The Narrows(42)

Finally, she was able to propel herself forward. She slammed into the door and threw it shut, locked it. Standing on her toes, she peered through the window at the top of the door but the yard was too dark to make out any details. She could see Tom’s form fading into the shadows, masked by a screen of silvery rain. Beyond Tom she could make out the dark, low, hulking shape of the Pontiac hiding in the darkness like a panther ready to spring.

“Fuck.” She slid along the wall and flicked on the rear floodlights again. Then she returned to the half-moon window in the door. The floodlights illuminated a wide, circular patch of lawn…but she couldn’t see Tom. His car was still there and his muddy footprints were quickly filling up with rainwater…but he was nowhere…

You’re losing your shit, Maggie, said her head-voice. Your pot is boiling over and your beer is foaming over the top of the glass.

“Stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it…”

In the darkness, beyond even the weeping willow tree, she thought she saw a flash of light. Then she heard a scream, a man’s scream. Tom.

She fumbled with the lock then swung the door open. Rainwater blew into her face. “Tom!” she screamed into the night. “Tom!”

There was movement toward the back of the property. She imagined it to be a struggle. What was out there? What had happened to Tom?

A second scream cracked the night, causing the hairs on Maggie’s arms to stand at attention. She retreated back into the house and slammed the door shut. As she fumbled to lock it again, the entire scene was underscored by yet another peal of thunder.

Maggie snatched the shotgun off the couch then went to the wall and turned off the living room lights. Now, only the outdoor floodlights were on, casting a dull, yellow glow over the grass, the dirt turnabout, the Pontiac and Tom Schuler’s ancient Maverick. Peering out one of the living room windows, Maggie’s breath fogged up the glass. She had the barrel of the shotgun nearly pressed against her cheek. Another flash of lightning brought into brief relief an image of two figures beyond the willow tree, one smaller than the other. But she couldn’t be sure. Fuck…she couldn’t be sure…

Whimpering, she reached up and clicked off the floodlights. She didn’t want to see anymore, didn’t want to be reminded of what was going on out there.

You hit it with your car, Maggie, and it’s not going to let you be.

“Shut up!” she screamed. “Just shut the f*ck up!”

And you know what it is, Maggie…you know damn well what—

A face appeared in the living room window, a white oval with muddy, black eyes framed in darkness. Maggie screamed and jerked away. The curtains fell back into place, obscuring the hideous face. Scooting back across the floor, Maggie stopped when her shoulders struck the back of couch. She held the shotgun in both hands and had the barrel aimed at the window, her finger on the trigger.

Hit it with your car, Maggie, said the head-voice. Hit it with your car. But you did something much worse before that, didn’t you? Oh yes, you did…

Maggie wailed. Sobbing, she crawled around to the front of the couch, the shotgun dragging along the hardwood floor. She pulled the cushions off the couch and propped them up around her in some semblance of a barricade.

Yes, said the head-voice. Pillows and couch cushions will certainly protect you from the thing that fell out of the sky.

“Shut…the f*ck…up,” she rasped.

Outside, lightning lit up the world like a nuclear bomb.



6



A blast of thunder woke her. It sounded like the whole world was about to end. Somehow, she had fallen asleep amidst the barricade of couch cushions and throw pillows on the floor of the living room. The second her eyes flipped open, she recalled all the events of that evening with brutal and frightening clarity. Something heavy sat across her lap. In the dark, she ran her fingers across it and discovered it was Evan’s shotgun.

Tom. Tom had gone outside. Had he ever come back?

“Tom?” she called, her voice was raw from sleep.

When no one answered, she remembered locking all the doors and windows. Just how in the world did she expect Tom Schuler to get back into the house?

He won’t be coming back into the house, she thought, propping herself up on her elbows as her eyes acclimated to the gloom. Something took him. Out there in the yard, something took Tom Schuler.

Still groggy, she managed to climb to her feet and, hefting the shotgun along with her, went to the bank of living room windows. Peeling away the curtain, she looked out upon the night. Rain still fell, churning the earth like muddy soup. The moon had cleared the strands of dark clouds, grinning down at her like the ghostly white face of a cadaver that had been cleaved in half.

Tom’s car was still in the turnabout, rain pattering its windshield and roof. Beyond, the yard was a sloping black mudslide of lightlessness. She could see nothing of substance beyond the far gate at the edge of the property.

What time was it? She went into the kitchen and checked the digital clock on the microwave. It read 1:47 a.m.

What the f*ck happened to Tom?

No. She wouldn’t lose her shit again. She would remain cool. Tom was out there. He had to be out there.

Her sweaty fingers tightened around the shotgun.

Go check. You can do this. It was the head-voice again, but this time it seemed intent on helping her through it. Go out onto the patio and check. Call his name. Maybe he’s out there and he’s hurt. Maybe he needs your help.