But it seemed now that Patrick had been taught time and time again some cruel cosmic lesson: that every time you try to be courageous and do something selfless, you end up making things worse. It was painful, and it didn’t make any sense, but it certainly seemed to be what the universe was trying to tell him.
Somehow the final grain of sand in what must have been the most enormous hourglass in history finally fell and the impossibly long day ended. Patrick walked home alone. He didn’t glance at the trail where Rachel had obviously seen his improperly hid backpack (another fact that was much too painful to dwell on), and he walked past her street without taking his eyes off the ground.
He had considered what he might do to help Rachel, but not a single idea proposed itself, because nothing in this situation made sense. Something had taken over her body and Patrick had felt it; he could sense a change in her with that sixth sense that he supposed was unique to animals, could feel a different being looking back at him. And that being had simply disappeared. Without a trail to follow, there was nowhere to even look for her. Without a single clue as to what it wanted, there was no way to predict where she might end up. She could be a hundred miles away by now. There was just nothing left to consider.
His family didn’t talk to him much during dinner, and resorted to the same respectfully hushed voices employed by his classmates. They tried to include him in the conversation, but when they saw that every answer to their questions was only a small nod or shake of his head they left him alone to stare at his food.
They had found out that something was wrong the night it happened. In fact, when Rachel hadn’t come home by six thirty they were the first people that Dave called. Patrick hadn’t heard the conversation in detail, but from his room he could hear the inflections of his mother’s voice: pleasantly surprised by a call from Rachel’s father, a pause as he asked her if she’d seen his daughter, a concerned answer, then assurance that if Rachel showed up she would call him right away. His mother had then called him downstairs and asked if he knew where Rachel might be. He felt like he had to muster every bit of control he possessed to keep the worry from his face until his mother asked the question. He told her about the study group and how it shouldn’t have lasted this long. It had been a bitter convenience for Patrick that Dave had called before dinner, because he knew that hiding his grief while facing his entire family for such a long period of time would have been impossible.
Patrick spent much of that Saturday in his room. Unable to do anything but lie on his bed (a habit which had grown old quickly but was unavoidable all the same) he watched the hours tick by on his alarm clock.
*****
Sometime in the afternoon he heard a knock on the front door. He heard his mother open it and exchange a few muffled words with a man. Then she called for him and he was forced to pull himself out of bed and trudge slowly down the stairs on weak legs. When he reached the bottom and looked at the door he saw Dave and his mother talking softly. His mother gave an utterly weak smile and walked away down the hall, leaving the two of them alone.
Dave’s eyes looked sunken, the dark rings under them most likely matching Patrick’s. The man looked like he hadn’t been sleeping much either. His hair had never been tidy, but the casual ruffle had turned into a completely ignored bed head. He still held his car keys and fiddled with them, much as a nervous man in a western might wring his hat. The look he gave Patrick was almost pleading, and that hurt a great deal.
“Hi, Patrick,” Dave said as Patrick walked up to him.
He didn’t say anything—only waited for the man to talk.
“I already talked to your parents and they said you didn’t know anything that I didn’t…” His voice was shaky and he stared at the floor, shifting his feet around anxiously. “and I believe them, but I just…” He paused and winced for a split second as though trying to hold back tears, then looked into Patrick’s eyes. “I just wanted to talk to you for myself. You understand, right?”
Patrick nodded.
“Good,” Dave said, looking down again so much like Rachel had on the swings that it sent a pang of grief through Patrick’s heart. “I knew you would, Patrick. You’re a good guy.” He paused for a few moments, considering, turning his car key around and around in his fingers. Then finally he looked up again. “So tell me, in your own words,” he specified again, as if to fully avoid any small chance of offense, “what happened that day after school.”
Patrick felt as though his life had derailed and smashed into a cliff side, but he could tell that Dave felt much worse. After his wife died, Rachel was probably the only thing he had left in the world. Now he had to come home every day to an empty house, clinging onto the tiniest, most fragile hope that she may still be alright, but knowing deep down that he would most likely never see his daughter again. It was hard for Patrick to look into this man’s eyes and tell him that he didn’t have the slightest clue as to her whereabouts, when it was in actuality his fault that harm had come to her. He had a vague idea of what happened to her that he didn’t fully understand, but telling Dave that certainly wouldn’t aid the search teams who now joined the animal control people working vigilantly out in the woods of Hillward.
“We usually walk home together, but she said she had to stay for a little while with her study group.” His voice was weak with misuse and very low. “So I took a walk and went home. And that was it.”
After a pause Dave’s brow furrowed slightly and he sighed. He may not have expected anything to come of this interview, but he had certainly hoped.
“Alright,” he said, now as quietly as Patrick. “Thank you.” He turned and stepped through the door without another word, closing it softly behind him.
Patrick stood in the hall for several moments. The house was completely silent save for his breathing. Outside a car drove by and a bird tweeted cheerily.
“I need to go for a walk,” he said to himself.
*****
Walking into the woods was easier than Patrick had anticipated. He thought that it would do nothing but rekindle the regret and helplessness that seemed to burn behind his eyes and in his chest, but he walked through the trees with an unsettling ease. It almost felt as though whatever evil had been here had completed its scheme and moved on. He felt like a ghost lurking down the streets of a ruined city months after an earthquake.
As he walked he could feel the bulge in his back pocket. Although it pained him every moment it was in his mind, he couldn’t seem to part with the scarf. He had folded it and tucked it into his pocket before he left the house. He almost wished that it were cold enough to put it on, though wearing it probably would have made him feel a lot worse anyway… Still, he often found his hand groping for it, as if for comfort.
When he reached the clearing where it had all happened, he was surprised to find that every trace of what took place two days ago was gone. There was no hole, no coffin, no body, not even a disturbance in the ground. The shovel was nowhere to be found. For a moment he thought that he must be in the wrong place, but he looked to the left and saw what was unmistakably the trail to the street.
Whatever had taken Rachel had apparently come back to clean up. This brought up fresh new feelings of dread; she had come back, right here behind his house, and he hadn’t been there to stop her. He thought that maybe this should fill him with righteous anger and strengthen his reserve to find her, but instead it just reminded him of how little it mattered what he did or where he looked. He was just one person, and she could be anywhere.
It was hard to be thankful for anything during a time like this, but he did acknowledge that if the hole remained the police would have certainly found it instantly and Patrick would have been a prime suspect in her disappearance. Even if they couldn’t link it to Rachel’s case directly, it was an odd thing for a teenager to locate the exact spot of a shallow grave and unearth it without telling anyone. He hadn’t fully considered any
of this before, or perhaps didn’t really care, but at least this small amount of grace had been granted to him. There weren’t many ways the situation could be worse, but being in jail was definitely one of them.
Patrick looked at the spot where a huge hole and two piles of dirt should have been and saw only unbroken soil covered in dry leaves. The bizarreness of the whole thing began to hit him again, and he was staggered by the number of questions he had. It was ridiculous to think that in this whole world there wasn’t one person who might have some of the answers he was looking for. There had to be someone who could somehow understand what he was going through.
But there is, he reminded himself. Maybe it’s time we give him another try.
Unable to think of anything else to do other than wait out the rest of his life in his bedroom, he jogged back home and found the phone book.
*****
He had to root through his school binder to find the sheet he had been given during his meeting with Mr. Matlock. It contained all of the teachers’ names and the room numbers of the classes he was taking, and when he finally found it he was relieved to see that it did indeed include the teachers’ first names as well. He ran his finger down to the bottom of the list, searching for the man whose first name he hadn’t gotten around to remembering.
Vincent, Mark D. the paper read. He tossed it aside and flipped the phonebook open on his lap. He found his way to the ‘V’s and after a moment gave a quiet sigh of relief when he spotted the name. He held his finger on the spot and picked the cordless phone up off the bed. He dialed the number and sat very still, waiting with held breath as the line rang once, twice, three times.
This is stupid, he thought. Of course he’s not going to answer his phone. He’s practically shut himself off from the rest of the world.
It was at this thought that Patrick was suddenly hit with a sharp feeling of guilt; despite everything that had happened, he owed it to Mr. Vincent to at least let him know that he hadn’t been responsible for the recent attacks. The man was most likely wallowing in shame and fear, and Patrick had barely made an effort at all to contact him. He had tried once, but when everything was set in motion he had simply stopped thinking about it. Depression could make a guy do some stupid things…
Like unplug the phone.
Two more rings came, and Patrick’s heart sank a little as the answering machine clicked. A prerecorded voice spoke to him in a way that was intended to be cheery but ultimately was nothing but eerie and robotic.
“I’m sorry,” it said, “Mark Vincent,” (Mr. Vincent’s voice spoke for a second) “is not available. Please leave a message after the tone.”
There was a beep, and though he knew it was coming Patrick still cringed at the piercing sound.
“Mr. Vincent,” Patrick said in a low voice, for some reason worried that one of his parents might walk by and wonder who he was talking to. He waited for a moment, wondering if the man could even hear him or if he had switched off the answering machine too. “Mr. Vincent,” he said again, “this is Patrick.” He only paused for a second before adding, “I really need to talk to you.”
At this point, further words were useless. He waited for a sound, any sound. He noticed that the hand holding the phone to his ear was shaking slightly.
Finally there was a click, and the unmistakable background noise of an open connection. There were several quiet seconds that were touched only by this hum.
“Hello, Patrick,” said a voice so low and gravelly that it was hardly audible.
Suddenly Patrick didn’t know quite what to say. He only held the phone and thought about every single event that had taken place over the last few weeks, wondering where to start or what he was even calling to ask. Thankfully, Mr. Vincent spoke again.
“Maybe you should meet me here.”
*****
Mr. Vincent’s house wasn’t a half hour drive up the mountain after all. In fact, it was within walking distance of Patrick’s house, as he was beginning to realize a good percentage of the houses in Hillward were. He walked into town until he passed the grocery store (which he only now noticed was apparently called “Sunset Market”) and took a left a few blocks later. This led him into a neighborhood much like Rachel’s, though being closer to the heart of town the street was much busier. He walked until the numbers reached the 1800’s, then located the number he had been given.
Mr. Vincent’s house, like most of the houses on this street and in this town in general, was modest. It was dark brown, and between the small covered porch and all the overgrown trees, bushes and grass, it was home to many shadows. None of the lights were on in the house, and it looked as if no one had lived here for a good few years.
Patrick started up the walkway slowly, certain that this was the correct house but for some reason hesitant all the same. He walked up the steps and was swallowed by the shadow of the porch, wondering exactly what would end up taking place within these walls. He stepped up to the door and could see that there was a doorbell, but for some reason he felt it more appropriate to knock. He rapped his knuckles three times, maybe a little too quietly.
When he thought maybe he should try knocking again, a little louder, the door opened and Mr. Vincent stood in the darkness of his cave.
He was wearing a worn, brown t-shirt and what appeared to be sweat pants. This reminded Patrick of his father, but the illusion broke a split instant later when he looked up at the man’s face. In the shadow of the unlit house his eyes looked as though they were floating in two actual holes in his skull. Patrick had never seen darker rings or a more weary expression. Any other feature that may have spoken of Mr. Vincent’s current state was lost under his thick beard, which had apparently been left to grow wild.
Mr. Vincent had a reputation of looking tired and often distracted, but this was the first time Patrick had seen him completely disheveled and without an ounce of coolness or professionalism or even a smile on his face.
His teacher stepped to the side and gestured for Patrick to come in with a turn of his head. When Patrick walked inside he was struck by the man’s thick scent—the one Patrick had caught when they had shaken hands, the smell that clung to the man’s every possession like ectoplasm.
The front door led directly into the living room, with the dining room and kitchen off to the left. Mr. Vincent shut the door, bathing the house once more in darkness, and walked slowly over to a recliner. He lowered himself into it as if it took the very last of his energy. Patrick followed and sat down on a couch on the opposite wall.
Mr. Vincent breathed in deeply and sighed, then leaned forward and rested his chin on his clasped hands. He regarded Patrick sullenly for a moment, then spoke.
“So, Patrick… Needed some help on the research paper, did you?”
Patrick couldn’t find it in him to even acknowledge the comment with a smile.
“Mr. Vincent,” he said, his voice unable to rise much above a whisper in the eerie hush of the house, “what, exactly, has been going on?”
There was a pause. The floating eyes bore uncomfortably into his mind.
“At this point, it’s hard to tell,” the man said.
“Have you stopped coming to school because you’ve been hurting people?” Patrick asked. It was the first time he had ever acknowledged his other life verbally to another human being. It took some effort, but when it was finally out he felt a little relieved.
Mr. Vincent’s face was unchanging.
“You know a lot,” was all he said, and it was Patrick’s turn to speak once more.
“Mr. Vincent, I don’t know exactly what you’re going through, but it’s not you. Dean’s been the one attacking everybody.”
The man let his face slide down into his hands and ran bony-looking fingers through his wild hair where they remained, his face pointed toward the floor.
“But I have attacked people, Patrick.” His voice was tired and rough, but completely calm.
“It wasn’t you, it’s been Dean the whole time. He wanted me to stay out of his business so he did this to me.” Patrick gestured to the scratches on his arms and neck that were beginning to fade, though his teacher didn’t look up to see them. “I don’t know why, but he’s been hurting anyone he can. You’ve got to believe me, it hasn’t been you at all.”
“You’re mistaken.”
“I’m not! I’ve smelled Dean, he reeks of blood! I think he might be doing it for fun!”
“I killed someone, Patrick.”
Patrick was about to make another point but his mouth stopped and it was forgotten. There was a long silence where the two of them only sat, no noise but for the occasional passing car.
Mr. Vincent finally lifted his head and put it back in its original position on his hands. He didn’t look at Patrick, but somewhere around his feet.
“I know that Dean has been running amok. But I’ve had a part in this too.” He took another deep breath, gave another sigh. “I’ve lived here for fifteen years. I started teaching at the high school when I was only twenty-five. I’ve always suffered from insomnia, and between the stresses of marital life and teaching kids, nighttime walks became frequent for me. One night as I was walking in the patch of woods across from the school I came across a crow. It was so odd to see such a bird walking around so late at night… and it was staring at me. Just sitting on the ground and staring up at me. So I walked up to it, thinking it must be sick, and I started to get this funny feeling. Well, you probably know how the rest of that goes, I guess.”