The Rain Dancers Read online

  SECOND EDITION

  The Rain Dancers © 2014, 2012 by Greg F. Gifune

  All Rights Reserved.

  A DarkFuse Release

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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  Other Books By Author

  Apartment Seven

  Down To Sleep

  Heretics

  House of Rain

  Judas Goat

  Lords of Twilight

  The Bleeding Season

  The Living and the Dead

  Check out the official Greg F. Gifune page at DarkFuse for a complete list:

  www.darkfuseshop.com/Greg-F.-Gifune/

  For Terry Wright

  Thank you to my wife Carol, and to Shane Staley and everyone at Delirium Books. And as always, thanks to my readers and fans all over the world.

  “The evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred with their bones.”

  —William Shakespeare

  1

  The dreams began not long after the decision was made to return to town to settle things. I hadn’t dreamed of that town or that house in a very long time, but in the weeks leading up to my return, I was confronted with a recurring nightmare so unsettling I didn’t mention it to anyone. Instead, I sat with it, alone and in the dark. I could feel it as if it were a living thing. Slithering about, summoning forces none of us fully understood, making it real, making it so. And there was no stopping it.

  Not now. Not ever.

  * * *

  Sometimes I wonder if things would’ve been different had it not been raining so heavily that night. Would he have still appeared at the door as if born of the rain, an orphan even the night didn’t want? What would’ve happened if I’d never answered the door or refused to let him in? I wonder.

  But I did. I did let him in.

  He arrived in darkness, in the middle of a violent downpour.

  I was in the kitchen when I noticed headlights gliding along the otherwise dark wall. The house was located in a rural area, on an unmarked and heavily wooded road few people ever came to, especially at night. The road was a dead end, and this was the only house there, a modest Cape my wife had grown up in and my father-in-law had occupied until his death a year before. At Betty’s insistence, we continued to pay the utility bills, and although it sat empty the entire time, everything was still in place, just as it had been the night Earl died. I’d arrived in town early that morning to clean the place out and get it organized and ready to go on the market. Located near the end of the road, it was roughly one hundred yards in, off a two-lane state highway that ran through town. Unless one was looking for the house or already knew where it was, most drove right by the unmarked road without even realizing it.

  Looking back, there seemed something strange about that particular night. Nothing I could put my finger on per se, just a vague sensation that the world around me was askew, that something wasn’t quite right. Somewhere within all that darkness and rain it seemed as if nearly anything was possible. A night made for magic, everything felt dreamlike and mysterious. Or perhaps that’s simply the way I chose to remember it, and that in hindsight I allowed such things into the mix to justify my own feelings. What I did know was that although our reasons were different, neither one of us wanted to be there. We hadn’t been back since Earl’s funeral—Betty couldn’t bring herself to return—but we’d put it off long as possible. It was time to put it all to bed, to get the house in order, sell the property and move on with life.

  Standing in the kitchen that night, watching those headlights slink down the otherwise dark road, there was no mistaking I felt something odd. Even before I knew who it was or what he wanted, I knew what I was feeling, how powerful it was, and how I’d never felt it quite the same way before.

  Fear. I was beset with pure, unadulterated fear.

  And I hadn’t the slightest idea why.

  As I moved to the window next to the front door, flipped the outside light switch and leaned in close to the rain-blurred pane, my eyes adjusted. A large, relatively new pickup truck had pulled into the driveway behind my car. As the headlights went out, I pictured Betty going through things in the cellar, and for some reason felt the need to call her name.

  She didn’t respond.

  The driver’s side door to the pickup swung open, triggering the interior light. Though it was only on for a second or two, it revealed a quick flash of an older man dropping down out of the cab before slamming the door shut.

  I checked my wristwatch. It was only a little after seven-thirty, but due to the storm and the fact that it was early November, it had already been dark for a few hours and felt later. I watched as the man moved across the driveway to the stone walk leading to the front door. He was tall, just over six feet, with a thin, rangy build. Despite the downfall, he seemed unaffected and moved at a slow but steady pace until he’d reached the house. Before he could knock or ring the bell, I opened the door. All that separated us was a storm door.

  The man smiled and waved at me as if we were old friends. He wore a battered baseball cap, an old pair of cowboy boots and a yellow rain slicker over an unassuming plaid flannel shirt and Dickies workpants. “Evenin’,” he said, loud enough for me to hear him through the door.

  At closer range he was a lot older than I’d originally thought. He appeared to be in his early seventies and had a disarming, gentle manner that led me to believe he was probably harmless. But still, I had no idea who he was. “Hello,” I said. “Can I help you?”

  “I hope so, son,” he called above the rain. “Looking for Betty.”

  I nodded, but he must’ve realized from my expression that I was going to need a little more from him than that.

  “Sure am sorry to bother you.” His voice was deep and smooth but laced with a faint trace of southern accent, like a radio announcer from an old country-western show. “I’m an old friend of Betty’s family. Haven’t been in town for years. I’m back for a visit and heard from a mutual friend that her father Earl had passed on awhile back and that you were in town to settle his business.”

  After a slight hesitation, I opened the door. “Come in.”

  “Much obliged.” He stepped inside, bringing a gust of wind and a spray of rain with him. “Great Gosh Almighty, nasty night out there, isn’t it?”

  “Quite a rain,” I said.

  He made sure the storm door closed and latched behind him. “Apologize for showing up unannounced like this,” he said, “but when I heard Earl had passed I felt it only right to stop in and pay you and your lovely bride my respects.” He offered his hand. “I’m Bob Laurent.”

  We shook hands. His palm had the coarse feel of someone who had worked as a laborer for a very long time. “Will Colby.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, Will.” He gave my hand a firm pump then let go. Laurent’s eyes were an arresting blue, particularly set against his leathery skin, which was perpetually tanned and wrinkled, probably from years of working outdoors. Otherwise his features were hawk-like, his face long and angular, no
se crooked and beaked, lips thin and pale. “Heard Earl’s death was sudden.”

  “Yes, it was very unexpected. A heart attack.” I switched the overhead light on and stepped deeper into the kitchen. Laurent followed. “He managed to call an ambulance but died later at the hospital.”

  He frowned. “Had no idea. What a shame.”

  “It happened a little over a year ago,” I explained. “Getting the house in order so we can put it on the market.”

  “No interest in living here, huh?”

  “Afraid not. I have a place in New York.”

  “New York,” he said, as if he’d never spoken the words before and thought he’d try them out. “Betty turned into a city girl, did she?”

  I smiled but offered nothing more.

  He shrugged as if it didn’t matter and said, “Earl and I go way back. Gosh, I’ve known your wife from the day she was born. I knew she’d lost her mother years ago. Matter of fact, that’s the last time I was in town, for the services. Long time now. Fine woman, her momma.”

  “Unfortunately I never had the pleasure of knowing her.” Betty’s mother had died of cancer when Betty was sixteen. When Betty and I met, in our early twenties, her mother had already been gone for years. Laurent apparently wasn’t exaggerating when he said he hadn’t been back to town in a long while. Twenty-six years was a long stretch between visits.

  “Earl and Jan were good people.” He looked away, as if remembering something else, then sighed heavily. “As I say, hadn’t heard the news about her father until just today. How’s little Betty holding up?”

  Had we been discussing something else, his moniker for my wife would’ve made me laugh. Little Betty is forty-three years old, I felt like saying, but I let it go. After all, the last time he’d seen her she was only thirteen. “She did well as could be expected,” I said. “I know from personal experience you never completely get over the death of a loved one, but they say time makes it somewhat easier.”

  “Sometimes,” Laurent said softly. He removed his baseball cap to reveal badly thinning gray hair styled in a comb-over. “Sometimes not.”

  “True enough. Let me get your coat for you.”

  He wiggled out of his raincoat and held it out for me cumbersomely; clearly embarrassed that it was dripping all over the floor. “Geez Louise, I’ve gone and made a mess.”

  “Not at all. It’s just a little rainwater.” I took his hat and slicker, hung them on hooks just inside the front door then motioned to the kitchen set. “Please, Mr. Laurent, have a seat.”

  “Only if you promise to call me Bob.” He smiled, showing faded dentures.

  “Bob,” I agreed. The inexplicable fear I’d initially felt had subsided, but in its wake was an equally baffling sense of unease. “Make yourself comfortable.”

  “Thank you kindly.” He pulled a chair away from the table, sat down and crossed his spindly legs. “Sure do appreciate the hospitality, Will.”

  I jerked a thumb toward a closed door on the kitchen wall to my right. “Betty’s down in the basement. I’ll go get her.”

  “You’ve got yourself a real good girl there.” He winked at me. “Always used to say little Betty was the sweetest berry in the patch.”

  I had no idea how to respond to that, so I smiled politely then excused myself. I slipped through the door and escaped down the cellar stairs to find Betty halfway up the staircase herself.

  She cocked an eyebrow, narrowed her eyes and gave me her best is-someone-here? look.

  I nodded, took another step down so she could hear me, and whispered, “There’s a man upstairs. Bob Laurent. Says he’s an old friend of your father’s.”

  Betty thought a second. “What was the name?”

  “Laurent. Bob Laurent. Old guy, seventies, tall and thin.”

  “Huh. Sounds vaguely familiar, I think, but…”

  “Said he’s known you since you were born. Hasn’t been back to town since your mom died and apparently he was visiting and heard about your father. He’s here to pay his respects.”

  “Great.” Betty pushed her bottom lip out and blew a renegade strand of hair up and away from her eyes. “I look awful. Let me straighten myself up a little.” She was dressed in a pair of sweatpants, a T-shirt and a pair of ratty sneakers. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, but for a few renegade strands hanging in her eyes. “Tell him I’ll be right there.”

  I returned to the kitchen, closing the cellar door behind me. “She’ll be right up,” I said. “Can I get you anything? We don’t have much, just a few things we brought with us and some leftover pizza we had delivered this afternoon.”

  “Thank you, Will, but I don’t want to be a bother.”

  “No bother,” I assured him. “Something cold to drink maybe?”

  Laurent pursed his thin lips. “Golly, are you two going to have anything?”

  I couldn’t quite figure out if his over-the-top downhome politeness was genuine or not. “I’ve got some beer in the fridge.”

  He pointed at me and grinned. “You’re on.”

  I plucked a couple bottles from the refrigerator, twisted off the caps and handed him one. “There you are.”

  “Sure is nice to sit and have a cold beer with friends now and then.” He looked around, taking in the small room. “Spent an awful lot of time in this house. Surely did. I’ve got so many good memories here.”

  I was glad someone did.

  “Yes, sir, I spent many an hour sitting right in this kitchen with Earl just shooting the breeze.”

  Before I could think of a comeback, the cellar door opened and Betty sauntered in, looking as if she’d just that moment realized someone was there.

  Laurent sprung from his chair with impressive speed for a man his age, crossed the kitchen in two long strides and wrapped her up in a huge bear hug. “So good to see you, sweetheart,” he said, still holding her tight.

  Over his shoulder, Betty looked at me with a befuddled expression I read as: I have no idea who this is. I suppressed a chuckle, had another swallow of beer and flashed her my own look. Well I sure as hell don’t know him.

  When Laurent finally ended the hug, he took her by her shoulders and held her back and away from him a bit. “Let me get a good look at you, girl.” His eyes roamed over her from head to toe. “Little Betty. Still the beauty.” Betty blushed, but before she could say anything he pointed at her and said, “Remember I used to call you my little strawberry? Who’s the sweetest berry in the patch?”

  She grinned helplessly. “Me?”

  Laurent laughed, slapped his knee and turned to me. “Didn’t I tell you? I was just telling Will here how I always used to say that.”

  I raised my bottle in salute, as I hadn’t the foggiest idea what else to do.

  “So,” Betty said, doing her best to appear familiar, “how have you been?”

  “Never mind me.” Laurent turned serious. “I’m truly sorry to hear about your father.”

  “Thanks.”

  Laurent gave a sullen nod. “He’s with your momma now.”

  “I know.”

  With his arm around her, he led Betty to the kitchen table. He pulled out a chair and she sat in it, then he slid into the one next to her. What was odd was that he chose the closest side of the table, which meant once they were sitting down they both had their backs to me.

  Rather than join them, I remained where I was.

  Behind me, wind tossed rain against the window over the sink, spraying the pane with a quick drumming sound. Suddenly, I was confronted with a strange vision of the woods behind the house in the darkness and rain, and a sense that someone or something was watching the house, watching us.

  Baffled, I sipped my beer and banished the peculiar visual from my head.

  Laurent was relaying a story about how years before he and Betty’s father had gone on a hunting and fishing trip up in Maine. As he told Betty the story, he nonchalantly slid his arm around her. I didn’t think much of it at first, but he did seem awfull
y comfortable physically with my wife. Maybe he’s just one of those touchy-feely types, I thought. I wasn’t sure I liked this latest development, but Laurent hardly seemed the stuff of predator or dirty old man, so I let it go and listened to him babble on about what fun he and Earl had on their fishing trip. Betty was enthralled, and if Laurent’s arm bothered her, she gave no indication.

  As the story continued, with Betty injecting an occasional question, very slowly, Laurent’s hand began to move from Betty’s shoulder down to the center of her back. His palm went flat and he began to rub from side to side, so slowly at first that the motion was barely perceptible. But within seconds, the strokes had become longer and more pronounced, his fingers tenting then walking along the middle of her back.

  Was he really doing what I thought he was doing? I hoped not, because he appeared to be checking to see if she was wearing a bra.

  I waited to see if Betty reacted. She didn’t.

  Unsure of what to do—if anything—I strode over to the table, keeping my motion deliberately casual so as not to project a sense of upset or urgency. Neither Betty nor Laurent noticed me, so I rounded the table and slid into a chair directly across from them. I hadn’t noticed previously one way or the other, so I glanced at Betty’s chest, and through the thin T-shirt saw that she had a bra on.

  The moment I sat down, Laurent removed his arm and shifted positions in his chair so he could comfortably see both of us. It was a smooth move, and one designed to appear as if he were accommodating me. As he continued his story his eyes bounced between us, back and forth, but I was no longer listening to him. I was focused on Betty. She seemed unaware of what Laurent had done, which led me to question my interpretation of what I’d seen. I leaned back in my chair, pretended to be riveted with his story and ran through it all again.