the boy really spoken? Garraty wasn’t sure. Even if he had, the kid was past saving. They both knew that, right? The boy was dying—if he was even still alive—and all he needed from Garraty was a little nudge in the right direction. When you thought about it, it would almost be an act of mercy. The pain must be something awful. Trying to save the kid—Toomey—would mean pulling him out of the hole, dragging him back to the opening in the far wall, loading him into the back of the Prius, and driving him down to the hospital in town. Agony upon agony for him.
And then the questions would begin, whether the kid lived or died. Why weren’t you watching the road, Mr. Garraty? Why were you out so late up there in the hills? Why were you driving so fast? Why didn’t you call 911? Why are you so dirt-caked and sweaty? Why does your breath smell like a brewery?
Sure, he could come up with some good answers, maybe even some great ones, but the questions would keep coming, why, why , WHY? It would never end. Eventually, he had no doubt that they’d wear him down. That’s what the cops did. They badgered and badgered, just like your shrew of a wife did, until you couldn’t take it anymore and finally broke down and—
Garraty heard the protesting squeal of old hinges as a door opened somewhere in the house above him. Then heavy footfalls as someone—some thing— approached. Who’s that trip-trapping over my bridge? The gait was odd. Off somehow. Thump. Scrape. Thump. Scrape. Unbidden, he heard the girlish voice of Tanner Frank in his head, full of malicious glee. Old Jeremiah Barlowe and his bum leg. Shot to shit in the first World War! God, he had loved to tell that story, how the man who returned from Europe a wounded hero died a jabbering cannibal in this very crawlspace.
The sound boomed in the tight space as the footsteps drew nearer. With each step, vibrations thrummed in his shoulders where they pressed against the low joists. Blood roared in his ears. In his mind’s eye, Garraty saw a sallow slumped shape shambling across the room with the bloodied wall he’d seen through the window earlier, dragging one twisted leg behind it. Its moon face was just a pale smudge against the still dark night, with dark hollows where eyes should have been. It moved with purpose, straight toward a spot in the center of the room where something on the floor had caught its attention.
Old Jeremiah Barlowe, still watching over his charnel house.
He became aware that the beam from the Mag had drifted up with his imagination, and now pointed at the subfloor. The weak beam twitched with his shaking hand. On the dreadful movie screen in his head, the spot in the room above glowed as if a spotlight shone beneath it, spraying light up through the gaps in the ancient flooring in shards of white that slashed the ceiling like the claws of some great beast. Garraty slid his thumb over to the button on the flashlight and pressed it, this time welcoming the darkness. Praying the thin light hadn’t been seen by the nightmare above.
Something banged to the floor directly over his head and he bit the heel of his hand to keep from screaming. A sprinkling of dust fell across the back of his neck, soft as gossamer. Another thud, and he knew— knew— the slumped thing lay prone on the floor now, pallid face pressed to the rotting pine only a foot above him. Searching for him. If he turned the Mag on and looked up, what would he see looking back at him through the gapped wood?
The temperature in the crawlspace seemed to have dropped ten degrees. Silence felt like a weight pressing down on him as he waited for the thing above him to do something. Anything. Nothing could be that still. Nothing alive, anyway. It was as if the thing had simply laid down and died.
Or had already been dead.
Or it was never there.
Oh, it was there alright. He remembered the tingle of its footsteps through the joists against his shoulders, the tickle of dust on his
And then the questions would begin, whether the kid lived or died. Why weren’t you watching the road, Mr. Garraty? Why were you out so late up there in the hills? Why were you driving so fast? Why didn’t you call 911? Why are you so dirt-caked and sweaty? Why does your breath smell like a brewery?
Sure, he could come up with some good answers, maybe even some great ones, but the questions would keep coming, why, why , WHY? It would never end. Eventually, he had no doubt that they’d wear him down. That’s what the cops did. They badgered and badgered, just like your shrew of a wife did, until you couldn’t take it anymore and finally broke down and—
Garraty heard the protesting squeal of old hinges as a door opened somewhere in the house above him. Then heavy footfalls as someone—some thing— approached. Who’s that trip-trapping over my bridge? The gait was odd. Off somehow. Thump. Scrape. Thump. Scrape. Unbidden, he heard the girlish voice of Tanner Frank in his head, full of malicious glee. Old Jeremiah Barlowe and his bum leg. Shot to shit in the first World War! God, he had loved to tell that story, how the man who returned from Europe a wounded hero died a jabbering cannibal in this very crawlspace.
The sound boomed in the tight space as the footsteps drew nearer. With each step, vibrations thrummed in his shoulders where they pressed against the low joists. Blood roared in his ears. In his mind’s eye, Garraty saw a sallow slumped shape shambling across the room with the bloodied wall he’d seen through the window earlier, dragging one twisted leg behind it. Its moon face was just a pale smudge against the still dark night, with dark hollows where eyes should have been. It moved with purpose, straight toward a spot in the center of the room where something on the floor had caught its attention.
Old Jeremiah Barlowe, still watching over his charnel house.
He became aware that the beam from the Mag had drifted up with his imagination, and now pointed at the subfloor. The weak beam twitched with his shaking hand. On the dreadful movie screen in his head, the spot in the room above glowed as if a spotlight shone beneath it, spraying light up through the gaps in the ancient flooring in shards of white that slashed the ceiling like the claws of some great beast. Garraty slid his thumb over to the button on the flashlight and pressed it, this time welcoming the darkness. Praying the thin light hadn’t been seen by the nightmare above.
Something banged to the floor directly over his head and he bit the heel of his hand to keep from screaming. A sprinkling of dust fell across the back of his neck, soft as gossamer. Another thud, and he knew— knew— the slumped thing lay prone on the floor now, pallid face pressed to the rotting pine only a foot above him. Searching for him. If he turned the Mag on and looked up, what would he see looking back at him through the gapped wood?
The temperature in the crawlspace seemed to have dropped ten degrees. Silence felt like a weight pressing down on him as he waited for the thing above him to do something. Anything. Nothing could be that still. Nothing alive, anyway. It was as if the thing had simply laid down and died.
Or had already been dead.
Or it was never there.
Oh, it was there alright. He remembered the tingle of its footsteps through the joists against his shoulders, the tickle of dust on his
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