down the walkway. It was a short distance to his apartment building. The orange sodium streetlight at the end of Spears Street cast a powdery orange glow so thick it looked like tiny snowflakes were falling inside the illuminated cone of light.
Sudden panic shot through Ben, and he jolted to an abrupt stop, every muscle in his body so tensed they hurt. The urge to run the rest of the way to his apartment swept over him, but the nameless, shapeless dread inside him froze him where he stood. He suddenly realized that the footsteps he had heard behind him earlier had been keeping pace with him, moving when he moved and stopping when he stopped. A chill teased up and down his back as he struggled to find the courage to turn and confront whatever was behind him.Is it just an echo, playing tricks on me? he wondered. Or is there really someone—or something—behind me?
He wanted desperately to turn and look if only to convince himself that he was alone. He wasn’t in any danger. He was just letting his imagination get carried away.
That’s all it is.
But after weeks … months of not sleeping well—if at all—he no longer trusted any of his senses, his eyesight least of all. Fear choked him and kept him rooted there in the middle of the street. The asphalt at his feet glowed with a shimmering iridescence that gave him a momentary impression that—somehow—he had turned the wrong way and had walked into the river, that he was standing on water, and his feet weren’t even breaking the surface. A wave of vertigo swept over him, and he stiffened his legs to keep himself from falling down.
Tears sprang to his eyes, and a wild shiver ran through him like a lance. He wanted to cry out and heard a low, whimpering sound, but it seemed to be coming from the darkness around him, not from inside him. Another gust of wind swept up a spray of dust and dead leaves and litter from the gutter beside him, and spun around in a tiny whirlwind. The rattling, scraping sounds hurt his ears, and for just an instant, he imagined that he could see a face in the center of the swirling debris.
This isn’t happening! … This can’t be happening, he told himself, but the unfocused dread was like a lead weight inside his chest, dragging him down. If he could get back to his apartment, if he could just get inside and shut the door and lock it behind him, he might be all right.
“Might be,” he whispered and, at the same instant, thought, Safe from what?
Fascinated, he watched as the dust devil with the face inside it glided down toward the river, gradually dissolving into the darkness. It left behind the faint echo of its passing and a faint smell of decay.
A hard, hot throbbing in his neck made Ben’s eyes pulse. His vision swelled as he stared off into the darkness beyond the dusky glow of the streetlight. Tears blurred his vision, shattering the light from the streetlight into thousands of fiery, dancing splinters.
He wasn’t stupid.
He knew exactly what was happening to him. In college, he’d experimented a few times with hallucinogenic drugs to know what was going on, but he knew this was qualitatively different. This, he feared, was symptomatic of something far more serious. The only question was, was there something organically wrong with his brain, or was it psychological?
He was positive he was have some kind of mental breakdown. Then again, what could he expect after going for nights on end without any sleep?”
“Jesus, get a grip,” he whispered, cringing at the sound of his own voice. Like the faint footsteps he’d heard earlier, his voice seemed to come at him out from the darkness.
Looking around, he noticed that Spears Street seemed curiously deserted. The houses on both sides of the street were dark. It seemed as though time had somehow frozen for everyone except him, and he was left totally isolated. After what seemed like several minutes, from far off in the distance, he heard a loud, heavy rumbling sound. Looking toward Main Street, he saw headlights suddenly spike the night, sweeping like twin searchlights as a car sped by the town park.
They’ll see me, Ben thought irrationally, and the instant he had a focal point for his panic, he found the reserve of strength he needed to move. Darting to the side of the street, he found himself ankle-deep in a pile of dead leaves that lined the gully. Cringing, he waited for the car to turn onto his street and nail him with its glaring headlights, but it moved down Main Street until its taillights glared like two baleful eyes before disappearing around a corner. As soon as it was out of sight, Ben had the distinct impression it hadn’t really been there. Only then thin blue cloud of exhaust that hung in the air behind it was any proof it had been there. Before Ben turned up the walkway to his apartment door, he caught a whiff of the exhaust, and then the night closed down around him, muffling all sound except for his shallow breathing.
Ben told himself he would have to make an appointment to see his doctor. These feelings and this disorientation were at their worst at night, and he strengthened his resolve to call first thing in the morning to make an appointment.
“I have to get through the night first,” he whispered, flinching at the sound of his voice. He turned and was starting toward the back steps when he glanced down at the dead leaves piled at his feet. The gully was shallow, but the leaves covered his feet to the ankles like he was standing in a snow bank. In the orange glow of the streetlight, the leaves were a dark, burned-caramel color. The pointed tips of the leaves looked like tiny claws, but it was only when he shifted his focus, like looking at a “magic eye” picture, that he saw something else.
The pile of leaves seemed almost to have assumed a vague human shape. The longer he stared at it, the more it looked like a person, lying facedown by the side of the road. The arms were stretched out, and Ben thought it looked as though the figure was clutching the ground like someone clinging to a life raft in the middle of the ocean. The legs were splayed awkwardly with one leg cocked up while the other stuck straight back. The head was flattened but still had a vague roundness to it that was very convincing. Ben had the panicked thought that someone had been hit by a passing car and had died while trying to crawl to get help.
Ben held his breath as he stared at the increasingly distinct figure. With a sudden gasp, he shook his head and rubbed his eyes, trying to make the illusion disappear, but even after telling himself it couldn’t possibly be a person, the hint of a human figure persisted.
“You need help, buddy. You really do,” he whispered, not entirely sure if he was speaking to himself or to the human shape lying in the gutter. He slowly backed away from it, careful not to kick the leaves and disturb the pattern. A fitful gust of wind blew at his back, sending another shiver up his spine. With a quick shake of the head, Ben darted to the side and then dashed toward the back steps. With the wind whistling in his ears, he could easily imagine that he heard footsteps coming after him. It wasn’t hard to imagine that the human-shaped pile of leaves was heaving up onto its hands and knees and staring after him with a cold, hollow stare. That image filled him with fear and spurred him on. He took the back steps three at a time and slipped on the top step, bumping the door hard enough to rattle the glass in the frame. His reached into his jeans pocket for his keys, all the while trembling.
“Come on … Come on!” he whispered as he fumbled to get the key into the lock and turn it. A cold prickling tightened his shoulders. He didn’t dare look behind him because he was convinced, now, that the leaf figure had gotten to its feet and was coming toward him, its leafy arms rattling like old bones as they reached out for him.
The door lock clicked, and Ben let out a loud wailing cry as he shouldered the door open and practically fell onto the porch floor. Spinning around quickly, he slammed the door shut and fumbled to lock it. His fingers slipped, and he grazed his knuckles against the rough wood, taking off a few layers of skin. The porch glowed with near hallucinatory brightness as he looked at the back of his hand where blood was spreading across his knuckles like a splash of black ink. He jumped when a gust of wind slammed into the door. When glanced outside, he saw a pile of dead leaves swirling in a little tornado near the foot of the steps. It hovered there for a heartbeat and then faded away, leaving behind a handful of dead leaves on the steps.
“You don’t get me this time,” Ben whispered, not really sure what he meant. His face was close to the door window, and his breath left two tiny ovals of condensation on the glass. The wind that whistled through the narrow crack at the bottom of the door sounded faintly like laughter. As much as Ben wanted to believe he had imagined what had just happened, he couldn’t stop thinking that the leafy thing had been after him. It may have even been taunting him, but Ben sensed that it was patient and was willing to wait until the time was right.
BENEATH STILL WATERS
Screenplay
by Rick Hautala and William Relling, Jr.
Based on the novel of the same name by Matthew J. Costello.
OVER A BLACK SCREEN SUPERIMPOSE: GOULDEN'S FALLS. UPSTATE NEW YORK. FIFTY YEARS AGO.
FADE
IN: INT.
KID'S BEDROOM - NIGHT
Pre-dawn stillness fills a young boy's bedroom. Nothing fancy. Solidly working
class.
Asleep in bed is BILLY LEEPER. Thirteen years old. Sleep-tousled hair. He stirs
when a PEBBLE CLICKS against the window pane. A SECOND PEBBLE hits the window.
Billy
sits up, now wide-awake. Tossing bedcovers aside, he moves quickly to the
half-open window. We see that he's wearing a pajama top over his dungarees.
WHAT HE SEES: Looking through the window, down into his BACK YARD, there is
JACKIE WEEKS (Billy's best friend, likewise thirteen). Jackie's face is as round
and pale as the full moon. He is looking up at Billy.
JACKIE (stage whisper;
with an impatient gesture)
C'mon!
BILLY (stage whisper)
Sorry. My alarm didn't go off. It must be ——
JACKIE (stage whisper)
Just shut up and get your butt
down here! The sun'll be up in half an hour!
Billy hesitates, conflicted. He doesn't want to get caught, but he's not sure he
wants to be doing this, either. He
decides. Moving quickly, he picks up a discarded T-shirt, clothes, grabs his
sneakers, and bolts from the bedroom. We
should notice while he's dressing that he wears a LUTHER ROSE medallion on a
chain around his neck. A good Lutheran boy.
CUT TO: INT. HALLWAY - NIGHT
Billy tiptoes down the hallway, past his parents' closed bedroom door. A
floorboard CREAKS underfoot. He freezes. Holds his breath.
MOTHER (O.S.)
Billy...? Is that you?
BILLY
Just gettin' a drink of water,
Mom.
MOTHER (O.S.)
Okay...
He waits a tense moment, then starts moving DOWN THE STAIRS that CREAK beneath
his feet. He pauses every other step, coiled and listening, until he hits the
landing. Then he runs THROUGH THE KITCHEN to the back door.
CUT TO: EXT. BACKYARD - NIGHT
As Billy bursts out the back door:
JACKIE (impatient)
Took you long enough.
BILLY (sitting down to tie his sneakers)
Sorry.
JACKIE
Yeah, well, this is our only chance, y'know? We gotta hurry.
CUT TO: EXT. FIELD - NIGHT
A pre-dawn, mist-shrouded field. The boys are running. Jackie's in the lead.
Billy lags behind.
We follow them INTO THE WOODS, along a winding path until they come to a
CHAIN-LINK FENCE, ten feet tall, with coils of barbed wire strung along the top.
The fence stretches away and disappears into the woods in both directions.
Billy is out of breath, but Jackie is hardly winded as they pause and look at
the barrier.
Beyond the fence, we see A LONG, WOODED SLOPE leading down into a valley and A
DARK, UTTERLY DESERTED TOWN. No sign of life anywhere. Eerie.
Jackie laces his fingers into the wire mesh of the fence, preparing to climb.
Billy nervously shifts his gaze to the dark town below. With no hesitation
Jackie clambers over the top, drops to the ground on the other side. Comes up
smiling, brushes his hands.
JACKIE
(off Billy's nervous look)
You chicken?
His
manhood challenged, Billy starts to climb. At the top of the fence, Billy
hesitates. When he grabs the barbed wire for balance, a prong slices his hand,
drawing blood. He CRIES OUT,
teeters, almost falls.
Catching himself, he carefully swings one leg over the wire. Then the other. The
fence shakes terribly. Before he can start down, he loses his grip. He lands on
his back, hard.
Jackie laughs as Billy shakes his head and struggles to his feet.
BILLY
It ain't funny, jerk-o. That really hurt.
JACKIE
(waving him on)
C'mon!
As they start down the wooded slope, we see in the distance, outlined against the pale gray morning sky: A HUGE DAM. It is a recently-built concrete structure: massive and imposing.
CUT TO: EXT. TOWN OF GOULDEN'S FALLS JUST BEFORE DAWN - CONTINUOUS
The
streets are deserted, dark, empty. The wind MOANS under the eaves of empty
stores and houses. Most of the doors and windows are boarded up. Leaves and
litter SKITTER by.
Jackie noisily cavorts down the street. Billy is nervous, showing an almost
respectful awe.
Jackie grabs a rock and throws it through a large, storefront window. Glass
SHATTERS, and he whoops.
BILLY
You shouldn't be doin' that.
JACKIE
What's it matter? Nobody's ever comin' back here.
(a gesture to encompass the whole town)
In a couple of days, this'll all be under a hundred feet of water.
Billy
looks around apprehensively, as he follows Jackie DOWN A SIDE STREET.
They pass deserted houses... then a boarded-up CHURCH with a tall steeple. They
pause now and then to peer through doors and windows.
Jackie runs ahead, SHOUTING, waving Billy on. Until Billy suddenly freezes.
Did he hear something?
He cocks his head to one side, listening, and we hear... A SOFT, LOW MOANING
SOUND. Something between a baby's cry and an old man's dying groan.
The sound is gone before we fully register it. But Billy is very frightened now
as he looks all around.
BILLY
Jackie... you hear that?
Before Jackie can reply, we hear it again. LOUDER, now, a low, sobbing CRY.
Ghostly... and close by.
BILLY (CONT'D)
(his imagination running amok)
Jeez, what if somebody's still here? What if they got left behind—?
JACKIE
What if nothing. There ain't nobody here.
He runs off down the street. Billy watches. As Jackie rounds a corner, out of
sight:
BILLY
Don't leave me!
Billy runs down the street to catch up. Rounds the corner, draws to a sudden
stop.
THE STREET is dark and deserted. Straight ahead is a LARGE HOUSE, looming and
dark in the pre-dawn stillness. Like Boo Radley's house.
Beneath the shadows of the house's wrap-around porch THE FRONT DOOR hangs open.
A gust of wind BANGS it against the wall.
Billy stares at the house. Is this where Jackie is hiding?
Billy cautiously approaches the steps as the MOANING SOUND comes again.
BILLY (CONT'D)
(under his breath)
Tell me that wasn't anybody... tell me that was just the wind.
Billy waits. His eyes shift back to the dark house.
The sky is brighter with dawn now, but the house doesn't look any lighter.
BILLY (CONT'D)
(calling)
Jackie?
(false bravado)
C'mon, Jackie! We gotta get back! Our parents'll kill us if they ever find out
we were out here ——
A crow CAWS as it flies by overhead. Billy jumps. He wants to bolt, but he would
never leave a pal behind.
Hesitantly, he starts up the porch. He shivers. Reaches the front door.
Taking a breath, he grabs the doorknob, opens it into darkness.
CUT TO: INT.
SCARY HOUSE - CONTINUOUS
Billy steps into the house, pausing in the doorway as he looks around. He
wrinkles his nose at a bad smell.
There are empty rooms off to the right and left. No furniture. A SHORT HALLWAY
leads to THE KITCHEN, dead ahead. The kitchen door is open a crack.
Shadows shift. The wind MOANS. Billy looks around, wide-eyed. Starts moving
cautiously forward.
BILLY (hushed)
Jackie...?
He pauses when he hears a SOFT THUMP, then a SCRAPING
SOUND that comes from somewhere in the darkness.
A beat. The sound comes again, LOUDER... DRAGGING
FOOTSTEPS.
BILLY (CONT'D)
Hey, Jackie, c'mon out. This isn't funny, all right? We gotta get ——
He's reached the kitchen. Pushes open the door. Looks. Gulps, swallowing his
words. Takes a step back.
His eyes widen with abject horror. We don't see what he sees, but whatever it
is, it is beyond hideous. His eyes widen. He starts backing up.
BILLY (CONT'D)
Please don't hurt me... I was just ——
From behind him, A HAND reaches out of the darkness and CLAMPS down on his
shoulder.
He SCREAMS. Shakes free. Wheels around, shoots down the hallway, and bursts
through the front door.
SMASH CUT TO:
EXT. WOODS - DAY
The sun is up. Billy is running for his life. Branches whip his face and arms as
he dashes to the chain-link fence, looming above him, looking impossibly high.
He leaps into the air, hits the fence, scrambles up to the barbed wire. Prongs
tear his jeans, shirt, arms, and legs as he vaults over. And falls.
He hits the ground hard, his head smacking against a rock, knocking him
unconscious. He GROANS.
The Luther Rose around his neck has slipped out of his T-shirt and is plainly
visible now.
A beat. Then A DARK SHADOW shifts across Billy's face, blocking the morning sun
for a moment... then it moves slightly, so that the sun briefly causes the
medallion to sparkle...
Then the shadow moves away...
SLOW DISSOLVE TO:
SERIES OF SHOTS - THE DAM/STREETS OF GOULDEN'S FALLS
The streets are still deserted, still empty.
Then: A GRINDING SOUND, like some angry god awakening from an eons-long sleep.
The dam's massive SLUICE GATES OPEN.
Then another sound, building, growing ever louder: A MIGHTY RUSH OF WATER.
At first, the water in the streets of Goulden's Falls is just a trickle.
Then more... and more... rising and rising... covering the sidewalks, the
windows, reaching up to the roofs... until the entire town is submerged beneath
acres and acres of still, smooth water.
FADE TO BLACK.
Chapter One of
Looking Glass
By Rick Hautala, writing as A. J. Matthews
"House Warming"
"Are we having fun yet?"
Brenda Ireland chuckled softly and turned her head to one side so she could see her husband. He had stepped up close behind her and was pressing himself against her hip. His hands grasped and massaged her waist lightly, and his breath was warm in the cup of her ear. Brenda caught the bitter aroma of beer on his breath but decided not to say anything about it.
Not now, anyway.
Let him enjoy himself, just for tonight, she thought.
Raising one hand, she ran her fingertips along the edge of his jaw and slumped back into his supporting embrace. She sighed and nodded as he squeezed her tightly.
"Umm, yeah … I'm having a great time," she murmured.
"Seriously?"
The pressure of his hands around her waist grew stronger, and his breath heated her neck. She was suddenly flushed. In other circumstances, she would have turned around and melted into his embrace.
"Yes," she whispered. "Seriously."
She turned and surveyed the gathering of friends, neighbors, and business associates who milled around in their living room. Brenda couldn't deny a stirring of pride as she glanced at the living room's décor, all of which she had picked out. The floral print sofa and chairs, the rustic stenciling that ran along the top of the walls, and the rich, colonial blue wall paint had all come together even better than she had thought they would.
Once again-as she had so many times tonight already -Brenda wished it was just the two of them here tonight, alone … together. The house warming party had been Matt's idea. Brenda thought they could easily have waited until later in the year, maybe after Thanksgiving, to celebrate moving into the new home. But Matt had insisted that they do something as soon as possible, and Brenda couldn't fault him for that. He worked hard at the law firm, and they both were very proud of everything they had accomplished. She felt a twinge of guilt-and worry-that her job at the bank had been downsized so soon after they committed to this new house, but Matt assured her things would be fine as long as the market didn't take another nosedive.
"You might consider going a little easy on the beer, darling," Brenda whispered, unable to stop herself from saying something. She knew Matt was a little tipsy just by the way he leaned against her, as though he needed a little extra support. And she could feel the solid bulge in his pants, pressing against her.
"I'm fine, hon. Honest," he said.
And, truth to tell, he did seem fine. His speech wasn't slurred, and his eyes looked clear and focused. It was just his breath.
"Oh, you're better than fine, darlin'," she said, twisting around in his embrace and raising her face to kiss him lightly on the lips. "You're … incredible." She breathed the last word in a gusty exhalation.
"I know I am," Matt said, sniffing with laughter as he ran his hands slowly up her sides, tickling her ribs and smiling wickedly. Brenda loved seeing her joy reflected in his face, and for just a few seconds, she forgot all about the friends and neighbors milling around them as she gazed deeply into her husband's dark, moist eyes. She knew how easy it was to get lost in those eyes.
Matt grunted softly as he crushed her against him. The stiffness of his erection pressed against her lower belly. The message was clear. Closing her eyes, Brenda kissed him passionately, opening her mouth to let her tongue dart playfully between Matt's teeth.
"Hey, hey, hey! Get a room, why don't you?"
They broke off the embrace and turned to see Ed Lewis, one of the senior partners and Matt's boss at the law firm, approaching them. If Matt had had a beer or two over his limit, Ed was perfectly lit, and with whiskey, if his past performances at office parties were any indication. His bulging blue eyes looked like large marbles coated with oil, and his face was so flushed he seemed like this week's stroke candidate. Brenda couldn't help but notice the tiny gobs of white gunk that had collected in the corners of Ed's mouth. His lips made a wet snacking sound when he spoke.
"Goddamned beautiful place you've got here, m'boy." He clapped Matt on the shoulder hard enough to stagger him. "Goddamned beautiful."
Ed raised his glass, sloshing with whiskey, and took a sip as he surveyed the crowded living room. He seemed dangerously unsteady on his feet, and Brenda tried not to imagine the mess he would make-or how angry she would be-if he spilled anything on the brand-new carpet. Accidents were bound to happen eventually, especially living with two children, Emily and John. The new house might look like something out of House Beautiful for another month or two, at best. Then it would acquire that "lived-in" look. Brenda sure didn't need Matt's boss to initiate it.
"You and the missus will be more 'an comfortable here," Ed said, nodding sagely. "More 'an comfortable."
When he took another gulping drink, Brenda noticed with some disgust that the white gunk in the corners of his mouth seemed to thicken.
"What say you 'n me take a little stroll," Ed said, clapping Matt on the shoulder again and pulling him away from Brenda. "I'm dying for a cigarette, and since I don't see any ashtrays lying 'round about, I'm guessing you want us social pariahs to smoke outside. S'that right?"
Before Matt could reply, Brenda stepped forward and said, "You're absolutely right, Ed. You might want to try the back deck. There's a nice view of the wood out back. You know, I've already seen more deer than I can count since we moved in."
"S'that a fact?" Ed said. His focus wavered. "So you're holding up okay, living out here in the willie-wacks?"
"Oh, I absolutely love it," Brenda said, casting a quick glance at Matt. Apparently Ed didn't realize-or mind-that she had taken him by the elbow and was guiding him through the crowded living room and into the kitchen, where the sliding glass door opened out onto the deck. Matt followed along behind, and Brenda noticed that he snagged a bottle of Sam Adams from the refrigerator before following her and his boss out onto the deck.
The night was warm, especially for April. A soft breeze whispered high in the dark pines that bordered the backyard. The land sloped gently down to a small pond, which the local fire department had designated an emergency fire pond, so it was fenced off. The steady song of spring peepers rose in the night, sounding strangely like distant jingle bells. Light from the waxing moon cast a powdery blue glow over the scene, making the shadows under the trees deep and dimensionless.
Once out in the open air, Ed seemed even more unsteady. Brenda wished she could tactfully take his drink away from him before he embarrassed himself in front of everyone. Maybe he had judged that he'd had too much, too, because he rested his glass on the railing and, gripping the rail with both hands, tilted his head back and, closing his eyes, inhaled deeply. When he exhaled, a thin mist came from his nostrils.
"Well," she said, backing off, "I suppose you two want to talk about guy things."
Keeping his eyes closed, Ed fished a pack of Marlboros from the pocket of his suit coat and shook one out. Before he had it in his mouth, Matt flicked a cigarette lighter and held the flame so he could light up.
"Thanks," Ed said, exhaling a billow of gray smoke.
Brenda took a few steps back but didn't go back inside. She was curious if Ed had anything important to talk to Matt about, or if he really did just want to fill his lungs with nicotine. She decided that Matt's boss was too tipsy to talk serious business and was just about to go back inside when she noticed something in the woods-a faint glow of diffused light that angled through the pine boughs.
"What the-" she started to say, then stopped herself.
Matt appeared to have noticed the light, too, because he was shifting his gaze back and forth between his boss and the woods out back. Brenda wanted to ask him what he thought it might be, but she remained silent and strained to watch the light. It was so faint, it disappeared now and again in the dense brush, swallowed by the darkness and leaving the impression it hadn't ever been there.
"I know this probably isn't a good time to mention something like this," Ed said.
Matt turned his full attention to his boss, his eyebrows raised in silent question.
"You must've heard somethin' about it on the news today."
Brenda stiffened. It was a conditioned reflex, she knew, but it seemed like she was always expecting the worst, especially since losing her job. Almost a year ago, a bank from Massachusetts had bought the local bank she worked for in Augusta. Her job as a loan officer-along with plenty of other jobs-had been consolidated with the home office. Since they had just started building the house at the time, Brenda seemed always to be waiting for the second shoe to drop even though she tried to convince herself that it had all worked out for the best. Throughout construction, she had been able to oversee and approve or modify all the final details for their new home. Better than that, she had been able to stay home, like she had always wanted to, to raise Emily, her fourteen year old stepdaughter from Matt's previous marriage, and John, the son they had had together eleven years ago.
But she was unnerved by the tone Ed had adopted. The way he sounded so casual signaled imminent danger.
I hope he's not getting laid off, she thought.
Her ears prickled, and she couldn't help but cringe as she waited for whatever bad news Ed was about to deliver. Maybe the settlements they'd been waiting for hadn't come through, and Matt wouldn't be getting the raise he'd been promised over a year ago. Whatever it was, it was something bad. Brenda knew that.
"No," Matt said with a slight tremor in his voice. "What news was that?"
Brenda sensed that her husband was expecting some kind of bombshell, too. She could see it in his eyes, in his tensed jaw, and in the tight grip he maintained on his beer bottle.
No, she told herself. If it's really bad news, Ed wouldn't drop it on us tonight, not during our house warming party. He can be a bit of an asshole at times, and he definitely has an abrasive side, but he's not a complete jerk.
"You didn't hear 'bout your old friend, Jeromy Bowker?" Ed asked nonchalantly. "He's filed another appeal on his conviction. Says he's got new evidence that absolutely proves his innocence and he's gonna be out of jail by Christmas."
Obviously relieved, Matt snorted with laughter and shook his head before taking a sip of beer.
"He didn't happen to mention which Christmas, did he?" he asked, still chuckling.
Although her initial panic had subsided, a teasing chill still danced up and down Brenda's back like a cool whisper of wind. It wasn't the night that was making her feel uncomfortable. She knew that much. They had lived out here in the country for more than six weeks now, and not once had she felt lonely or threatened.
Maybe it's because of that glow of light I saw in the woods, she thought.
Could there really be someone out there in the dark? What the hell would they be doing out there?
Shivering, Brenda looked out across the backyard to the trees again, but the light was no longer visible. She might have imagined it, but even if she hadn't, the woods were dark now, the trees like black lace against the starry backdrop of the sky. Except for the steady sound of the spring peepers and the noise of party conversation coming from inside the house, everything was peaceful and still.
Stepping away from her husband and Ed, Brenda walked to the far end of the deck so she could be alone for a few minutes. She inhaled deeply and looked up at the night sky, wondering why she had suddenly felt so … vulnerable.
Everything was fine.
She should be feeling great now that they were celebrating their new home with all of their friends.
Maybe it was the mere mention of Jeromy Bowker that had unnerved her so, Brenda thought. She remembered all too well the hideous details of the case her husband had prosecuted for the state. A man like Jeromy Bowker deserved to be in prison for what he had done. For what he had done, he deserved the death penalty … if only the State of Maine had one.
But Bowker was safely locked away in the Maine State Prison in Warren. Whoever might or might not be wandering around out there in the woods at night, it sure as hell wasn't Jeromy
Bowker.
So why am I feeling all nerved up? Brenda wondered. It wasn't like her to react like this. Then again, ever since she and the family had moved out to the little bedroom community of Three Rivers, just outside of Augusta, she hadn't felt completely like herself. It wasn't a bad feeling. In so many ways, this house and the new life she was leading were exactly what she had always dreamed about. So what if she had lost her banking job? It's too bad they were feeling a little financial strain at this point in their lives, but she was happy.
Her life was now good.
Better than good.
It was great.
She loved her husband and her son, and even though there was-like there had always been-a certain tentative tension between her and Emily, they were doing just fine even if her stepdaughter didn't necessarily love her as if she were her real mother.
So why am I feeling so uneasy right now?
The sounds of the party inside the house seemed to distort and recede as she stared out at the dark woods and tried to convince herself to calm down.
There was nothing-absolutely nothing!-to be upset about.
She glanced over at her husband and his boss. Ed had finished his cigarette and was nursing his whiskey again. Thankfully, there wasn't much left in his glass. She hoped Matt had the sense not to offer to refill it for him. Matt looked completely relaxed now. His arms were folded across his chest, and he had his beer bottle in one hand as he leaned back against the deck railing. Brenda still thought she detected some slight tension in the way he held his shoulders, as if he wasn't entirely comfortable talking with his boss in this kind of situation.
Or maybe the news is bad, she thought. Maybe talking about Jeromy Bowker trying to get his life sentence overturned had just been Ed's preamble before he dropped the bomb.
"Jesus, just drop it," she whispered to herself.
She had just decided to leave the men outside and rejoin the party when the sliding glass door opened, and Emily stuck her head outside. Light from inside the house illuminated her from behind, making her dark hair glow like a frosty nimbus. She had the portable phone in one hand and looked around until she spotted Brenda and then held the phone out to her.
"Phone call for you," Emily said tonelessly.
Brenda started toward her, wondering-as she did pretty much every day-when and if Emily would ever going to refer to her as "Mom." Probably not.
"Who is it?" she asked. Pretty much everyone they knew and loved was in the house, except for Brenda's mother, who was in a nursing home, and her brother, Harry, who taught History at Ithaca College in upstate New York and hadn't been able to take time off to attend the party.
"How should I know?" Emily said, giving Brenda a standard teenager's what-ever shrug. "She sounds all official and stuff. She asked for Mrs. Ireland."
Their hands touched, briefly, as Brenda took the phone from Emily and pressed it to her ear. She opened the sliding glass door and entered the kitchen, where there were only a few people milling around.
"Yes. This is Brenda Ireland," she said.
Her voice sounded thin and tinny over the cheap speaker. The plastic receiver was slick in her hand, and she realized that her hands were sweating as though …
As though what?
As though I'm expecting-
"Hello Mrs. Ireland. This is Hillary Milford, at Austin Place."
-something terrible to happen!
Brenda's breath caught like a small stone in her throat. The back of her neck suddenly went cold, as if someone unseen had lightly grazed her skin, teasing the hairs at the nape of her neck. She couldn't repress a shudder because she knew …
Something bad has already happened. It's too late to stop or change it.
"Yes?" she heard herself say. Her voice was so weak in the receiver it was like listening to someone speaking from the next room.
"I'm afraid I have some bad news for you about your mother," the woman said.
Brenda sucked in a breath, but the air in the kitchen seemed too thin to fill her lungs. She gasped and tried to speak but couldn't.
"She apparently was attempting to get out of bed when she fell," Ms. Milford continued. "She's suffered a quite severe head injury. We're not sure of the full extent, but we've had her transported by ambulance to Maine Medical in Portland."
"I … I see," Brenda finally managed to say, surprised that she could speak at all.
Involuntarily, her gaze drifted around the kitchen. Her eyes were stinging as tears filled them, making her view of the room turn into a gauzy, yellow glow. She had the distinct impression she was looking through an inches-thick sheet of plate glass. The sights and sounds of the party receded. Even the brand new kitchen appliances and table and chair set seemed oddly and frighteningly distant. A few of their guests were staring her, obviously having picked up that something was wrong.
"The doctor on staff tonight, Dr. Heitz, can speak with you, if you'd like," Ms. Milford said. "Of course, I'd expect you'd want to drive down to the hospital in Portland and-"
The woman's voice cut off so sharply Brenda thought for an instant that the phone had been disconnected, but then she heard the woman's breath catch as she tried to continue.
"What? What is it?" Brenda heard herself ask.
She shook her head as though to clear it, struggling against the disorienting feeling that some vast distance was opening up between her and everything around her. She felt lost … trapped in a strange kind of limbo where she was isolated from not only the world around her but from her own senses as well. A frightening sense of vertigo swept over her. She could sense, if not actually see, a yawning, dangerous darkness swelling all around her, waiting … just waiting for her to fall into it.
"The injury to her head is quite severe," Ms. Milford said with a trembling, hesitant voice. "She-when she left here, she was-" Ms. Milford took a steadying breath, which Brenda could easily hear over the phone. "If you would like to speak with Doctor Heitz, I can page him."
"I … ah, no. No thank you. I-we can leave for Portland right now. I'll call the hospital on the drive down. But thank you. Thank you for calling and telling me."
Brenda vaguely realized how ridiculous she must sound, thanking the woman for informing her that her mother was seriously hurt.
How serious is it?
Brenda pulled the phone away from her ear and flicked it off with her thumb.
Is she dying?
Is she already dead?
Her hands felt like lead weights, and her shoulders slumped as she leaned back against the refrigerator and tried to absorb what she had just heard. As she looked around the kitchen at all of her friends laughing and having fun, a sour, aching sob gathered strength deep in her stomach. She struggled against the terrifying feeling of complete isolation that swept over her. It was almost as if she were somehow outside of her body, floating near the ceiling and looking down at everything-even herself-with a peculiar detachment.
The slight grinding sound of the sliding glass door opening drew her attention like a distant rumble of thunder. A warm gust of the evening air carrying the song of the spring peepers brushed against her face. Turning her gaze to the door, she saw her husband enter the kitchen. His eyes darted back and forth as he looked around until his gaze stopped on her. He smiled at her and gave a quick thumbs up.
Brenda tried to smile back at him, but her expression was flat, her face ghostly pale and her eyes wide and staring. Matt frowned as he looked at her, cocking his head to one side in a silent question.
His lips moved. He was saying something, but Brenda couldn't hear what it was over the party noise. She guessed it was something like, "You okay?" When she didn't respond, a rush of concern darkened his eyes.
All Brenda could do was stare back at him and shrug. She raised her dead-weight arms as though to hug him, barely aware that she was still holding the useless phone in her right hand. Matt started toward her, but in the hollow concussion of her shock, it seemed to take him forever to cross the kitchen floor. When he was finally beside her, he whispered, "What's the matter,
hon?"
She looked at him, fighting back the feeling that invisible fingers were gripping her throat and steadily tightening. Tears filled her eyes, blurring her vision. Unable to take a breath, she gasped so hard her chest ached with a cold, raw sensation.
"Bren … What is it? Tell me."
"That … that was the nursing home."
She was amazed by how distant her voice sounded to her.
"My … my mother. There's been a … an accident."
"An accident?" Matt said, echoing her. "What do you mean?"
When Brenda tried to say more, her voice cut off, and she leaned forward and pressed her face hard against her husband's shoulder. Deep, wrenching sobs wracked her body, and she felt as though she was getting smaller, dissolving into her husband's all-encompassing embrace.
"Is she-? Where is she? What do you want to do?"
"We have to go to the hospital in Portland," she said.
Tears smeared her face, and her body shook violently.
"Yes, yes. Of course we will."
Matt's breath was warm on her neck. The mixed smells of his deodorant and the beer he'd been drinking filled her nose. Those smells and the warmth of her husband's body seemed like the only real things in the world. Everything else-even her own thoughts-seemed impossibly far away as she stared into the darkness behind her closed eyes. She desperately tried to deny the single, clear thought that was echoing like a lonely chime inside her head, but she couldn't deny it.
All she could think was-
My mother's probably already dead, and there's not a Goddamned thing I can do to help her.