After Dark (6 page)

“Not exactly,” I said and took another sip. I was starting to think that Dr. Vortex's Re-Animator might be the most delicious thing I'd ever tasted.

“Last night,” he said, leaning in, “at 8:58 p.m., I was finishing up my nightly ten-mile run —”

“You should be talking to my sister,” I said.

“I think it's important to stay fit for emergency situations.”

“So does she.”

“Just listen.”

“My apologies,” I said and nearly finished off the Re-Animator in one big gulp.

“I was finishing up my run when I noticed a man, dressed in a navy blue suit, sprinting through Mr. Baxter's backyard,” he said, and looked at me like this should mean something.

“Uh-huh.”

“Don't you see? Adults in suits don't sprint through other people's backyards unless they are highly motivated.”

“Highly motivated?”

“Exactly,” he said.

“Highly motivated by what?”

“Now you're asking the right questions,” he said, smiling. “I didn't have to wait long to find out because about three seconds after the man in the suit ran by, Mr. Baxter and his wife emerged from the corner of the house, chasing after him toward the rear of their property. And do you know what they were wearing?”

I shook my head and considered getting another Re-Animator.

“Their pajamas,” he said triumphantly.

“Their pajamas?”

“Don't you see? Pajama-wearing adults do not chase suit-wearing adults through their backyards — it just doesn't happen. Mr. Baxter wasn't even wearing a shirt, just some blue pajama pants. And Mrs. Baxter was wearing a pink housecoat and pink fuzzy slippers. And, even if pajama-wearing people did start chasing suit-wearing people off their properties every night of the week, it wasn't just what they were wearing that was significant, it was how they were moving that really stood out.”

“How were they moving?”

“They were moving at an incredible velocity,” he said, his eyes getting wide. “If I didn't know better, I would've guessed they were Olympic sprinters on some powerful, performance-enhancing drug. But they didn't have the smooth movements of trained athletes — they were kind of jerking, like they were being pulled along by invisible strings.”

“And they were chasing the man in the suit?”

“That's the kicker,” he said. “This man was extremely large. I would estimate he was at least six and a half feet tall and muscular. He was bigger than Mr. and Mrs. Baxter put together, but he was scared of them, really scared. I saw his face before he ran into the woods behind the property, and he looked terrified.”

“Well, that's a scary story, Miles,” I said, getting up. “Good luck with everything. If I see Mr. and Mrs. Baxter running around in their underwear, I'll be sure to get out of the way.”

“Their pajamas,” he said, standing up, too. “Look, I'm telling you this because we need to do something. We need to warn people!”

“I'll put it at the top of my to-do list,” I said.

“You don't get it,” he said, shaking his head in frustration. “Look, later that night I went back to investigate the situation. I hid in one of the trees at the rear of the Baxter property and observed the house. At precisely 10:48, Baxter came out of his house and walked to the small barn at the back of his property. When he came out, Mrs. Baxter and the man in the suit were following him. They were walking in single file.”

“Wow, single file — that's pretty weird, Miles.”

“That's what I thought,” he said, “but it gets worse. They heard me, I don't know how, I was thirty yards away, staying perfectly still, but they heard me. About halfway to the house, they all stopped walking at exactly the same time and turned around. I don't have any definitive proof, but I'd say they're sharing what is commonly referred to as a hive mind. They stopped, turned and then, without saying a word, they started marching toward me. That's when I took some serious evasive action, my friend, and a few minutes later I was trying to explain what happened to you and your uncle.”

“I'll make sure I stay on my toes, Miles,” I said, heading for the door. “Thanks for the drink.”

“Did your uncle come home?” he asked, just as I was walking out.

“I don't think so,” I said.

“I think he knows something is wrong, Charlie. That's why he left. He knows.”

“Sure,” I said, and left Miles standing in the middle of the Voodoo, looking worried.

I headed back to Church Street, which was still busy. It wasn't New York City–busy, not by a long shot, but it had a certain bustle about it. It was a relief to see there were a few people around under the age of fifty. There were even a few under the age of eighteen, but I didn't feel much like making friends, not in my slightly ripe Choke clothes. So I headed back to the inn.

About two minutes into the hike up Oak Avenue, I realized they should have called this town Tall and Steep Hills instead of Rolling Hills. It hadn't seemed like Oak was straight up and down when we were driving in the truck, but it was a different kettle of fish when you were on foot. The fact that the day had quickly gone from mildly hot to scorching wasn't helping matters — and as delicious as the Re-Animator had tasted, it wasn't doing much in the way of Re-Animating me. I would have curled up and turned into a puddle of goo on one of the big front yards, but I thought it would reflect badly on Mom, so I kept trudging onward and upward, withering away a little with every step.

Saturday, 10:35 a.m.

By the time I staggered back into the driveway, I was soaked in sweat. I kind of noticed the beat-up red pickup truck parked beside the inn, and some part of me realized there were four men sitting on the steps of the front porch, but I was too exhausted to really care.

“Kind of hot,” one of the men said, standing up as I wobbled toward him. He was tall, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, but that was pretty much all I registered.

“I've seen hotter,” I said and wiped the sweat off my face with my shirt.

“I'm Jake,” he said, holding out his hand. “Jake Steel. We're helping out with the renovations.”

“Charlie,” I said, pushing past him, stepping around the other three and lying down in the shade of the front porch.

“Is your mom around?”

“Paint …” I mumbled.

“What?” he asked, but luckily that's when Mom pulled into the driveway. I was too tired to answer any more questions.

“It was nice to meet you, kid,” he said, and walked away.

I heard Mom introducing Lilith and Johnny to Jake, and then they headed back my way.

“This is my other son, Charlie,” she said.

I opened my eyes a crack. Jake, his three helpers and Mom were standing over me.

“We've met,” Jake said, smiling.

“Charlie, get up,” Mom barked. “I need you to help Johnny and Lilith put the paint cans in the cellar.”

“Just give me two more minutes,” I said.

“Up!”

Using every ounce of my will, I sat up and wiped the sweat out of my eyes. Jake and his crew, who were all men who looked like they'd enjoy shoveling rocks just for kicks and giggles, shuffled by in dusty work boots. That's when I noticed a fifth man who was with them. He was leaning against the wall by the front door, deep in the shade. He was wearing the same kind of dusty boots as the others but was wrapped up in a black jacket with the hood up. I started to sweat more just looking at him. Under the hood, he was wearing a Boston Red Sox ball cap, the brim pulled low, and under the hat he had on a pair of black wraparound sunglasses. He stared at me for a few seconds and then went inside after the others.

“Get up, Charlie,” Lilith said, walking by with two cans of paint in each hand and going inside, too.

“Bro,” Johnny called from the back of the truck, “get over here and grab some cans!”

“Easy does it, Johnny,” I said, getting up and dragging myself over to the back of the pickup. “Not all of us ate a five-thousand-calorie breakfast.”

“You could use the exercise, Chuck.”

“There's got to be thirty cans of paint back here,” I said, looking into the back of the truck.

“Thirty-five,” Johnny said.

He handed me a can, and I started back toward the front door.

“Seriously, you can handle more than one, right?”

“I need a bit of a warm-up,” I said. “I don't want to pull any muscles.”

Johnny passed me on the way to the porch. He was carrying three cans of paint in each hand, but the front door was closed, so he had to stop and wait.

“You see,” I said, opening the door, “it's a good thing I kept one hand free. Otherwise you'd be stuck out here for who knows how long.”

“You're a genius, bro,” he said, marching inside and down the hallway to the kitchen.

“Sarcasm isn't your thing, John-John,” I said, following behind him. “Leave that to me and Lilith.”

“What?” Lilith grumbled. She was standing in the far corner of the kitchen, in front of a door that was only about four feet high. The paint cans she'd been carrying were at her feet, and she was holding a flashlight.

“Did those cans get too heavy for you, Lilith?” I asked.

“I've finished four triathlons this year, Charlie. I think I can handle it.”

“Did you carry any paint cans during your precious triathlons?”

She frowned and handed me the flashlight. “Here — you have an extra hand.”

“And a good thing, too,” I said. “Otherwise, who would be here to carry flashlights and open doors?”

Lilith growled a little, opened the door and then picked up her paint cans. “After you,” she said, nodding into the darkness.

I turned the flashlight on and aimed it inside. About twelve wooden planks, masquerading as stairs, led down to a dirt floor. The ceiling over the stairs was only slightly higher than the door, maybe five feet high, and the walls were so close together that Johnny and Lilith would have to walk sideways in order to get the cans down the stairs. It looked more like a narrow chute than a stairway.

“Move it, bro,” Johnny said, nudging me forward.

“How long since anyone's been down there?” I asked.

“Go!” Lilith barked, and pushed forward until I was forced to step through the door and onto the first stair. It creaked and bent a little under my foot, but it didn't break.

“I don't think we should —” I started, but they were pressing in from behind, so I had to keep going.

I moved quickly, the stairs groaning under me, and was surprised when I reached the bottom without a broken ankle. It smelled like dirt down there, but it was damp and cool, which was a nice break from the heat.

“Well,” I said, “I guess we can leave the cans here.”

“Not here,” Lilith said. “We keep going until we get to a door.”

“Yeah, Mom gave me the key,” Johnny added.

“And you're going to follow orders like a good little Johnny, aren't you?”

“Keep moving!” Lilith barked.

I shuffled down the passage for about twenty feet before I had to take a left. The stone walls seemed like they were closing in on us ever so slightly with each step. By the time we finally arrived at an ancient-looking wooden door, I was feeling a little cramped and a whole lot claustrophobic.

“Do you have the key?” I asked.

There was no way for Johnny to squeeze by me, so he handed it over. The key was long, made out of iron or steel and felt cool and significant in my hand. I'd just slipped it into the keyhole, when a small herd of mice darted across my foot and went squealing down the passage behind us.

“I think we're going to need to buy a cat or three before the guests arrive,” I said.

“Just open the door,” Lilith snapped.

I opened it, and we shuffled into a room that felt big. I couldn't really tell how big because it was pitch-black inside, except for a thin slash of light that seemed to be floating in the far right corner. Below it, the dirt floor was cut by a similar slash of light.

“That's got to be the door to the backyard,” Lilith said, putting her cans down and snatching the flashlight out of my hand.

“Why didn't we just come in there?” I asked.

“Because it's bolted from the inside,” Johnny said, dropping his cans and following Lilith.

“Of course it is,” I said, putting down my can of paint and starting after them.

Unfortunately, Johnny and Lilith had hustled across the room so quickly I was left mostly in the dark and ended up running into a wooden box, cracking my shin. I limped to the side, tripped over another box and fell. I landed sideways on something metal and rolled onto the dirt floor, gasping for air.

“You okay, bro?” Johnny called.

“No,” I wheezed.

“Hold on a sec,” Johnny said, and the doors opened.

The slash of light turned into a giant square of sunshine and I saw I was surrounded by boxes, old furniture and stacks of dusty books. The metal thing I'd landed on was part of an old bed frame.

“You hurt, Charlie?” Johnny said, rushing over.

“I'm good,” I said, sitting up. “I just need to take a breather for a few hours.”

“Suck it up, Chuck,” Lilith called, starting out of the cellar. “Those paint cans aren't going to move themselves.”

“Need a hand?” Johnny asked and offered to help me up.

“Give me a second.”

“Sure, bro,” he said and went outside, too.

“I'm right behind you,” I called.

I eased my way up, wincing a little, and was about to head outside when I noticed a wooden trapdoor in the floor a few feet to my left. The dirt around it had obviously been scuffed up recently and the iron ring that was sitting in the middle had a rope tied to it that looked brand-new. I was heading over for a closer look when Lilith arrived with four more cans of paint.