Kristin stayed until the karaoke machine was unplugged, the beer coolers refilled, and the OPEN light turned off.
They clung to each other.
Under the glow of a full moon, they talked and laughed as they made their way back down the steep sidewalk to Main Street.
Leaves whispered even though there was no breeze, and shadows crept out of sidewalk cracks.
They were so loud and so caught up in their drunkenness that they would never have known if anybody had followed them. They would never have known if something less than human was drawn to the noise, watching and skittering along behind them with a sound that resembled rustling leaves.
They stopped under a street lamp.
“I killed somebody,” Graham announced.
Kristin stared at him. “I died.” She swayed, then held up two fingers. “Twice.”
They burst out laughing and continued down the hill, where the moon was obscured and the shadows were so dark they could no longer see their feet in front of them. Where their steps took them off the edge of the earth.
“Shhhh,” Kristin said when they reached the inn.
She fished a key from her pocket and unlocked the door as if she lived there. Graham was impressed. With great exaggeration, they tiptoed up the stairs to Kristin’s room on the third floor.
Once they were inside with the door closed, Kristin toed off her sneakers and slipped out of her jeans, leaving them in a pile on the floor next to the bed. “You should really come to school in Minneapolis.” She crawled under the covers. Graham peeled off his jeans and followed.
Chapter Nine
A scraping sound pulled Evan from a comatose sleep. He lay in bed, ears alert.
There it was again. Coming from downstairs. Like a bare branch scraping against a window.
He checked the clock by the bed. Two a.m. Normally he waited and waited for darkness. How had he slept so late?
He got up and got dressed.
In Graham’s room he found a neatly made bed and no sign of Graham. He would call Alastair. But at the last moment he thought to go downstairs to check his voice mail and found a message from Graham saying he was staying in Tuonela with his grandfather. Evan relaxed.
The scratching started again. Now that he was closer he could tell it was coming from outside. He followed the sound to the front door.
On his porch he found a stinking, fetid mass of boneless, formless skin with black, opaque pits where the eyes should have been. He put a hand to his nose and pulled back a few inches.
Is this a dream? Have I finally completely lost my mind?
As he watched, the skin turned and tumbled down the porch steps to collapse in a pile on the walk. A minute passed; then it began to move again. A hand reached out, nails digging into the ground. It pulled itself several feet, then repeated the movement.
Evan grabbed the shovel and lantern and followed from a safe distance.
He watched as the skin crawled under the gate, then made its way down the lane toward the heart of Old Tuonela.
Matthew Torrance had been the museum’s custodian for almost twenty years. He liked the job. He liked being by himself. He liked being able to listen to music with headphones on while he cleaned. He liked being able to smoke a joint if he felt like it, or take a nap. Nobody to bug him.
He was single, never married, and was into heavy metal. He read science fiction, and had been to two Star Trek conventions back in the early nineties. He’d met a girl there, but after three years he’d decided Star Trek wasn’t enough to have in common. He wasn’t even sure he liked girls. Or guys. Or people in general.
He went out on the roof of the museum and lit up.
The sky was clear and the moon was full. And the pot was new and potent as hell. Damn. After a few hits he started feeling almost too fucked-up. If there was such a thing. He put out the joint, tucked it into a little plastic film canister, and slipped the canister into his pocket.
Whoa. Had to sit down. Had to lie down.
He
They clung to each other.
Under the glow of a full moon, they talked and laughed as they made their way back down the steep sidewalk to Main Street.
Leaves whispered even though there was no breeze, and shadows crept out of sidewalk cracks.
They were so loud and so caught up in their drunkenness that they would never have known if anybody had followed them. They would never have known if something less than human was drawn to the noise, watching and skittering along behind them with a sound that resembled rustling leaves.
They stopped under a street lamp.
“I killed somebody,” Graham announced.
Kristin stared at him. “I died.” She swayed, then held up two fingers. “Twice.”
They burst out laughing and continued down the hill, where the moon was obscured and the shadows were so dark they could no longer see their feet in front of them. Where their steps took them off the edge of the earth.
“Shhhh,” Kristin said when they reached the inn.
She fished a key from her pocket and unlocked the door as if she lived there. Graham was impressed. With great exaggeration, they tiptoed up the stairs to Kristin’s room on the third floor.
Once they were inside with the door closed, Kristin toed off her sneakers and slipped out of her jeans, leaving them in a pile on the floor next to the bed. “You should really come to school in Minneapolis.” She crawled under the covers. Graham peeled off his jeans and followed.
Chapter Nine
A scraping sound pulled Evan from a comatose sleep. He lay in bed, ears alert.
There it was again. Coming from downstairs. Like a bare branch scraping against a window.
He checked the clock by the bed. Two a.m. Normally he waited and waited for darkness. How had he slept so late?
He got up and got dressed.
In Graham’s room he found a neatly made bed and no sign of Graham. He would call Alastair. But at the last moment he thought to go downstairs to check his voice mail and found a message from Graham saying he was staying in Tuonela with his grandfather. Evan relaxed.
The scratching started again. Now that he was closer he could tell it was coming from outside. He followed the sound to the front door.
On his porch he found a stinking, fetid mass of boneless, formless skin with black, opaque pits where the eyes should have been. He put a hand to his nose and pulled back a few inches.
Is this a dream? Have I finally completely lost my mind?
As he watched, the skin turned and tumbled down the porch steps to collapse in a pile on the walk. A minute passed; then it began to move again. A hand reached out, nails digging into the ground. It pulled itself several feet, then repeated the movement.
Evan grabbed the shovel and lantern and followed from a safe distance.
He watched as the skin crawled under the gate, then made its way down the lane toward the heart of Old Tuonela.
Matthew Torrance had been the museum’s custodian for almost twenty years. He liked the job. He liked being by himself. He liked being able to listen to music with headphones on while he cleaned. He liked being able to smoke a joint if he felt like it, or take a nap. Nobody to bug him.
He was single, never married, and was into heavy metal. He read science fiction, and had been to two Star Trek conventions back in the early nineties. He’d met a girl there, but after three years he’d decided Star Trek wasn’t enough to have in common. He wasn’t even sure he liked girls. Or guys. Or people in general.
He went out on the roof of the museum and lit up.
The sky was clear and the moon was full. And the pot was new and potent as hell. Damn. After a few hits he started feeling almost too fucked-up. If there was such a thing. He put out the joint, tucked it into a little plastic film canister, and slipped the canister into his pocket.
Whoa. Had to sit down. Had to lie down.
He
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