Lunar Park (18 page)

Wendy opened the door, startled, still holding Sarah, who smiled when she saw me. Robby was standing behind them, apprehensive and pale.

“Mr. Ellis, no one’s in the house but us—”

I pushed her aside and walked into the office, where I opened the safe in a matter of seconds and grabbed the small handgun, a .38 caliber, I kept there, and then, breathing heavily and dizzy from all the grass, tucked the gun into the waistband of my slacks so as not to frighten the kids. I began moving toward the staircase.

But I stopped as I passed the living room.

The furniture had been rearranged again.

Footsteps stamped in ash crisscrossed the entire space.

“Mr. Ellis, you’re scaring me.”

I turned around. “Just get the kids outside. It’s okay. I just want to check something.”

Saying that made me feel stronger, as if I was in control of a situation I probably wasn’t. Fear had been transformed into lucidity and calmness, which in retrospect I realize came from smoking Mark Huntington’s grass. Otherwise I wouldn’t have acted so recklessly, or even thought about confronting whatever it was in the master bedroom. What I felt walking up those stairs was, I had been expecting this. It was all part of a narrative. Adrenaline was smoothly pumping through me yet I wasn’t moving quickly. My steps were slow and deliberate. I kept gripping the railing, letting it assist in my ascension. I felt so neutral I might as well have been in a trance.

At the top of the stairs I turned. It was dark in the hall leading to the master bedroom, and it was silent. But my eyes soon adjusted, and the corridor took on a purplish tint. The strength it took to walk through that hall came solely from a rising panic.

“Hello?” I called out into the darkness, my voice vibrating hoarsely. “Hello?”

I kept saying this as I moved down the hall toward the door at the end of it.

A sconce flickered and then dimmed as I passed it.

Another one followed suit.

And then I heard something. A shuffling sound. It came from behind the door of the master bedroom.

And from where I was standing in the middle of the darkened hallway, I saw, in the gap below the door, the band of light go black.

And then I heard giggling.

I moaned. The giggling continued from behind the door.

But it was giggling disconnected from humor.

The sconces had stopped flickering, and the only light in the hallway was the moon flooding through the large window that looked over the backyard. I could see Victor sitting on his haunches, staring intently at the house, as if he was standing watch (
But against what?
), and behind the dog was the field, which in the moonglow resembled a flat silver sheet.

The giggling turned into a high-pitched squeal.

I blindly made my way toward the master bedroom; I couldn’t see anything. I was letting the wall I was leaning against guide me toward it. I was only a couple steps away when I heard the door opening.

“Hello? Who is it? Hello?” My voice was toneless. I reached under my shirt for the gun.

The squealing had stopped.

In the darkness the door opened and something rushed out.

It was padding toward me but I couldn’t see anything.

“Hey!” I yelled, then it leapt into the air and flew by me.

I spun around, flailing at it.

And then the door to Robby’s room slammed shut.

I was now holding the gun by my side and felt my way in the darkness, once again relying on the wall, until I was at Robby’s door.

“Mr. Ellis?” I heard Wendy call. “What’s going on? You’re frightening the kids.”

“Call the police,” I shouted, making sure the thing in Robby’s room could hear me. “Call 911 now, Wendy. Just do it!”

“Dad?” This was Robby.

“It’s okay, Robby, everything is okay. Just get outside.” I tried to keep my voice from wavering.

I breathed in and slowly opened Robby’s door.

The room was completely dark except for the screen-saver moon glowing from the computer. The window looking onto Elsinore Lane was open.

I thought I sensed movement in the room and about four steps inside I heard something breathing raggedly.

“Who are you?” I shouted. Fear was crawling through me. I had no idea what to do. “I have a fucking gun,” I shouted uselessly. (
That you don’t know how to use,
I could imagine the thing chuckle, mocking me.)

I backed up and ran my free hand up and down the wall until I found the light switch.

And that was when something bit me on the palm of the hand that was reaching for the light switch. There was a hissing noise, then a stinging sensation in my hand.

I shouted involuntarily and flicked on the lights.

Holding the gun in my outstretched hand, I swept it across the room.

The only thing that moved was the Terby, which had landed on the floor and lurched forward before tilting over onto its side, its strange eyes fixed on me.

It was lying next to a small dead mouse that had been gutted.

But there was nothing else in the room. And I almost broke down with relief.

I swallowed hard and slowly moved to the open window.

When I heard the screeching of tires I ran toward it.

Outside on Elsinore Lane, the cream-colored 450 SL disappeared around the corner onto Bedford Street.

I stumbled down the staircase and out the front door, where Wendy and Robby and Sarah were now standing, dumbstruck. Wendy reached down and picked Sarah up and held her tightly, a protective gesture.

“Did you see that car?” I was panting and suddenly realized I was going to be sick. I turned away from them and leaned over and vomited onto the lawn. Sarah started crying. I vomited again—this time more violently—in spasms. I wiped my mouth with the back of the hand holding the gun, trying to regain my composure.

“Did you see anybody get into that car?” I asked again. I was still panting.

Robby stared at me with disgust and walked back into the house.

“You’re crazy!” he shouted before I heard him furiously burst into tears.

“I hate you!” he screamed, his voice filled with such sureness and certainty.

“What car?” Wendy asked, her eyes wide with not fear but an awful incredulity.

“The Mercedes. That car that just drove down the lane.” I was pointing at an empty street.

“Mr. Ellis—that car just happened to be driving by. What is going on?”

“No, no, no. Didn’t you see the person get into that car and drive off?”

Wendy was staring at something behind me. I whirled around.

Jayne was walking slowly toward us, her arms crossed, her face grim.

“Yes, what is going on, Bret?” she asked quietly, nearing me.

I mistook the expression on her face for compassion but then saw that she was furious.

“Wendy, could you take Sarah to her room?” I walked up to the babysitter, who backed away as I reached out a hand toward Sarah, who turned her head from me, crying so hard she was drooling.

Jayne brushed past me and whispered something to her daughter and then to Wendy, who nodded and carried Sarah back into the house. Still panting, I wiped the spittle from my mouth as Jayne walked to where I was standing, limp with exhaustion. She was staring at the gun and then back at me.

“Bret, what happened?” she asked quietly. Her arms were still crossed.

“I was sitting in the Allens’ yard talking with the guys and looking up at the house and I saw someone in our room.” I kept trying to control my breathing but failed.

“What were you guys doing out there?” She asked this in the tone of a professional who already knew the answer.

“We were just hanging, we were just—” I gestured at something invisible. “We were just hanging out.”

“But you were smoking pot, right?”

“Well, yeah, but that wasn’t my idea . . .” I stopped. “Jayne, there was something—a man, I think—in our room and he was looking for something, and then I came over here and went upstairs to check but he pushed past me and ran into Robby’s room and—”

“Look at yourself.” She cut me off.

“What?”

“Look at yourself. Your eyes are completely red, you’re drunk, you reek of grass and you freaked out the kids.” Her voice was low and rushed. “Jesus Christ, I don’t know what to do anymore. I really don’t know what to do anymore.”

Our voices were contained because we were standing on the front lawn, out in the open. I involuntarily scanned the neighborhood again. And then, wracked with frustration, I said, “Wait a minute, if you’re telling me the grass caused me to hallucinate that thing upstairs—”

“What thing was upstairs, Bret?”

“Oh, fuck this. I’m calling the police.” I reached for the cell.

“No. You’re not.”

“Why not, Jayne? There was something in our house that should not have been there.” I kept gesturing. I thought I was going to be sick again.

“You’re not calling the police.” Jayne said this with a calm finality. She tried to reach for the gun but I pulled away from her.

“Why shouldn’t I call the police?”

“Because I am not having the cops coming over here to see you in this pathetic condition and scaring the kids even more than they already are.”

“Hey, wait a minute,” I said, teeth clenched. “I’m scared, Jayne.
I’m
scared, okay?”

“No, you’re wasted, Bret. You are wasted. Now, give me the gun.”

I grabbed her arm and she let me pull her toward the house, where I pushed the front door open. She was standing behind me when I pointed into the living room and the rearranged furniture. And then I pointed at the footprints, in some kind of sickly triumph. I waited for her to react. She didn’t.

“I arranged that furniture this morning, Jayne. This was not how it was when we left tonight.”

“It wasn’t?”

“No, Jayne, and don’t take that fucking condescending tone with me,” I said, scowling. “Someone rearranged it while we were gone. Someone was in this house and rearranged this furniture and left
those.
” I pointed at the footprints stamped in ash and realized I was jabbering and soaked with sweat.

“Bret, I want you to give me that gun.”

I looked down. My hand was a white-knuckled fist clenched around the .38.

I breathed in and glanced at the palm of my other hand. The small puncture wound appeared to be healing itself already.

She calmly took the gun away and resumed talking in a hushed tone, as if to a child. “The furniture was rearranged for the party—”

“No, no, no—
I
rearranged it this morning, Jayne.”

“—and those footprints and the discoloration are also from the party, and I’ve already called a cleaning service—”

“Goddamnit, Jayne—I did not hallucinate this,” I said scornfully, bewildered by her refusal to believe me. “There was a car out front, and there was someone upstairs and—”

“Where is this person now, Bret?”

“He left. He got in the car and left.”

“How?”

“What do you mean?”

“You said you went upstairs and saw this person and then he ran outside and got into a car?”

“Well, yeah, but I couldn’t see him because it was too dark and—”

“He must have run past the kids and Wendy then,” Jayne said. “They must have seen him as he ran right by them to get into this car, right?”

“Well . . . no. No . . . I mean, I think he jumped from Robby’s window . . .”

Jayne’s face collapsed into disgust. She walked away from me and went into the office and put the gun back in the safe, locking it. I followed her silently, glancing around for any evidence that someone had been in the house and that this vision was not caused by too much sangria and marijuana and the general bad vibes that were now slouching toward me relentlessly. Jayne started moving up the staircase. I followed her because I didn’t know what else to do.

The sconces in the hallway were lit, bathing the corridor with its usual cold glow.

Robby’s door was closed, and when Jayne tried to open it she realized it was locked.

“Robby?” Jayne called. “Honey?”

“Mom—I’m fine. Go away” was what we heard from behind the door.

“Robby, let me in. I want to ask you something,” I said, trying to push the door open.

But he never opened the door. There was no answer. I didn’t ask again because I couldn’t bear what his reaction might be. Plus the Terby was in there, and the dead mouse, and the open window.

Jayne was sighing as she went into Sarah’s room, where Wendy had put her into bed. Beneath a lavender comforter, Sarah was holding that awful doll and her face was radiant with tears. I consoled myself with the lame fact that eventually the tears would stop, but how could I have asked her at that point how that thing had gotten from Robby’s room into her arms during this time frame?

“Mommy!” Sarah exclaimed, her voice trembling with dread and relief.

“I’m here,” Jayne answered hollowly. “I’m here, honey.”

I was about to follow Jayne into the room but she closed the door on me.

I stood there. That she didn’t believe anything I told her, and that she was moving away from me because of it, made that night even more frightening and intolerable. I tried in vain to downplay the fear, but I couldn’t. Frantic, I just stood outside Sarah’s door and tried to decipher the soothing whispers from inside and then I heard a noise from elsewhere in the house and I thought I’d be sick again, but when I walked downstairs it was only Victor scratching at the kitchen door, wanting to be let in, and then changing his mind. I kept peering out the windows, looking for the car, but the lane was quiet tonight, as it always was, and no one was out. What could I tell Jayne or Robby and Sarah that would make them believe me? Everything I wanted to tell them I witnessed would just serve as the potential catalyst for pushing me out of the house. Everything I had seen would never be believed by any of them. And suddenly, on that night, I knew that I needed to be in that house. I needed to be a participant. I needed to be grounded in the life of the family that lived there. More than anyone else in the world I needed to be there. Because on that night I came to believe that I was the only one who could save my family. I convinced myself of this hard fact on that warm night in November. What caused this realization had less to do with the phantom shadows I saw pacing the master bedroom while I sat stoned in the Allens’ yard, or the thing that rushed past me in the darkness of the hallway, or the Terby with the dead mouse, than with a detail I could never share with Jayne (with anyone) because it would be the last straw. It would be my exit ticket. The license plate numbers on the cream-colored 450 SL that had sat in front of our house only minutes earlier were the same exact ones on the cream-colored 450 SL my deceased father had driven more than twenty years ago.