Long After Dark Page 9

  There had been times in the past when Harry had heard something strange, seen something from the corner of his eye he couldn’t account for, felt something he couldn’t explain, and had ignored it. Not this time. Something was happening here, something unusual but something real. Harry knew it.

  And the coyote on the other side of the glass knew it too.

  The animal moved a bit closer to the French doors then crouched lower, bowing its head but keeping its eyes trained on Harry. Open the door. Please.

  Harry looked past the animal to the yard and forest beyond. The trees moved with the wind but otherwise the area appeared ordinary. Could there be someone, something deeper in the woods, just out of sight but watching this whole thing play out? It seemed not only possible, but probable. The curtains between everything Harry believed real and unreal were billowing, disintegrating slowly as each side bled into the other.

  “You’ve seen them too,” Harry whispered to the coyote. “Haven’t you.”

  He remembered how when Marlon was alive he’d sometimes suddenly spring to attention, his face turned to a window or door, his eyes filled with intensity—fear?—and his body rigid with anticipation. Like he’d heard or seen something he hadn’t expected to or that didn’t quite belong. Harry remembered how sometimes the dog would stare at a corner of the room or at a wall, eyes moving as if following something, seeing something, head cocked in amazement or perhaps confusion. Had he seen something Harry and other humans, under normal circumstances, could not?

  Please, the coyote’s eyes begged, let me in.

  On any other day Harry would’ve called Animal Control as Kenny suggested. But he felt a bond with this animal, one he couldn’t ignore.

  I can’t let him in the house. I can’t. No way, don’t be absurd, it’s not some stray dog it’s a frigging coyote. Kelly would kill me, and besides, there’s no telling what he might do or how he might react. He could attack me or trash the place and he could be sick or rabid or—no, it’s ridiculous, I can’t do this.

  The coyote was so low to the ground its belly was practically touching the patio, but its eyes remained locked on Harry. Please, I won’t make it another night out here.

  He didn’t know what, but he had to do something, he couldn’t turn his back on the animal, he just couldn’t. There was something so pure about the coyote’s eyes. In a way they reminded him of Marlon and—Marlon, he thought. That’s it.

  “Wait,” Harry said, holding a finger up at the glass as if the coyote might somehow understand what that meant. “I have an idea. I’ll be right back, OK?”

  Grabbing a tissue on the way by, he headed for the kitchen, blowing his nose as he went. At the back door he stopped and looked through the windows at the mudroom and outer door. Everything looked as it should, so he opened the door and stepped out into the mudroom, a small pantry-like area with a cement floor and a storage closet along one wall. The area had once housed Marlon’s food and water dishes, as it’s where they’d always fed him at night. Near the bottom of the back door leading outside was a pet door that had been locked since Marlon’s death. The coyote could definitely fit through that, he thought. The question is will I be able to get him to use it?

  He opened the closet. A pair of shoes he’d worn a few days before sat on the floor, covered in sand and what appeared to be dark mud. Odd, he thought, where would I have gone to get them that filthy? And why did I put them in here? A sharp pain fired through his temple. He gasped, rubbed the spot and it slowly faded. Head clearing, he looked to the shelves. Two metal dishes, a couple cans of dog food and a half-empty bag of dry food were still there these few months later. A lump the size of a golf ball formed in Harry’s throat as his eyes filled with tears. His emotions were so raw, so close to the surface he seemed powerless to combat them. Wiping his eyes and nose with the back of his sleeve, he cleared his throat, coughed awhile then pulled the dishes down, setting them against the wall. He filled one with dry food, emptied a can of wet food on top and filled the second bowl with tap water. In the linen closet he found an old blanket they rarely used and put it down on the mudroom floor.

  After making sure the outer door was locked, he looked out the windows to the backyard. The coyote had evidently heard him moving around in the mudroom and had left the patio and was now sitting just a few feet away. Harry crouched down, slid the pin-lock over on the pet door, pulled it open, then let it slap back into position. He peered out the windows again to see if the coyote had noticed. He had, and was inching closer to the flap, sniffing at it cautiously.

  Harry turned and hurried back into the kitchen through the interior door, closing it behind him. He watched as the pet door lifted and a little black nose appeared. It was followed by the snout and finally the coyote’s head. His eyes darted about suspiciously before finally looking up and noticing Harry on the other side of the door.

  “That’s the best I can do,” he told him. “It’s OK, come on, that door will let you come and go as you please. Come on.”

  The head backed out, the flap closed.

  Harry returned to the French doors but the coyote had not done the same. Perplexed, he checked the mudroom again. This time he found the coyote fully inside the room, moving slowly, nose working furiously as it sniffed every inch of wall and floor it could reach. At least for the time being it seemed uninterested in the food, opting instead to sit on the blanket and stare at the outside door as if expecting something to come knocking at any moment.

  “It’s all right,” Harry said through the door. “You’re safe.”

  The coyote glanced at him.

  Maybe, the eyes answered, but not for long.

  He watched the coyote awhile, still unable to believe what he was witnessing. What in God’s name could cause a coyote to behave this way?

  Before he could fully ponder the question, the strange scraping sound he’d heard earlier and suspected was a runaway trashcan returned. Echoing along the street, this time it sounded like it was coming from out in front of the house. Less consistent and methodical than before, it came in periodic bursts, then fell silent, only to return several seconds later.

  The coyote’s ears reacted. He’d heard it too. The animal quietly backed as far into the corner of the mudroom as possible and lay still.

  Harry went fast as he could to the bay window and its view of the street. The wind had let up somewhat but the sky threatened more rain. The cars in the driveway were undisturbed, and again, there were no loose trash barrels or—

  There!

  A man stood in the middle of the street dressed entirely in black, his back to the house. Hunched over, he was wrestling with some sort of large pipe that looked to be about five feet in length and at least three feet in diameter. An odd shade of metallic dark gray Harry had never quite seen before, it appeared similar to the kind of stovepipes used on freestanding fireplaces and woodstoves, but not exactly, as this particular length of piping—or whatever it was—appeared quite heavy, awkward to maneuver and much bigger around. One end of the pipe was touching the street, the other held in the crooks of the man’s arms as he struggled to drag it along the pavement to wherever he was headed. With each effort the pipe scraped the ground, making the sound Harry had heard.

  At first he thought it might be the same man he’d seen scuttling across Rose’s roof, but as more detail came into view he became convinced it was not. The roof-squatter wore pants, a sweater and a knit hat. This man was dressed in black overalls, a black turtleneck, black boots and a black conductor-style cap. Harry couldn’t make out his face as it was turned away, but black hair stuck out in tufts from the back of the hat.

  Unsure of what the man was doing or exactly what he was dragging, Harry watched from the window, peeking but careful to remain partially concealed. Despite the coffee his fever made it difficult to function or concentrate for anything other than very short intervals. His eyes were heavy, he’d again begun to feel terribly weak and he couldn’t be sure of his legs just then. He le
aned most of his weight against the wall as he watched the strange man outside continue to lug the pipe up the street in the direction of the abandoned houses. It was obviously this man the coyote was reacting to, so whoever he was, his mere presence and proximity managed to elicit crippling fear in the animal the likes of which Harry hadn’t previously believed possible. Odd, he thought. There didn’t seem to be anything intrinsically terrifying about him.

  The man bent his knees, put his back into the lift, then dragged the pipe another few feet, but it slipped from the cradle of his arms and down into his hands, which he now held cupped beneath the underside. With his chest heaving and his shoulders slumped, it looked like he might drop the pipe at any second. But despite the precarious grip, he managed to hang on, and then his posture slowly straightened and the man stood very still.

  Harry blinked rapidly, keeping him in focus, but the man still had his back to him, concealing any facial expressions that might offer a clue as to who he was or what was happening. The shift in body language seemed to indicate something had changed, though, like something had just then occurred to the man, or as if perhaps he’d heard something unexpected and was reacting to that.

  Very slowly, the man’s head pivoted, turning to look back over his shoulder.

  Harry leaned out of sight, fell against the wall and hid along the side of the window. The man was still essentially in line with the property, so once he looked behind him he’d be looking right at the house, and more precisely, right at the bay window. But Harry had moved out of the way well before the man had turned, so he waited, trying to breathe in short little inhales and exhales so as not to incite his cough. He knew that at that distance, and with a wall and window between them, the odds that the man could have somehow heard him were nearly nonexistent. So why then had he looked back at the house? Had he sensed Harry behind him, watching? Had this strange man experienced the same feeling Harry had been grappling with for hours now—the sensation of being watched—and was simply reacting to that, checking to see if it was coming from behind him? With his back flat against the wall next to the window, Harry silently counted off the seconds, waiting for an appropriate amount of time to pass before he could safely take another peek. He’d hoped the sound of the man dragging the pipe might resume but it didn’t.

  Harry waited.

  He could hear his chest wheeze with each inhale and exhale of breath, threatening to unleash another coughing fit, and he’d begun to perspire again, a good sign, perhaps, in terms of his fever. His head was filled, his nose running, and he desperately needed a tissue, but he didn’t want to leave his position just yet, so he wiped at his runny nostrils with his sleeve and continued to count off the seconds.

  After a minute, he figured it was more than likely safe to take another look.

  Moving stealthily, Harry peeled his back from the wall, turned to the edge of the bay window, then slowly leaned his head out for a better view.

  And looked directly into the face of the man.

  He was right there, just inches away, his impossibly pale face pressed against the window, hands up on either side of him and touching the glass.

  Harry let out a horrifying scream and staggered back as if punched in the chest and knocked off-balance. The room spun, ceiling becoming floor, floor becoming ceiling, everything a blur of speed and motion as he felt himself falling, coughing, trying desperately to draw breath through lungs clogged and swollen. Even once he’d toppled over and crashed to the floor, sprawled there and flopping about like a beached fish, he continued to scream—or at least tried to—because he’d finally gotten a good look at the man’s face.

  Only it wasn’t the normal face of a man at all. The eyes were abnormally large, bright and moist, unblinking and set an unnatural distance apart. There were no discernable lips around a mouth that barely contained freakishly large teeth stained brown with decay and rot, and the nose was thick, hooked and flattened like a boxer’s.

  Get up, you—you have to get up and get to the phone!

  He struggled back to his feet, but fear slashed at him again and again, cutting him clean to the bone with each arcing strike. A relentlessly primal fear, it was unlike anything he’d ever felt before, a hysterical terror that left him feeling insignificant and weak, prey caught alone on an open plane, already marked, already chosen, already doomed, already dead.

  Head spinning, he coughed and gagged and fell again, this time pitching forward. His forehead just missed the edge of the coffee table, and though he managed to break most of the fall with his hands he still ended up face-first on the floor. Rolling, he forced himself to his knees. Spittle dangled from his lips as he continued to cough, unable to stop now, his lungs rattling, his throat raw and his eyes teary and burning.

  The phone—where’s the phone, I—the coffee table, I left it on the coffee table!

  He rose to his feet, legs quivering as he lunged for the cordless, then spun back around to check the window.

  No one was there.

  The cough finally subsided and Harry stood there a moment, swaying and trying to catch his breath, mouth agape, bottom lip sporting long drools of spit and phlegm that hung from him like strands of spaghetti. He wiped them away with his free hand, his other clutching the phone. His chest continued to wheeze, but otherwise the house was quiet. With his thumb he hit 9-1, then waited, slowly inching back to the bay window, neck craned for a better view out to the street.

  No man. No pipe. Just an empty cul-de-sac.

  Harry wiped his eyes but soon realized they hadn’t simply been tearing due to the cough. He was crying. Tears streamed his cheeks and his head filled up even worse than before, but he couldn’t help it. Again, emotions were running through him unchecked and he could no longer control them. Like a frightened and abandoned child, he stood before the bay window and wept for some time.

  After a while he realized there seemed little point in calling the police. They’d think he was crazy—he wouldn’t blame them—and he had no desire to go through another episode like he had with Officer Nicoletto. Without looking, his thumb slid to the disconnect button and hung up the phone.

  Once he’d regained some control of himself, Harry shuffled back into the kitchen to check on the coyote. He was still lying on the blanket, and when he looked up at Harry his eyes remained filled with terror. Only this time the terror was in Harry’s eyes too.

  What should I do? What—what am I supposed to do? I don’t know, I—I don’t know what the hell to do, I’m not equipped for this, I don’t know anymore, I can’t think straight and I don’t understand any of this!

  Suddenly he was confronted with an overwhelming desire to laugh. He caught it just in time and reined it in, knowing that if he let it loose he might never be able to stop it. Like a tiny crack in his defenses, it would spread and grow, fracturing him deeper until he crumbled to pieces, broken beyond repair.

  Madness was right there, so close he could feel its breath against the back of his neck. All he had to do was let it swallow him. It seemed so easy, really, so much easier than fighting it. But fighting was all he had left.

  The flu, the lack of sleep, the madness, the stress and all the other things that were going on had stripped him of everything. His physical and emotional strength, his clarity of mind, his sense of safety and security and comfort, his health, his ability to sleep and heal himself—all of it—they’d taken all of it. His desire to fight, to never succumb to the ever-closing darkness was all that remained. His will. It was weakened, badly wounded even, but it hadn’t yet been broken. In the end, nothing could rob him or anyone else of that. It could only be given away, and in that strange and wondrous moment, standing in his kitchen alone and afraid, confused and exhausted and riddled with sickness, Harry promised himself he would never let that happen.

  But I can’t keep going on like this, not with…those eyes, my God, they…

  He checked his watch. Just a little before three. In another hour or so it would start to get dark
.

  Kelly. I have to call Kelly. I can trust her, I can—I can tell her what’s going on and she’ll know what to do, she’ll—

  A sudden and violent knocking shook the house.

  Someone was pounding on the front door.

  6

  Harry grabbed a baseball bat from the back corner of the hallway closet next to the stairs. He’d kept it there for ages along with two old mitts that hadn’t been used since Garret was a little boy, yet it was battered and scarred with several nicks and smears of what looked like some black substance. He remembered the two of them using it sparingly at best but apparently it had gotten a lot more use than he’d thought. The old Louisville Slugger was also a lot heavier than he remembered, or he’d become even weaker than he realized. The damn thing felt like it was made of granite rather than wood. Holding it with both hands, he pointed it toward the floor, then kicked the closet door closed with his heel. Already out of breath and sweating profusely, he inched toward the front door. When he got to within a foot or two of it he stopped and waited for a break in the knocking.

  “Who is it?” he called out.

  A muffled voice answered. It sounded female.

  He moved closer, this time taking a step to the side so he could get a peek out the windows on either side of the door. Someone was standing on the front stoop in a light pink raincoat but he couldn’t see a face. Harry looked to the street. A pink Volkswagen Bug was parked directly in front of the house.