What Do Monsters Fear Page 9

  “The kid, man,” Donald spoke in a monotone. “James, Jamie, whatever his name is. Just bumped himself.”

  “Bumped himself?”

  Peter and Henry climbed the porch.

  “Glassed himself in the kitchen. Throat. Blood everywhere, man.”

  Fear dropped in Peter’s stomach like an anchor. He felt lightheaded. “Where’s Jerry?” he asked.

  As if in answer, Jerry bounded through the hallway towards the kitchen. The three men watched the counselor in shock before following.

  They took the dining area in quick stride, and as the kitchen door swung open, Peter skidded to a halt, taking two awkward steps back. Donald elbowed the door open again, entering the kitchen and giving Peter another glimpse of what lay beyond. A sight that hit him like a kick to the chest.

  A hand clutched his shoulder. “Peter?” Henry said. “We don’t have to go in there. You okay?”

  “Y-yeah.”

  The floor had been painted red, shining in the overhead florescent light. Peter shook his head, trying to clear the image, but it was branded in the back of his eyelids. Jamie lay on his back, his neck in tatters. Ribbons of shredded skin were all that remained of his throat, reminding Peter of pulled pork. Glazed over eyes stared at the ceiling.

  The room spun and Peter stumbled. He steadied himself and shut his eyes, feeling them vibrate beneath their lids. Henry put an arm around his shoulder.

  “Come on, the hallway. Get out of the kitchen.”

  If Peter had said okay, he wasn’t aware. Ringing blocked his ears and he fought to hold down what little breakfast he’d eaten. Now, in the hallway, he pressed his back to the wall.

  “Why would he do that?” Peter’s asked, his voice shaking. “He . . . He told me he had a girlfriend back home, a football team who needed him, he wanted to get back! He called us losers, that’s the reason he punched me.”

  The dining-room door opened and Donald and Jerry joined them in the hallway, their faces flat and unreadable. Donald’s skin looked the color of cottage cheese.

  “What’s happening here, Jerry?” Peter asked. His eyes stung with fresh tears. “That kid wasn’t suicidal. I know that—you can’t lie to me about it. Where’s Shelly Matthews, and what in the world is going on here?”

  “Peter, calm down.”

  “Calm down?” Peter pushed himself from the wall. “Calm down? You’re holding something from us, man, something’s going on here. And we want to know what it is!”

  Peter was shocked to find himself holding Jerry by the scruff of the neck, pressing him into the wall. He hadn’t planned on that, but he couldn’t stop it. He mashed his forehead against Fisher’s. “What the hell is going on around here! Tell me!”

  “Kid, cut the shit!”

  Donald grabbed him from behind and wrenched his arm back, sending a jolt of pain through Peter’s bones. He doubled over as freeing Jerry panted, rubbing at his throat. It had turned red.

  Donald freed Peter and barged into to the middle of the group, holding his hands out to separate them. “Now look, all right? Kid, you mess mister Fisher around, it ain’t gonna do no good right now. I’m thinkin’ practicality. We got a body that’s gonna get stinky less we do somethin’, you all understanding me? We need to phone a hospital and get an ambulance up here first. We’ll deal with you later, Jerry. “

  “The roads are off limits,” Henry said. “We can’t leave. We’ll need them to bring in a helicopter.”

  “Well,” Peter said. “Where’s the phone, Jerry? When they get here, you’re going to have to tell them about Shelly Matthews, too, because we are.”

  “In the library, Peter, and as I said, Shelly Matthews is gone to Pennsylvania to—”

  “Oh fuck that noise.”

  Peter made for the porch. He slammed the door shut behind him and sucked cold air deep into his lungs. Adrenaline coursed through his body like a drug. He felt electric with rage, each breath making his chest shake. He’s a goddamn liar, He thought. Shelly’s in this house somewhere . . . The door opened, Henry and Donald joining him on the porch. They looked as annoyed and confused Peter he felt.

  “Where’s Fisher?” Peter asked.

  “Back into the kitchen,” Donald said. “With the black guy, Paul. They’re gonna sort out the mess. God knows where they’re gonna put him. And kid, you got balls. Slammin’ him against the wall and shit? What were you thinking?”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “I could see that.” Donald ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, but if you touch Fisher you could mess up our plan. He’d have something to use against us if we were in the wrong. Not that I think we are, but just in case. Can’t believe Jamie did that. I mean, I’ve seen it before, my older brother Harry? Hung himself over our second floor balcony when I was fifteen, but man, it was nowhere near as bad as that. Fuckin’ gruesome. Christ.”

  Peter nodded. “I can’t be here anymore. I can’t take it. If Fisher comes back, tell him I’m in the library. I’m phoning the hospital and the cops.”

  Peter entered the house and heard Jerry and Paul’s muffled voices come from the kitchen. He scanned the hall before making his way to the large double doors on the right, watching for any signs of Andrew Harper. The floorboards creaked beneath his feet. His heart punched his chest, its rhythmic thumping loud in his ears. Peter swallowed as he reached the doors and entered the room.

  The familiar scent of pine air freshener greeted him, apparently the default smell of the house. Peter loathed it.

  Rows of bookshelves occupied the room, five in total. A mismatch of ancient hardbacks and modern soft copies peppered the shelves with no rhyme or reason to their order. Some spilled on the floor, spread open like successful suicide jumpers.

  Peter’s spine crawled for no discernible reason. Despite the knocked-over books, the room looked like any other library he’d ever seen. Except I’m not supposed to be in here, He thought. This is for Fisher only.

  Dim light came from a small window at the far side of the room and through it Peter saw an endless covering of white snow. Snow that Fisher knew would stick . . . I need to find the phone.

  Peter made his way through the bookshelves, stepping carefully over the spilled books. He glanced down every so often at their open faces.

  Something struck him as odd.

  The text wasn’t English, in fact, most of it looked like a language Peter was unfamiliar with. Dirt and grime smudged the century old pages, cracks running their worn leather spines. Peter thought many looked in danger of falling to pieces at a single touch. As he continued on, he allowed his eyes to spill over their indecipherable messages.

  He rounded the last bookshelf and spotted an old writing desk against a wall. More books were piled high on its surface, and in the center sat an open journal. A gooseneck lamp loomed over the journal, and Peter reached to switch it on when something else caught his eye.

  A dial-up telephone. He smiled.

  Peter knew that even if the snow cut the electricity, a dial-up would work regardless, due to the phone lines. He decided to start with the police, but didn’t know what to say.

  Hi, I’m a strung-out alcoholic currently undergoing rehabilitation, and I don’t trust my counselor.

  No good.

  My friend saw his dead baby crawling over him last night . . . Another guy, fresh off antidepressants, saw an ice cream man from his childhood who might’ve been a child molester!

  For god’s sake . . . Peter decided to wing the conversation. He placed his hand on the receiver, and then the phone rang.

  Peter picked it up straight away, an automatic reaction to its shrill cry. His heart beat his chest as the ringing echoed though the room.

  “Hello?”

  “Peter?”

  A cocktail of relief and confusion rushed through his body at the sound of the woman’s voice. Peter licked his lips. They felt too dry. “Grandma?”

  “Peter, it’s me. How are you? Are you settled in
yet?”

  Peter couldn’t find his voice, the situation overwhelming. Should he tell her about Jerry Fisher? About Walter and his night terror? Or Henry? Or even worse, Jamie Peters’ suicide? Thoughts wheeled around inside his head like loose laundry inside a washing machine. Then Peter found his voice. “How did you get this number?”

  He listened to his grandmother breathing, a harsh labored sound, followed by a clicking of the throat. Then, slowly, she began to laugh.

  “Oh Peter, it’s a good thing your poor mother died so she didn’t have to see what a fuck-up you became.”

  Peter’s stomach dropped. His legs attempted to buckle beneath him but he managed to stand.

  “You’re a loser, Peter,” she said. “We both know this little trip of yours wouldn’t work out. Just something for you to try and feel like you’re resolving your problems when really it’s nothing more than a temporary feel-better. A rolling stone gathers no moss, remember that one? And Peter, you’re so covered in moss that I’m surprised you can move at all. It’s growing from your pores like the hair on your arms. It’s everywhere, we can all see it. Don’t think you’re hiding. We’re all laughing at you, the only thing we can’t agree on is when your body is finally going to be found!”

  A scream ripped Peter’s throat. His knuckles turned white as his grip tightened on the receiver. “Why would you say this to me? Why?”

  “Because you need the truth and the truth hurts, little boy.” The old woman laughed again, and Peter wanted to vomit. He’d heard that laugh a thousand times before, but this time it was an alien thing, full of sinister sickness. She was laughing at him.

  Peter’s chest heaved, his stomach struggling to hold its contents. He tried for words but found none.

  The old woman continued. “Why don’t you just do us both a favor and kill yourself? End it. End it, Peter. Do it for me. Do it for Beth, and do it for the lovely little baby, so it will never have to be ashamed it had such a fuck-up for a father. You were right the first time, and you were so close, too. We were nearly done with you. Your burden . . . Until you saw this stupid rehabilitation advertisement. Fuck, I was nearly rid of you once and for all . . .”

  Peter’s head rocked from side to side. He still had nothing to say.

  “That Jamie Peters had guts. He did it. Why can’t you? Beth would be so happy. She could find a real man and forget all about you. Then again, she’ll probably do that anyway. She’s far, far too good for you.”

  Something clicked in Peter’s head. His eyes grew wide. “How would you know about Jamie Peters?” he asked. “Huh? How would you know?”

  The old woman’s laughter became a cackle and Peter moved the earpiece away from his head, the shrill sound making him cringe.

  “Who are you?”

  “Ooowwww,” The old woman mocked. “I’m your Gwandma, siwy? Poor frail old Gwandma . . . Lost her daughter and gained a fuck-up.” She sighed. “And what a fuck-up you are, too, I mean, holy crap!”

  Peter roared over the woman’s cackle, “Shut up! You’re not my grandmother!”

  He almost shoved the mouthpiece of the phone inside of his mouth. “Stop it!”

  “Peter!”

  Henry’s voice came from the doorway and Peter wheeled around. The old man stood with Donald Bove, both of them looking terrified. Peter hadn’t heard the door open. Sweat dripped from his forehead and his chest heaved.

  This what it feels like to pass out? he wondered.

  “It’s the phone,” he said, his voice sounding like sandpaper. “My grandmother.”

  Then the world turned black.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “Peter? Peter? I think he’s waking up. Donald, bring it here.”

  Peter’s mind swam back to consciousness. A wet cloth pressed against his forehead, the cold water running down his face. He opened his eyes.

  “He’s awake, Don. We’re good.”

  “Where am I?”

  Peter’s voice still sounded like his vocal chords had been replaced by a bag of grit. It stung to speak. “Water, please.”

  Henry nodded. Sitting up, Peter saw that he lay on the couch in the living room. He didn’t know what he’d expected, definitely not a hospital, not with the snow outside, but a part of him still felt nauseous at the sight of the room. He hoped things maybe had corrected themselves while he’d been out, but no. He was still in the farmhouse.

  “Sit up,” Henry said as he returned with the water. “Drink this.”

  Peter accepted the glass and took two large gulps. The cold water coated his raw throat, burning and soothing. He decided to sip the rest.

  “What . . . What happened?”

  “You blacked out, kid.” Donald sat with his hands together on the other couch, watching Peter with narrow eyes. “Just went up and over when we found you into the library. Heard you shoutin’ from the porch. Just looked at us, mumbled somethin’, and boom. Down for the count.”

  “Really?” Peter rubbed at his eyes. “And Jerry? Where’s Jerry?”

  Henry and Donald exchanged a glance that made Peter’s heart race. “What? What is it?”

  “That’s just it,” Henry said. “We don’t know.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Henry’s lips tightened. “When we brought you in here, we heard something from the kitchen, banging and such. But when we went in there . . . He was gone. Tracks were smeared in the kid’s blood, like his body’d been dragged around, but he was gone, too. All three of them. No sign of Jerry Fisher, no sign of that man, Paul, and no sign of the dead kid. All three are just . . . Gone.”

  A nightmare, Peter decided. I’ve woken up into a damn nightmare.

  Part of him wanted to close his eyes and slip back into sleep. He wanted out of this place, wanted to be safe at his grandmother’s house. He wanted Beth. “How can that be?” he asked. “Any track marks outside?”

  “We checked out back,” Donald said. “No trace in the snow. Kid, even if it’s falling heavy, there’s just no way their prints would be covered that quick. You know what I’m gettin’ at? They’re still in this house. My money’s on where that Matthews gal is at.”

  Peter’s forehead creased as he digested the information. No sign of Jerry or his assistant, with Jamie Peter’s body missing, too. If Fisher’d taken the kid outside, the blood marks on the snow would be clear. Donald and Henry would have noticed. That left only one option . . .

  “They’re still in the house,” Peter said. “We just need to figure out where.” He looked to Henry. “What time is it?”

  “Quarter past nine. You’ve been out the whole day.”

  Peter’s stomach tightened. “Past nine? Really? Where’s Walter?”

  “Asleep in his room,” Donald answered. “He’s in a bad way, man. Real bad. Didn’t bat an eyelid at the all the blood in the kitchen. Trust me, when I told him what’d happened, he just nodded and made for his room. Ain’t right, man. Been up there for at least three hours now. Mumbled something about not feelin’ good. We were gonna check on him before you woke up. Wanna join us?”

  “Okay,” Peter agreed. “But are we the only ones left? The three of us, and Walter?”

  “That man, Andrew? He’s still here.” Henry said. “And he’s a good man from what I can tell. Call that intuition again. Didn’t know anything about Jerry Fisher or the Dawson clinic before coming here, that’s for sure. Seemed just as scared as the rest of us when he saw the blood. Started saying he had a wife and little girl back home and just wanted to get back to ’em. Managed to calm him down, eventually. He shook something fierce.”

  Donald nodded in agreement. “Either he’s honest to god just as freaked out as the rest of us, or he’s an academy-award-winning actor. But I’m going out on a limb here and say he’s fuckin’ scared. He’s on the porch now, drinking a cup of coffee, keepin’ watch. Night-owl by nature. Part of why he took the job, he says. Said he’d keep watch for any signs of anything out there.”

  “What’s he looking out for
exactly?”

  Henry crossed his arms. “You know, Peter.”

  That damned fog . . .

  “Plus,” Henry added. “Sometimes a man just needs to be with his thoughts. Let him process this, because I trust him. He’ll be ready when he’s ready. For now, we need to check on Walter.”

  “Sure.”

  Henry leaned forward. “Pete, you want to tell us what happened in the library?”

  “It was my grandmother.”

  Donald arched an eyebrow. “What’s that?”

  “On the phone, I mean. She called when I tried to phone the cops, but it wasn’t her. It sounded like her, but it wasn’t her, I was—”

  “Easy, easy,” Henry said, placing a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “After Walter’s episode, and mine, you don’t need to explain yourself to us.”

  “I’m sorry I doubted you, Henry.”

  “Don’t worry about it. We tried the phone, it’s not even working.”

  “You think Fisher cut the lines?”

  “Most definitely. He took our cell phones, after all.” Henry stood. “Come on, let’s just check on Walter.”

  The three of them made their way upstairs, Peter stopping twice due to dizzy spells. The grandfather clocked chimed from downstairs and the smell of pine still held thick in the air, making his head throb. The humming pain in his cheek and nose from the punches he’d received earlier didn’t help matters, either. And now the back of his head joined in. The blow must have been rough to keep him out cold for nearly the whole day. He worried about a concussion but pushed the thought aside for the task at hand. They reached Walter’s room and entered with a fragile knock of the door.

  “Come in . . .” Walter slurred, his voice weighed down by sickness.

  “Walter,” Peter said with a smile. “How’re you feeling?” He tried to refrain from sounding shocked, but what he saw turned his stomach.

  Walter sat propped against his headboard, the pillows cushioning his large back. His dyed black hair, now streaked with white, looked glued into place by sweat. His glasses sat askew on his nose, his eyes sunken into his skull, ageing him by at least a decade. Red patches blotched his face, as if he’d recently scratched it. As his enormous chest rose and fell, he wheezed like a clogged engine.