Phil rose and shook Jack’s hand. ‘Don’t be a stranger,’ offered Gloria as Jack left through the back door. Returning to her husband’s side, she said, ‘So, Gabbie. Things don’t seem quite so bad, do they?’
Gabbie sighed. ‘Oh, he’s definitely a hunk; Ducky Summers would say, “He’s got buns worth dying for”. But how am I going to keep from losing my lunch when he shows up with some retard rockhead, cold-blood farm horse? Ugh!’
Gloria smiled. ‘Let’s unpack another crate, then I’ll chase the boys to bed.’
Gabbie nodded resigned agreement, and Phil led her out of the kitchen. Gloria followed, but as she started to leave the kitchen she was struck by a sudden feeling of being watched, as if unfriendly eyes had fastened upon her. She turned abruptly and for an instant thought she saw something at one of the windows. Moving her head, she saw flickering changes in the light of the kitchen bulb as it reflected off imperfections in the glass. With a slight sense of uneasiness, Gloria left the kitchen.
Sean tried to settle deeply into the bunk bed. The smells were new to him. Old feather pillows had been dug out of a closet when it was discovered the boy’s familiar ones hadn’t been where they were expected to be, and despite the clean pillowcases, they had an ancient, musty odour. And the house made strange sounds. Creaks and groans could be faintly heard; odd clutters and whispers made by creatures of darkness had Sean burrowing deeply below the heavy comforter, peeking out over the edge, afraid to relax his vigil for an instant.
‘Patrick?’ he whispered, to be answered by his brother’s deep breathing. Patrick didn’t share Sean’s fear of the dark. The first night Patrick had tried to bully his brother out of the top bunk – they had both wanted the novel experience of sleeping that high off the ground – but Mom had prevented a fight and Sean had picked the number closer to the one she had been thinking. Now Sean wondered at the whim of chance that put him in the top bed. Everything looked weird from up high.
The moon’s glow came through the window, and the light level rose and fell as clouds crawled slowly across the sky, alternately plunging the room into deep gloom and lightening to what seemed almost daylight. The dancing shadows had an odd pattern Sean had come to recognize.
Outside, an old elm tree rose beside the bedroom, its branches swaying gently in the breeze. When the moon was not obscured, the tree shadows became more distinct, making their own display. The thick leaves rustled in the night wind, casting fluttering shadows that shifted and moved around the room, shapes of ebon and grey that capered in mad abandon, filling the night with menace.
Sean watched the play of shadows with a thrill of danger that was almost delicious, a sweaty-palm-and-neck-hairs-standing sort of feeling. Then something changed. In the blackest part of the gloom, deep in the far corner, something moved. Sean felt his chest tighten as cold gripped his stomach. Moving in the wrong rhythm, against the flow of greys and blacks, it was coming towards the boys’ bunk beds.
‘Patrick,’ Sean repeated loudly. His brother stirred and made a sleepy sound as the shape began to slither along the floor. It would move a beat, weaving its way across the carpet, then pause, and Sean strained his eyes to see it, for when it was still, it would vanish. For long, agonizing moments he couldn’t see any hint of motion, then just when he finally relaxed, thinking it gone or an illusion, it would stir again. The maddeningly indistinct shape approached the bed slowly, at last disappearing below the foot of the bunks, out of Sean’s view.
‘Patrick!’ Sean said, scooting backwards to the corner of the bunk furthest from the creeping shadow. Then he heard a sound of claws upon wood, as something climbed the old bedpost. Sean held his breath. Two clawlike shapes, dark and terrible in their deformity, appeared beyond the end of the bunks, as if reaching up blindly for something, followed an instant later by a misshapen mask of terror and hate, a black, twisted visage with impossible eyes, black opal irises surrounded by a yellow that seemed to glow in the gloom. Sean screamed.
Suddenly Patrick was awake and shouting and an instant later Gloria was standing in the doorway turning on the lights.
Phil was a moment behind, and Gabbie’s voice came through the door of her room. ‘What’s going on?’
Gloria reached up and hugged Sean. ‘What is it, honey?’
‘Something …’ began Sean. Unable to continue, he pointed. Phil made a display of investigating the room while Gloria calmed the frightened boy. Gabbie stuck her head in the room and said, ‘What’s going on?’ She wore the oversized UCLA T-shirt she used as a nightgown.
With a mixture of contempt and relief in his voice, Patrick said, ‘Sean’s had a nightmare.’
His brother’s tone of disdain caused Sean to react. ‘It wasn’t a dream! There was something in the room!’
‘Well,’ said Phil, ‘whatever it was, it’s gone.’
‘Honey, it was just a bad dream.’
‘It was not,’ said Sean, halfway between frustrated tears at not being believed and a fervent hope they were right.
‘You just go back to sleep and I’ll stay here until you do. Okay?’
Sean seemed unconvinced, but said, ‘’Kay.’ He settled in and began to accept the idea he had been dreaming. With his mother nearby and the light on, the black face seemed a nightmare design, not a thing of solid existence.
‘Broth-er,’ said Patrick in disgust. He rolled over and made a display of needing no such reassurance.
Gabbie’s grumbling followed her back into her own room as Phil flipped off the light. Gloria remained, standing patiently next to Sean’s bunk until he fell asleep.
Outside the boys’ bedroom window, something dark and alien slithered down the drainpipe and swung onto the nearest tree branch. It leaped and spun from branch to branch as it descended, dropping the last ten feet to the ground. It moved with an unnaturally quick, rolling gait, a stooped-over apelike shape. It paused near the gazebo, looking back over its shoulder with opalescent dark eyes towards the boys’ window. Another movement, in the woods, caused it to duck down, as if fearing discovery. Bright twinkling lights flashed for an instant, darting between boles, and vanished from view. The dark creature hesitated, waiting until the lights were gone, then scampered off towards the woods, making odd whispering sounds.
The house became a home, slowly, with resistance, but soon the odd corners had been explored and the ancient odours had become commonplace. The idiosyncrasies of the house – the strange little storage area beneath the stairs next to the cellar door, the odd shed in the back, the way the pipes upstairs rattled – all these things became familiar. Gloria considered her family: Gabbie wasn’t happy but had ceased brooding, and the twins shared their secret world, seemingly content wherever their family was. Gloria had been most concerned over their reaction to the move, but they had shown the least difficulty in adapting. The most positive aspect of the move had been in Phil’s attitude. He was writing every day and seemed transported. He refused to show Gloria any of his work so far, saying he felt superstitious. She knew that was so much bullshit, for she had talked out story ideas into the night with him before. She knew he was simply afraid she wouldn’t like what he was writing and the bubble would burst. All in good time, she thought, all in good time.
Seventeen days after Jack Cole’s visit, a note was delivered by the mailman. It was addressed to ‘Philip Hastings and Family’. Gloria opened it while Phil scanned a letter from his literary agent. ‘… look forward to presenting your newest work. Several publishers already have expressed interest …’