314 Book 2 (Widowsfield Trilogy) Page 12

  “I hate you!” Alma crawled off the bed and ran to the bathroom where she slammed the door.

  Amanda Harper started to draw the symbol for pi on her own arm, followed by the number 314. She continued on down the length of her forearm, ending the string of numbers and symbols at the tip of her finger. Then she started over, a new line of symbols and numbers leading to the tip of the next finger, all while humming the lullaby she used to sing to Ben.

  Alma surveyed the graffiti her mother had scrawled on her. The numbers covered her chest, arms, neck, and back. Alma took a small, plain, white bar of soap out of its generic wrapper and started to wash herself in a useless attempt to clean off the fresh marks. She got a washrag out of the tub and wet it beneath the sink’s tap as she scrubbed herself, but her skin turned red and stung before the marks showed any sign of washing away.

  “You can’t wash it off,” said Amanda from the other room. “It’s permanent.” Then she added, as if it gave her pleasure, “It lasts forever.”

  Alma stared at the numbers, reflected backwards in the mirror, and understood that she’d never be rid of them. Even when these marks finally faded, they would never truly leave.

  It was March 14th, and they were headed back into Widowsfield.

  Alma heard her mother crying in the other room. Then she heard her singing to Ben before saying, “I’m coming, baby.”

  Alma went to the door and listened as her mother spoke to herself in the mirror. “I’ll do whatever it takes to get you out, even if it kills me.”

  Alma heard the squeak of the felt tip marker as Amanda scribbled on the mirror.

  Chapter 10 – An Eerie Sort of Calm

  The people in Widowsfield suffered a thousand times, perhaps more. I was never able to get a true idea of how many divergent time lines had sprouted from that one fracture. I could never draw that many memories. The Watcher in the Walls was slow and methodical, using timelines to lie just a little at first; focusing only on one person until his altered reality trapped them in a maze of their own memories. That’s how he convinced people to do such awful things to one another. Slowly over time, anyone can be driven insane. And when he sapped one person of all the fear they could muster, he moved on to the next, leaving his past exploits for The Skeleton Man to enjoy. He trusted The Skeleton Man to repeat the same horrors, and to never stray from the lies that had already been told.

  Then The Skeleton Man slipped away from the script, and he hid from the Watcher in his new, altered timelines. That’s where he would begin to focus on one person at a time, sometimes even playing in their own nightmares instead of on the streets of Widowsfield, all while leaving the rest of the town to function as if no horrors had ever befallen that place. It would’ve been a nice respite for the tortured souls, except The Skeleton Man had accidentally opened a pathway for other vengeful creatures to roam the streets, free of the Watcher’s wires.

  Lost in Widowsfield

  Jacker stepped out of the fog and into a familiar alley. It was late, but the city lived by streetlight. Steam rose from the gutter, a result of the dryers in a nearby laundry mat, and Jacker was reminded of the time he spent in New York, where it seemed all the sewers smoked that way.

  “I see you,” said Kyle, the boy that Jacker had come for. He was leaning against the wall, beside the back entrance to the grocery store. This was where the trucks pulled up to offload their supplies. A wider alley with space to allow trucks to back up would’ve been ideal, but being in the middle of the city required concessions when it came to space. This small market was once a sporting goods store, and not well equipped for frequent grocery delivery.

  Jacker’s girlfriend, Debbie, complained about the truck’s exhaust wafting into the store. She hated working here, but Jacker’s recent job review hadn’t gone well, and he was refused his usual annual raise, which meant they needed Debbie to keep her job here. It wasn’t long after his poor review that Debbie started sleeping with Kyle.

  “You can’t trust the bitch,” said Kyle before taking a long drag. The tip of the cigarette smoldered like a cigar, producing more smoke than seemed natural.

  “Watch your mouth,” said Jacker as he approached.

  “I’m serious, Hank.”

  “Don’t you talk about Debbie like that.”

  “I’m not talking about Debbie.” Kyle flipped his long blonde hair back and Jacker saw a hole on his jaw, as if he usually wore an odd piercing that he’d since taken out.

  Jacker paused at the bottom of the short staircase that Kyle was standing on. He was across the alley from the gutter that the steam came from, but he could still feel its warmth. Oddly, it didn’t smell of detergent or fabric softener. Instead, it had the distinct odor of meth.

  Jacker was very familiar with all types of drugs, having tried nearly all of them before settling on heroin as his escape of choice. Meth, when free of impurities, has very little odor. However, it’s commonly laced with things that cause the smoke to stink like an oven set to self-clean.

  “Are you paying attention?” asked Kyle. He wasn’t holding a cigarette anymore, but a glass pipe.

  Jacker saw the blackened bulb at the end of the pipe’s stem, a flower of black streaks rising from the bottom, painted there by a lighter. Jacker’s mouth watered, an odd symptom of his disease that no one else he’d ever met seemed to share. Whenever he saw a glass pipe, he salivated as if staring at braised beef.

  Kyle offered the pipe to Jacker.

  “I’ll help you,” said Kyle.

  “No,” said Jacker. “I shouldn’t.”

  “Cool, man,” said Kyle. “No pressure. Way I see it, we all have a responsibility to make ourselves happy, right? I get that we have to do no harm, but what the fuck does it matter if we toke? It’s our lungs, right? Am I right?”

  Jacker looked at the pipe, and then at Kyle. He’d come here to confront the little bastard about sleeping with Debbie, but now his anger had abated, replaced by an intense desire for what Kyle offered.

  Debbie had weathered Jacker’s addiction. She’d been there to help him during his darkest moments, and was one of the reasons Jacker quit in the first place. Her betrayal had been the ideal excuse to fall back into old habits, and smoking meth with the man she’d been sleeping with felt almost poetic.

  “Is this what you do?” asked Kyle as he looked at the pipe. “It’s all I’m familiar with.”

  “I do lots of stuff,” said Jacker, dazed. It was as if he were a child at the feet of the pied piper.

  “Pleasure,” said Kyle, as if participating in a different conversation. It was a bizarre interjection.

  “What?”

  “And pain,” said Kyle with a quick frown. “We’re all bound up in the fog. Let’s be adults.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Jacker.

  “Have a seat with me,” said Kyle as he sat on the top step.

  “I’m here to fight,” said Jacker as if embarrassed or apologizing.

  “I know, but we’re past all that. You can trust me, Hank.”

  Jacker was better known by his nickname, only going by his given name when visiting his parents. He sat down on the step below Kyle, although his size made them nearly equal height.

  “What makes you happiest?” asked Kyle as he held up the pipe. “This, or that stupid plastic coin?”

  “What coin?” asked Jacker.

  “The one in your jacket.”

  Jacker searched his pockets until he found the purple Alcoholics Anonymous token. He didn’t remember putting it there.

  “That’s the one,” said Kyle. “I’ll trade you.” He offered the pipe.

  Jacker instinctually closed his hand around the token. It was important, although he couldn’t explain why. It was only a two month token, and Jacker had been sober for a lot longer than that before he fell back off the wagon a week ago. He had an album of these coins in his closet, kept in a binder as if they were baseball cards. He didn’t remember taking out his two-month coin, and couldn’t f
athom why he was carrying it around.

  “I think I should keep it,” said Jacker.

  “Do you remember where you got it?” asked Kyle.

  “It was a long time ago, I think.” Jacker flipped the coin over in his palm several times.

  “What would you trade for it?” asked Kyle.

  Jacker felt like a child again, haggling with a friend over toys they wanted to trade. “I don’t think I want to give it up,” said Jacker and started to put the coin back in his pocket.

  “What about for Debbie,” said Kyle. He again pushed the hair out of his eyes, setting the strands behind his ear. The hole on the side of his jaw was bleeding.

  “Debbie?”

  “Yeah,” said Kyle. “Give me the coin and I’ll go get her for you.”

  “She’s here?” asked Jacker.

  “Everyone’s here,” said Kyle as if the question was ridiculous.

  Jacker felt ashamed, and looked down at the plastic coin in his hand. “She hurt me. I’m not sure I want to see her.”

  “She made a mistake,” said Kyle. “We’re all allowed to make those from time to time. We all hurt.”

  Jacker looked back at Kyle and saw that the side of his head was bleeding. It should’ve been a shock, but Jacker knew it was how the boy was supposed to look. He knew that the boy’s head had been smashed into the side of the building. Jacker knew this was where his life had turned for the worse, after he went to Debbie’s work and beat up the stocker that she’d been sleeping with.

  “We know each other, Hank Waxman,” said Kyle. “We should forgive each other. Don’t you think?”

  “You could forgive me for that?” asked Jacker, sad that he’d been the cause of the boy’s shattered skull.

  “I could, if I had a reason.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Jacker.

  “Show me that you’re sorry,” said Kyle. The blood that trickled down the side of his face looked darker than it should’ve been. “Give me that coin, and we’ll call it even.”

  “This?” asked Jacker as he held up the purple coin.

  “Yes. If you give it to me, I’ll be the only one you can trust here. You owe me that much.”

  “I don’t owe you,” said Jacker as he gripped the coin again.

  “Who else can you trust?” asked Kyle. “Not the girls, and certainly not the other one.”

  Jacker was confused, and felt muddled, as if he was drunk but couldn’t remember drinking. He had a sense of who Kyle was talking about, but the timeframe didn’t seem right. He recalled a reporter, and her husband, but surely that hadn’t happened yet. Of course, that didn’t make any sense either. Then he came to a sudden realization.

  “This isn’t real.”

  “You couldn’t be more wrong,” said Kyle.

  “Dreams aren’t real.”

  “No?” asked Kyle as if he was privy to a joke Jacker didn’t understand. “That’s news to me.”

  “I know this isn’t how this went down,” said Jacker. “You’re in a hospital somewhere. They don’t know if you’re going to wake up.”

  “Story of my life,” said Kyle as the black blood continued to gush from his head.

  “How do I get out of here?” asked Jacker. “How do I wake up?”

  “We don’t wake up,” said Kyle. “We just linger.”

  “What if I give you this?” Jacker held up the plastic coin. “Will this get me out?”

  “It certainly won’t keep you in,” said Kyle.

  “Take it,” said Jacker.

  Kyle looked stunned. “You’re giving it to me?”

  “You want it, right?”

  Kyle nodded.

  “Then take it.”

  Kyle reached out tentatively, as if fearing a trap, and then snatched the coin away. He didn’t need to pocket it. Instead, the coin vanished the moment it left Jacker’s hand. It seemed like Kyle had performed a magic trick and he grinned with insane fervor before his teeth began to chatter.

  “What’s going on?” asked Jacker. He stood up and backed away from the stairs. The steam billowed at his feet.

  “No one can save you,” said Kyle, although he didn’t mouth his words. His teeth continued to chatter and the skin on his face melted away. He took a step down and the steam swirled around his leg, twisting up and wrapping around his waist. He put his finger to the hole on the side of his jaw and pressed until his nail dug into the skin. Then he pulled at the flesh until it ripped from his skull. Half of Kyle’s face fell away, revealing a bloody skeleton beneath.

  Jacker tried to run, but the steam tightened around his legs, holding him in place. He cursed and tried to pull away, but it was impossible.

  “We’ll kill you quick, Hank Waxman,” said The Skeleton Man, now revealed as the flesh disguise was peeled away.

  Widowsfield

  March 14th, 1996

  “You okay, Raymond?” asked Desmond of his son. They were sitting at their regular table in the Salt and Pepper Diner, their favorite restaurant in all of Widowsfield County.

  Raymond was staring out the window onto Main Street and just nodded as an answer to his father.

  Desmond looked over at Grace, their waitress, who was giving their order to the cook in the back. He kept his voice low as he spoke to Raymond, careful not to air their dirty laundry. He liked Grace, but was well aware that the red-haired waitress was useless at keeping secrets.

  “Are you upset about Terry?” asked Desmond of his son. He didn’t wait for the boy to reply. “Don’t let her or that jerk she’s shacking up with get to you. Don’t pay them no mind. They’re dope heads, and don’t deserve your concern. Okay, kiddo?”

  “I don’t care about her,” said Raymond.

  “Then what’s got your goat, buddy? I thought you’d be happy to be headed out on a fishing trip. I was even hoping to stop by the battleship they’re recreating at the reservoir. I thought you’d be excited to see that.”

  “I am.” Raymond continued to stare out the window.

  “Then what in blazes is stuck up your craw?” Desmond looked out the window in the direction that the boy was staring. All that was across the street was the Widowsfield Emergency Services building and the local credit union. There was a woman standing in the parking lot smoking, but nothing else seemed of note.

  “It’s 3:15.”

  “Yeah, I know it’s a bit late,” said Desmond. “We probably won’t get out on the lake today. We’ll get out first thing in the morning.”

  “It’s not that,” said Raymond. “The town’s too quiet.”

  “Well, most of the kids are still in school, and everyone else’s at work.”

  “I don’t know how this was supposed to happen, but I know it wasn’t like this,” said Raymond. The woman across the street flicked her cigarette at the windshield of a nearby parked car and then went into the building.

  “What in the blazes are you babbling about?” asked Desmond. “You feeling okay?”

  Grace was unwrapping a stick of gum as she walked back to their table. “Like I warned you, Juan’s got to grill up the chicken for your sandwich, Ray. So it’s going to take a couple minutes.”

  “Maybe we should just go,” said Raymond.

  “What?” asked Desmond. “Boy, you’ve just about lost your mind. I, for one, don’t plan on leaving until I’m feeling sorry for accepting a second helping of dessert.”

  “What’s the matter, baby?” asked Grace of Raymond. “You look pale as a sheet.”

  “I don’t know,” said Raymond. “I guess it’s nothing.” He grinned up at her and then returned to staring at the digital clock across the street.

  “You’d think there was a parade of bikini-clad babes out there,” said Desmond. “Boy’s been staring out that window non-stop since we got here.”

  “Looks like just a quiet old street to me,” said Grace. She used the eraser end of her pencil to point to the left. “Looks like the UPS man is making a delivery to the book store. He always spends a bit more
time there than it should take to drop off a load of books.” She cackled and winked at Desmond. “I’m not one to go spreading rumors, but if there’s a fly on the wall in that place I’d bet he’s getting an eyeful right about now. Oh, now wait, speak of the devil and he shall appear.”

  Raymond stiffened in his seat.

  Grace leaned down to get a better view as the UPS driver left the book shop and walked around to the driver’s side of his truck. “There he goes now.” She whistled and shook her head. “Boy do I love the shorts they make those guys wear. Never in my life have I seen a better set of gams than beneath those brown shorts. Of course, I guess that sort of thing isn’t what tickles the fancy of two strapping young men like yourselves.”

  “I’ll take yams over gams any day,” said Desmond with a smile.

  A bell rang as Juan announced, “Order up.”

  “Well that wasn’t too long, now was it?” asked Grace as she rubbed her fingers on Raymond’s buzzcut. “I’ll go get your food.”

  “What made you want a chicken sandwich?” asked Desmond of his son, curious why the boy had foregone his usual choice of BLT. “Getting sick of the same ole same ole?”

  “Dad,” said Raymond as earnest as a boy his age could. “This isn’t real anymore.”

  Grace returned with the plates of food and set them on the table. “There we go. I’ll tell you what, kid, that chicken sandwich smells pretty darn good. I might just have to go and give that a try one of these days. I can’t remember the last time I ordered anything from Juan other than the patty melt. I am just awful about that. You know what I mean? I find one thing I like and I just stick with it, over and over, time and again. You’ve got the right idea, bucko. Life’s too short to get stuck eating the same meal over and over.”

  Desmond smiled up at her in a pained way, his polite way of asking for privacy. She nodded and said, “Well, I’ll leave you to it,” as she walked away.

  When she was gone, Desmond asked, “What on God’s green Earth has gotten into you today, boy?”

  Raymond pinched his arm once, and seemed unsatisfied with the result. He pinched again, harder this time.