Night Film(163)

I didn’t fully believe that I just might be free of The Peak until we barreled into the Evening View parking lot. I thanked the kids and climbed out, waiting for them to swing back onto the main road, accelerating away, before I walked up to the room, #19.

I did nothing but gaze at the door for a moment, wondering what I was going to find on the other side.

An empty room, untouched since we’d left it? Or was a stranger staying there now, someone who’d claim he’d been there for weeks, no sign of Hopper or Nora? Or would my knock be answered by one of those figures in a black cloak, the nightmare only beginning again?

I knocked. There was a long pause.

And then the door, chained from the inside, opened just a crack—someone peering out. It closed again, the chain slid back, and suddenly Nora was flinging her arms around my neck. Hopper appeared right behind her, silently hastening us inside, taking a suspicious look at the parking lot before closing and locking the door.

The first thing we decided to do was check out of the motel, get into the car, get the hell out of here. Nora was agitated and had, I noticed, terrible scratches down her cheeks. She kept saying, “What happened to you? We thought they got you. We thought—” But Hopper only snapped that we should get out of here now and we could talk when we were away from this place, his terse explanation being that he’d noticed a banged-up maroon Pontiac loitering around the parking lot.

“It has to be them,” he muttered, zipping up his gray hoodie, grabbing his canteen off the bed. “The windows are tinted black. It looks like it’s from the seventies. And it’s missing a headlight.”

As I watched the two of them darting around the room, hastily stuffing clothing and toiletries and snacks into their backpacks, I remembered that I no longer had my own.

Where had I left the bag? Those figures had pulled it off of me.

I stepped dazedly in front of the mirror beside one of the beds and saw I was still wearing Brad Jackson’s herringbone coat. Its extreme heaviness was due to not just the dampness and mud but the pockets—they were stuffed with objects, one of which I noticed, as I pulled it out with a wave of revulsion, I didn’t even recall seeing, much less taking with me.

And then I saw my face. I understood the teenagers’ shock, even Nora’s and Hopper’s worried sideways glances.

I looked crazy. There was no other word to describe it.

I rinsed the smeared mud off in the bathroom, watching the thick sludge spinning down the drain.

We left the motel quickly, Hopper climbing behind the wheel.

They had the Jeep but not the canoe. I meant to ask them about it but was abruptly so tired I couldn’t muster the strength. Hopper drove as if we were being tailed, careening down deserted roads, pines and maples and empty fields spinning past, eyeing the rearview mirror. Nora, in the passenger seat beside him, was subdued, her hands clasped in her lap.

“You see the Pontiac?” she whispered.

He shook his head.

We’d been driving for about three hours when Nora pointed out a white farmhouse perched on the side of the road—Dixie’s Diner, Homemade Food That’s Doggone Good!—the parking lot packed. Only then did I feel I just might return to normal. My right arm was showing signs of life, tingling as if filled with needles. My fingers were moving again, though the palm of my hand, where I’d been holding that compass, was swollen. The horror of The Peak seemed to be drying on me, as if it were black water I’d been swimming through and now it was evaporating from my skin, leaving the faintest film.

The three of us filed into the restaurant and Hopper asked the hostess for the booth in the back.

“What happened to your arms?” Nora blurted out as we made our way to the back.

I didn’t know what she meant. I’d taken off the coat, rolled up my sleeves, and saw now that my arms were covered with a horrific-looking rash. As we slipped into the booth, Nora said, “We’ve been waiting for you for three days.”

“Christ,” said Hopper. “Let him eat.”

We ordered food, and I was able to piece together from their disjointed and strung-out commentary that in the three days I’d been missing, apart from a few searches along the roads around The Peak, they’d been too paranoid and worried about me to leave the motel. They hadn’t left The Peak together. Nora had been the first to make it back, arriving at the room at five in the morning the same night we’d broken in. It wasn’t until after six that evening, Thursday, that Hopper showed up, driving the Jeep.

“I thought I was going to have to go to the police,” said Nora. “I didn’t know what I’d say. ‘We broke illegally into this estate and now my accomplices are being held hostage.’ I got the number of your police friend, Sharon Falcone. She didn’t pick up.”

“Can I interest you guys in any dessert?” the waitress asked, suddenly beside our table.

“I’ll have a slice of apple pie,” I said hoarsely.

“Anyone else?”

Nora and Hopper stared at me in surprise. I was surprised myself. It was the first time I’d managed to speak with a normal voice.

They ordered pie and coffee, and then, after the waitress brought the food, Nora, who’d been so jittery and talkative as she ate, fell silent, touching the scrapes on her cheek as if to check that they were still there. Hopper looked lost in thought. It was obvious then, the two of them weren’t simply upset over my three-day disappearance. They’d each had their own strange experiences up there.