Nancy’s head whirled to Mick. “Danny’s ...?”
“You’re fucked in the head, man. And I swear, you call me a killer one more time and I’ll –”
“You’ll what?” Mick lowered his hands to wipe away tears.
Skip saw the knife for the first time. Caught off guard, he held up his hands and took a step back. “Whoa.”
“For years, you’ve made my life a living Hell.” Mick moved forward, smiling a bit when he saw Skip take another backward step. “What?” He held the knife higher. “Now that I can defend myself you don’t wanna wail on me? You’re such a coward.”
“Put the knife down, Mickey,” Robby said. “If Sheriff Carter wants Skip, let’s give him Skip.”
“No.” Mick savagely swiped his cheeks with the back of his hand, smeared the blood that remained there. “I want to hear Skip say he’s a coward. I want to hear him say he’s guilty.”
As Mick and Skip stood staring at one another, Nancy heard a voice. It was as if the surface chatter of her brain had gone suddenly quiet, allowing her to hear the background music, a beautiful choir that sang to her as one melodic, hypnotic voice. It was the same voice that had urged Skip to leave her in the corn, but she couldn’t know that. The only thing Nancy knew for certain was that it told her the truth.
“If you don’t mind me saying so, you’re the one who’s guilty,” it said. “But wouldn’t it be better if it was Skip? Better for you, better for everyone.”
She understood what the voice meant. If Skip had killed Cindi, the police would lock him up and throw a party. But, plausible as it was, he didn’t do it. Nancy did. They would find out about it sooner or later. She should take responsibility now and –
“Skip’s the only one who knows it was you,” the whisper reminded her. “The police think he killed Dale Brightman; they would believe he killed Cindi too.”
This thought made her heart beat with guilty joy. Skip was the real reform school kid here. She could say he did it and they’d believe her. They’d think he ...
No. She had to face facts. She was the one who picked up the rock.
“The rock Skip knocked out of your hand? I’m sure his fingerprints got on it. You could say you tried to stop him. After all, you were her best friend. Why would you kill her? Skip can say he’s innocent all he likes, no one’s going to believe him over a homecoming queen.”
She wanted to do it, but she was still filled with uncertainty. It wasn’t right, after all. It wasn’t –
“Is it right for you to throw away your whole life? You’re a good girl, Nancy, such a good girl. Is it right that you should spend the rest of your life in prison?”
No, but –
“Then, right now, just say it was Skip.”
But –
“No one will ever know it was you if you just –”
Yes.
“– say it!”
Nancy suddenly opened her mouth and screamed. “Skip killed Cindi! He killed her!”
Skip’s head jerked in her direction. He almost looked hurt. Everyone stared back at him with hateful expressions. “What? You can’t actually believe ...” But he could tell from their eyes that they did. He pointed to Nancy. “She’s fuckin’ possessed!”
Mick could not help but smile. He’d been suddenly vindicated. Skip was a killer, just as Sheriff Carter said he was. When they met up with the police they would –
“Kill the fucker.”
The alien voice was like a starter pistol being fired off in Mick’s head.
He sprang at the blur in front of him, knowing that this time it was Skip, knowing he was not going to be fooled again. Never again. The knife was in his right hand, its serrated edge a row of glistening fangs.
“Little shit!” Skip managed. He dodged Mick’s lunge, took a few staggering steps back, and the sticky blade sliced air, fanning his face and neck.
Mick nearly fell, but quickly regained his balance; he turned and thrust the knife upward.
Skip feinted, then grasped Mick’s hand and squeezed, trying to get him to release the blade. Mick stepped down hard on Skip’s foot and threw out his elbow, forcing Skip to let go and stumble back.
For a moment, Paul had the urge to grab Deidra and take off running into the mist. Let them kill each other. Maybe whatever was out there in the fog would be so enthralled by the bloodshed, it would forget all about them and they could get home. Then Paul remembered the story Deidra had told him, got control of his impulses, and shouted, “This is exactly what they want!”
Skip and Mick continued to circle one another. It reminded Paul of the rumble in West Side Story. Neither of them appeared to hear him.
“Look at me, Goddammit!” Paul turned to Deidra. “Tell ’em about the legend with the crows.”
She nodded. “The Miami were out looking for –”
Skip shifted his eyes to her for only a moment, but it was enough time for Mick to dive forward and stick the knife into his chest. When the blade was withdrawn, blood spilled out to cover the “A.I.D.S Kills Fags Dead” logo, turning Skip’s entire shirt bright red. Skip looked down at the leak he’d sprung, then covered it with his own hands like the little boy who stuck his finger in the dike; he rocked back and forth on his feet, then reached out to grab hold of Mick, his eyes glassy and stunned.
Robby ran forward as Skip fell, pushed Mick aside to get to him. He put his hand on top of Skip’s, adding to the pressure, feeling the warm gush of fluid between his fingers. “No, no, come on ...”
Paul rushed over with the camcorder lamp, tried to help Robby see. A tiny red light winked at him from the front of the eyepiece and Paul came to the dark realization that he might have inadvertently filmed a murder.
Skip Williamson was gone. The teenager who bled out in the dirt was named Josh, and Josh was scared. He gasped, his face woeful and confused. He looked around, then turned to Robby. “They’re everywhere,” he whispered, and blood followed the words from his mouth, flowing thickly down his chin.
Robby knelt there, feeling everything twist inside his own gut. At his hands, the warm gush became a trickle, and the trickle tapered down to nothing. He looked into Williamson’s eyes and thought he saw the life flicker out of them. Robby never thought he could feel anything for Skip, but, at that moment, he felt a parade of emotions march across the ridges of his mind; astonishment, followed closely by sympathy, guilt, fear, and ultimately rage. His hands curled into fists and he began to pound on Skip’s chest.
Paul thought Robby had been infected by Mick’s insanity; he reached out to him, grasped him by the shoulder and pulled him up. “Stop!”
Robby’s face whirled around, his eyes filled with fury. “Don’t you tell me to stop! He’s seventeen, dammit! Same as you, same as me, same as Dale, and Cindi, and ... and Danny! You don’t die at seventeen. You haven’t even lived at seventeen! This is all ... it was just supposed to be a fucking game!”
“It stopped being a game a long time ago,” Paul said, his face grim. “And if you wanna live past seventeen, we gotta go.” He stepped away from Robby, offered Mick a harsh glare. “You just stay away from us!”
Mick looked up, amazed. “I did it for –”
“You did it because you wanted to.” Paul pointed into the fog. “And they knew it. They knew it and they used it to get you to kill Danny too.”
“Danny ...?” Nancy’s gaze shifted from Skip’s dead face to Mick’s live one, then fell to the knife still clutched in his hands, the knife that now dripped fresh blood. She leaned back in Deidra’s embrace, the hand she’d been holding over her mouth slipping down to reveal an expression of agony. “You ...?”
Paul’s fingers folded and the nails dug into his palm. He had to stay focused. If he didn’t, he felt that the things he’d seen – Schongauer’s demon, the Miami girl, or whatever the hell they really were – might have their way with him as well. Paul walked over to Deidra, tugged at her, blood from his own hand smearing across her arm. “Come on.”
&
nbsp; Deidra nodded, pulled on Nancy’s CHOOSE LIFE shirt. It had been white at nine o’clock that morning. Now it was filthy, streaked and splattered in red. “We’re going.”
Nancy’s feet went with them, but her eyes remained squarely on Mick.
Robby stood and moved to follow, still looking down at Skip, wondering what he’d seen. Angels? Relatives who’d died before him, come now to show him the way? Robby hoped that’s what it had been. The alternative was far too horrid to consider.
“You heard Nancy.” Mick pointed to Skip’s body with the knife. “He was a killer.”
“You heard Paul.” Robby gave Mick a hard push as he walked by. “How’s it feel to be their bitch?”
“When we find the sheriff, he’ll tell you. He’ll know I did the right thing.” Mick watched Robby and the others walk off into the mist, and, when the light faded, he chased after them. He was not going to be left in the dark again.
They walked together in silence, their minds too filled with thought to make room for words. Another twenty minutes went by, and the corn seemed to wilt into the haze. A huge, shadowy “T” materialized in their path, and Paul found himself suddenly reminded of Sesame Street.
Today’s Wide Game has been brought to you by the letter “T.”
Amazing what the brain chose to remember when the body was gripped by fear.
Paul thought it might be another corpse, someone else hung on a cross like Dale Brightman, hung like the statue of Christ in St. Anthony’s church. Instead, as he peered along his spotlight beam, Paul found something else entirely. At first, he was puzzled, then recognition took hold and he could not hide his joyous smile. A rusted metal clothesline, four ropes extending from its crossbeam to disappear into the haze.
Deidra identified it in the same instant. “We’re back!”
They burst forward, put every bit of energy they had left into a sprint. A building stood before them, partially hidden beneath fingers of mist. Nevertheless, Paul could tell it was a house and he pulled Deidra to him, kissed her as they ran.
“Never in my life did I ever think I’d be this happy to see Harmony!” Robby cried, a smile dawning on his lips as they approached the back step.
“Is it real?” Nancy asked. “Tell me it’s real!”
Paul threw himself against the back door, pounded for someone to open it. No one answered; darkness filled every window. “Hey,” Paul called out. “We need some help out here!”
“It’s probably some old couple.” Robby bent over, his hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath. “Either ... they’re asleep, or they ... they’re too scared to open up.”
“They can call the police then,” Paul told him. “That’s fine by me.”
And then Paul had a terrifying thought. Fog still billowed all around them. What if this haze blanketed the entire town? What if the demons had stolen everyone else away and left them here alone, with no one to help and nowhere to go? At that, Paul pounded even harder, shook the entire doorframe; the idea that Harmony was now a ghost town making him shudder as he screamed, “Please, let us in!”
Deidra giggled, dug in the pockets of her pink sweatpants. “I just realized this is my house.”
Paul stopped trying to break down the door and shined his lamp around in disbelief. Deidra was right. They’d arrived on the back threshold of the Perkins’ home. He caught her laughter, leaned against the side of the house, his ribs aching. They’d come full circle.
Nancy laced her fingers through her hair. Robby shook his head. Both were smiling. When Paul glanced over at Mick, however, his own laughter dried up.
Mick’s eyes had gone dull with a kind of stoned disbelief.
Paul didn’t like that look ... not at all. He felt his face tighten, like the grip of a man hanging onto a ledge for dear life, and when he peered down Mick’s line of sight – when he saw what Mick saw – his grip deserted him and left him numb with horror.
A whole congress of unimaginable silhouettes stood at the edge of the yard, cloudy abominations that bulged, flapped, and slithered. Though Paul could not see them clearly through the fog, his mind filled in the details, showing him Schongauer’s demons; living, breathing, and coming to get him.
Deidra announced she found her keys and Paul screamed.
Everyone turned their heads to look, first at Paul, then at the mist. Paul hoped he was hallucinating, that each of them would see nothing there but haze. The look of alarm that washed over their faces told him different. The demons were there, real, and approaching fast.
Paul pushed Deidra toward the door. “Get inside!”
She fumbled with the key ring, tried to put her Volkswagen key in the lock, then switched to the house key. The door swung wide and they ran past her into the darkened house. Deidra reached over for the light switch, flipped it up and down. The lights remained dark.
“Goddammit,” she cursed, “they worked fine this morning!”
This morning.
God, how distant that felt now.
Paul slammed the back door closed behind them and locked the deadbolt. He tapped Deidra on the shoulder, pointed across the room to the kitchen wall. “See if the phone works!”
She nodded and ran to the telephone. When she put it to her ear and heard the dial tone, she sobbed with joy. Deidra dialed 911, dancing up and down as if she had to use the toilet. It rang.
Robby, Nancy, and Mick backed up into the breakfast nook. Mick still held Danny’s hunting knife, which in the hands of a prosecutor would be labeled Exhibit A. Robby saw a metal baseball bat propped against the roll-top desk and he grabbed it with both hands, held it up like a club.
A voice on the telephone line, “911, what is the nature of your emergency?”
“Thank God,” Deidra cried. “We’re –”
Being attacked by monsters from the corn?
“There’s someone trying to get into my house!”
The kitchen window darkened and shattered. Deidra looked over to see a clawed hand push its way into the room, then evaporate into a wispy gray tendril of mist. She screamed, dropped the phone from her ear and let it swing back and forth from its curly noose of rubber cord.
Paul backed away from the door, joined the rest of the group. “Upstairs!”
They retreated down the dark hallway toward the landing of the staircase. The steps were now carpeted in heavy mist. Robby looked up, saw the fog drift down from the clouded upstairs hall.
“I don’t think we should go up there,” he said.
A shadow slid across the floor, then grew up the wall of the hallway. It appeared to be human. “Mick?” it called, a hoarse imitation of Skip.
Paul’s eyes shot to Robby. “I like it down here a whole lot less.”
“You proud of yourself, little man?” The shadow grew larger on the wall, came closer. “We’ll see how proud you are roasting on a spit.”
Robby moved onto the stairs with hesitation and Nancy gave him a hard shove. The others followed, ascending the steps quickly, their feet disturbing the fog, making splashes of vapor. When they reached the second floor, Deidra ushered them into her room. It was just as it had been that morning with the exception of the bed. Deidra had taken the time to make it up, probably while Paul had been showering. They backed away from the door, crammed themselves into the far corner.
Deidra put her head on Paul’s shoulder, her hand clutching Freddy Krueger’s visage on his shirt. His right hand rose to her hair, stroked it. His other hand held out the camcorder, swung the light between the window and the doorway. Their breaths came in short, heavy gasps that broke the overwhelming silence of the house.
Then, they heard another sound.
Footsteps.
Something climbed the stairs. Deidra and Nancy drew in loud, hissing breaths. Paul backed up another step, pushed Robby flat against the wall. Mick watched the doorway with wide, terror-stricken eyes.
A shadow oozed over the carpet, then hit the door and slithered its way up. Paul tried to think o
f something that would help them, but he could find nothing. In a moment it would be in the room with them, Skip Williamson’s re-animated corpse or something far worse.
Without a moment’s thought, Mick dropped the knife onto the carpet and snatched the steel bat from Robby’s trembling hands. He moved away from the group, rushed the open door, and, when the thing in the hallway turned the corner, he lashed out. The steel club struck the figure in the head, knocked it against the wall where it collapsed onto a bed of Cabbage Patch Kids.
Mick approached the thing with caution, tightening his grip on the bat. He half expected whatever it was to jump up, like a movie maniac who would never die, but it didn’t. It just laid there, spilling dark fluid, staining the stuffed dolls.
“I think it’s dead,” Mick whispered, adding to himself, dead again.
The mist made a hasty retreat from the room, as if someone had turned on a huge vacuum and sucked it all away. If this had been a movie, Paul would have taken the footage of the fog rolling in and run it in reverse. When the air was clear, he aimed the camcorder spotlight at the thing Mick had brought down, and, in his ear, he heard Deidra scream.
Even with his blurred vision, Mick saw it too. The shadow he’d clubbed wore a brown skirt and matching sweater; one of her shoes lay on the floor, the other hung loosely from her stocking foot. She lay on her side, her face covered in a splash of reddish-brown hair and flowing blood. Mick took two drugged steps back and looked over at the corner where the others stood cowering.
“It was a devil,” Mick told them, then his eyes found the camcorder lens and his head cocked lazily to the side.
Deidra’s mind made a sudden identification and her screams turned to wild sobs. “Oh, God ... Mom!”
It was just like her mother to cut her trip short, to come home in secret, hoping to find Deidra sleeping innocently in her bed, fearing she would catch her drunk and fornicating.
Surprise, Mom! Deidra thought with sickening horror as she lunged across the room. Surprise!
Gwen Perkins opened her eyes. They were clouded as the fog had been. Her lips moved soundlessly, as if to accuse her daughter of something.