A Brief Interval
A Collection Of Short Fiction
Bill Clem
Vision Books
Published at Smashwords by Vision Books
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
VISION BOOKS
P.O. Box 9034
New York NY 10020
Copyright © 2008 by Bill Clem
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
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ISBN 13: 978-0-979580895
ISBN 10: 0-979580897
www.billclem.com
Also by Bill Clem
Novels
Skin Deep
Diencephalon (Holland Carter Detective Series)
Presidential Donor
Bliss
Microbe
They All Fall Down (Holland Carter Detective Series) (2008)
Immortal
Medicine Cup (2008)
Replica (2009)
The Seventh Day (2009)
The Lazarus Effect (2009)
A Note From Anna (Holland Carter Detective Series) (2009)
Short Fiction
A Brief Interval
(Collection of Short Stories) (2008)
Contents
Also by Bill Clem
Introduction
The Arrangements
The Reunion
The Healing
Pocket Pal
Man Unfrozen
All Bets Off
A Few Pages From My Diary Of Suzanne Gaylord
Poem For Anna Marie
Old And Immortal
The Waiting Room
Bunker 19
The Immigrant
Sodom’s Recant
The Monitor
A Taste of His Own Medicine
The Bear Lady
Ghost Writer
The Twinbrook House
About The Author
Introduction
This should be fun. Every stop is a new adventure... and then something else...
The eighteen short stories in this book represent the first writing I did when I decided that writing was something I wanted to do for the rest of my life. I’d spent the first half being a nurse, so I was never at a loss for ideas, as nursing is fertile ground for new and unusual experiences. Especially when you have my imagination. Not to mislead you, not every story deals with the medical realm, but one way or another, most of the stories found their way onto paper through something I heard or saw (or thought I saw) while working in the medical field. For example, the story, “The Bear Lady,” grew from my caring for a terminally-ill cancer patient, although the story has nothing to do with her medical condition. Others came from working midnight shifts in several hospitals with... let’s just say, colorful pasts. And still others came from my daily walks at Cape Henlopen State Park. An old abandoned Army base that never fails to feed my muse. At any rate, I think there is something for everyone in this book. A few traditional ghosts pay us a visit, there’s always humor, and for those with a more gruesome taste, there’s some of that, too. But mostly, it’s just plain ole fun. Like sitting around a fire telling a scary story.
So sit down in a comfortable chair. Put away your preconceived notions. And there. There you are—right in the middle of the story. Have fun.
B.C. 2004
A Brief Interval
The Arrangements
Winter waved its icy hand over the town of Bartlett, Vermont. Charles Farber stared out the window of his funeral home at the fresh snowfall and sighed. The trees, mere skeletons after losing the last of their foliage, were a reminder of the harsh winter to come.
Farber had mixed feeling for the snow. It took him back to an earlier time when life was less complicated. But he also viewed it with trepidation. It made his pickups more time consuming, and sometimes, downright dangerous. The back roads of the county became one long, ice-skating rink when they froze over. And the old hearse didn’t handle particularly well in those conditions. Just last year, a close call had nearly killed him.
As he turned to leave, the sound of crunching snow outside the window interrupted Farber’s thoughts. He glanced out and saw a disheveled man coming up the walk. He didn’t look very old, maybe twenty or so. He wore a black and red-checkered wool jacket with green denim pants, and maroon sneakers that looked too big.
Probably looking for snow removal work?
The sidewalks did need clearing, and with his weight, Farber didn’t dare do it himself. The last time he’d tried he ended up in the emergency room with chest pain.
Farber met the man at the front door. “Good morning,” Farber said.
The man stood in the doorway and looked around. After a moment of awkward silence, he said, “I’d like to arrange a funeral.”
Farber, somewhat surprised, and a little angry with himself for being judgmental, launched into his best funeral director persona.
“Well, you’ve come to the right place. My name is Charlie Farber. We here at Holmes and Farber treat all of our clients like they were our own family members. We’re the oldest and most well established funeral home in the state. We’ve been here over eighty years. Now, who is the deceased?”
“My brother.”
“I am sorry, Mr.—”
“Green. Brad Green. My brother’s name was Bob.”
“Did your brother die suddenly?”
“Yes, it was very sudden.”
“Well Mr. Green, I hate to start off by bringing this up, but did you have a budget in mind?”
“No, actually I didn’t think about that. He was a good friend, as well as a brother. I want the best for him, regardless of cost.”
Farber felt a surge of energy as if he’d just hit the lottery. “We shall have the best, then,” he said, and segued right into his sales pitch.
“Let me show you the casket room.”
Farber led Brad Green into the room. Twelve different models were lined up against the back wall. Bronze, silver, white porcelain, and several different exotic woods, rounded out the collection of death boxes that Farber offered.
“Did you have any particular thing in mind as far as caskets go?”
“I like the one on the end there.”
Farber rubbed his hands together. “Yes, this mahogany number is very pleasant, very ornate,” he said, running his hands along the silk lining and thinking of the five thousand dollar price tag.
A glassy quality to Green’s eyes made him seem disconnected to Farber. Grief.
Farber had seen it manifest itself in all kinds of ways over the years. Part of his job was as a counselor to the bereaved. “Am I going too fast, Mr. Green? If I—”
“No, its fine. I’ll take this casket here,” he said, resting his hand on the mahogany box.
“Farber smiled. “Shall we go into my off—”
“Are you familiar with the St. Mary’s cemetery?” Green asked.
“Yes, I am. We’ve laid quite a few people to rest there. It’s a beautiful place.”
“That’s where the burial will take place. Plot number sixty-four.”
“Sixty-four. I believe that’s on the south side, isn’t it?”
Green didn’t answer.
“That’s a lovely burial plot. I’m sure your brother will be quite peaceful there. It has a pleasing Southern exposure, and flowers do wonderfully. Speaking of flowers, did you have something special in mind?”
“He likes... that is, he liked, carnations, and roses.”
“Any particular color?” Farber asked.
“All colors. Especially white.”
“Very well, we will have lots of white carnations and various color roses.”
Green looked off in the distance. “That’s fine,” he said without turning around.
“Now we need to talk about attire for the deceased.” Farber said.
At last Green turned around. “He was very specific. He left a navy-blue chalk line suit, white button-down Oxford shirt, and a maroon silk tie. I’ll bring them by this afternoon.”
“We can pick it up if you like,” Farber said.
“I can drop it off.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“We offer a eulogy service, if you don’t have one prepared. Would you be interested in that?”
Green paused and took a deep breath.
“No. I’ve prepared one myself.”
“Well, it’s all part of the service, Mr. Green. As I said, we want this to be as easy as possible for you. Were you his only relative?”
“Only living. We had a sister, but she died a few years ago. Mother and father have been dead a long time.”
“Well, I think he was very lucky to have a brother like you.”
“Thank you.”
“Where shall I pick up the deceased?” Farber asked.
“The local hospital will be receiving him in their morgue first thing tomorrow morning. They have instructions to call you for pickup.”
Farber smiled. “That will be fine. I deal with them all the time, as you can imagine.”
“Well I guess that does it for now, Mr. Farber, unless you can think of something else?”
“No, I think we’ve covered everything. I assure you, you won’t be disappointed with the service. We will lay your brother to rest with the utmost dignity and care.”
Farber watched Mr. Green leave and wondered about the young man. Despite his appearance, he’d arranged one of the most expensive funerals Farber had handled in a long time. Usually it was the other way around. The family didn’t want to spend any more than they had to. They were more concerned with how much was left. Farber would take special care with this one; the man seemed genuine, although a little odd.
He stepped back from the window and punched the intercom on his desk. “Mrs. Sears, could you come in here, please?”
A few seconds later, Amanda Sears, Farber’s portly, sixty-year-old secretary came to his office. She’d been with Holmes and Farber for forty years. She used to baby sit the current Farber when he was just a kid running around the funeral home looking at cadavers, and getting into mischief. “Yes sir, you called?” She asked with her usual formality.
“Yes, Amanda. We need to get the mahogany casket, number forty-six, ready for a client. Would you please call Jim, and have him move it into viewing room number four. We have a wake tomorrow night.”
Sears nodded. “Do you have the paperwork ready?”
“No, I’ll be picking it up in the morning. I’ll give it all to you when I get back.”
“Very well, I’ll call Jim, and by the way, the hospice nurse called from Fred Willford’s home. He finally passed early this morning, so he needs to be picked up soon.”
“All right. I’ll get out there as soon as I can.”
Farber knew that along with winter, came death. The folks who had held out through fall, most of whom had one or more chronic ailments, had finally succumbed to one of them. As if the cold weather held nothing more than additional misery if they decide to continue to fight–most didn’t. They just gave up. It had always been a busy time of year, and he had no reason to believe that this one would be any different.
Evening came and Farber finished his paperwork and prepared his bank deposit for the next day. The name on the check that Mr. Green had given him simply said, B Green. It had a post office box for an address and no other information. He’d forgotten the man’s first name, so he just put B. Green on the contract, rather than bothering him with a call. Besides, he didn’t have any other customers named Green, anyway. He didn’t need to worry about getting bodies mixed up. He dismissed the thought and closed the contract book. He slipped on his long cashmere coat, bid goodbye to Mrs. Sears, and headed out the door to pick up the body of Fred Willford.
The next morning, Farber woke at his usual eight o’clock and had bacon and eggs as he did every morning. The kitchen being right next to his office made it easy for him to maintain his gargantuan waistline. He licked his lips and was about to mop his toast in his eggs when the phone rang.
“Holmes and Farber Funeral Home,” he said. His mouth watered as he looked at the rest of his breakfast.
“Charlie, this is Grace at the hospital.”
Grace Sinnot was a nursing supervisor at Valley Hospital. It was her job to call a funeral director for body pickups. They both knew the drill well. “I’ve got one for you, Charlie. Last name is Green.”
“Yeah. I’ve been expecting you. I’ll be over in an hour.”
“Okay, see you then. And Charlie... don’t eat too many of those bacon and eggs. That stuff will kill you.”
Farber laughed and hung up, then devoured his breakfast in record time. He straightened his tie, and then started out the door when Mrs. Sears came in.
“Mr. Farber, a man came in yesterday and dropped off some clothes for the Green client.”
“Yes, I’m going over to the hospital right now to pick up the body.”
“I’ll need that paperwork when you get back.”
Farber open the door. “Not to worry, Amanda. I’ll have it when I get back.”
Farber climbed into the hearse and felt his stomach start to churn. No matter how many times he’d done this, he got the same sick feeling in his gut every time. Driving a black station wagon with a corpse inside gave him the creeps. It was silly. The handling of the body didn’t bother him at all. It was just that damned ride.
When he arrived at the hospital a few minutes later, he pulled around to the back lot, hoping to be as inconspicuous as possible. That wasn’t easy in a small town like Bartlett. A black Cadillac wagon might as well have a sign on it that said GRIM REAPER.
Grace greeted Farber at the back door, wearing the usual Florence Nightingale starched white uniform, and a nurse’s cap that made her look as if she could attain flight. What a stark contrast to his black world. Black suit, black car. Always brought together by someone else’s misfortune.
“I’ve got it, Grace,” he said. “Florence Nightingale meets the Grim Reaper. Are we an odd pairing or what?”
They both laughed.
Farber followed Grace down the white-tile hall past the janitor who was busy mopping. Grace wrangled a huge key ring from her uniform pocket and opened the door to the morgue. She flipped the switch on the wall and a single long fluorescent light flickered on. Several shrouded bodies lay on gurneys next to the stainless steel dissecting table.
“He’s over there,” Grace said, pointing to a gurney on the left.
Farber stepped over to the body and unzipped the shroud to check the toe tag. He gazed at Grace with a puzzled look.
“Something wrong, Charlie?”
“He never told me his brother was a twin.”
Grace folded her arms across her chest and the big key ring jangled in her hand. “What do you mean?”
“A twin, Grace. I didn’t know this was Mr. Green’s twin brother. My God he looks just like him. No wonder he felt so close to him. No wonder he wanted everything so perfect.”
Grace fingered a stack of papers on the counter next to her.
“I got news for you, Charlie. This guy didn’t have a brother, or anyone else for that matter.”
Farber furrowed his brow. “What are you talking about?”
“What I’m talking about is right here on this death certificate,” Grace said as she held it up in front of him. “See where it says: NEXT OF KIN. It is clearly marked: NONE. No next of kin”
The blood drained from Farber’s face as if he’d just embalmed himself.
“What’s the name on the death certificate, Grace?”
“Bob Greene.”
He leaned back against the counter encrypted type. “What was the cause of death?” he asked.
Grace looked down at the coroners report. “Respiratory arrest, due to Thorazine overdose. Suicide, Charlie. Suicide. The guy killed himself late last night. Poor boy suffered from a psychotic disorder. He had a split personality according to his medical record. It’s all right here on his report.”
“He told me his name was Brad Green and that he was making arrangements for his brother, Bob, who had died suddenly.”
“Well,” Grace said, “in his mind he was Brad Green. At least at that time.”
“What are you telling me, Grace?”
“I’m telling you Brad Green and Bob Greene is the same person. Or more accurately... was the same person.”
“I can’t believe this,” Farber said. “This is just too weird. Well, Brad or Bob, or whoever this guy was, paid in full for a funeral. Apparently his own. And I promised him a great one, so that’s what I intend to give him.”
“There is one more thing, Charlie.” Grace reached into her pocket.
“What’s that?” Farber asked, afraid to hear the answer.
“This note was found in his belongings. It’s for you.” She handed him the folded piece of paper. He looked up at Grace and opened it up:
Dear Mr. Farber:
Thank you so much for your kindness and consideration during this difficult time. I’m sure my brother will appreciate everything we picked out for him, and all the care you’ve taken on his final passage. I know I will.
Thank you
Bob Greene
Farber folded the note up and stuck it in his pocket. He was satisfied that Bob and Brad Green were happy with the service one or the other had received. It was just too confusing for Farber.
Grace helped him load the body into the hearse and he said goodbye until the next time someone’s death brought them back to their routine.
As Farber drove back to the funeral home, he wondered how someone could become two different people and be as convincing as Mr. Green. What name would be more appropriate on the headstone? Brad or Bob? Perhaps, he would just have it engraved B. Green. Yes, that seemed like the right thing to do.
The snow was starting to fall again as he pulled under the carport at Holmes and Farber. It was going to be another long winter.
The Reunion
Clay Conwell dreamed of uniting with his school sweetheart. Pam Jamison was everything he ever wanted in a girl. And despite the fact it had been five years since he’d seen her, he still couldn’t get her out of his mind. On a whim, he had called her, and to his surprise found her still living in the same place her parents had owned. She agreed to meet him the following Saturday. He had purchased a new suit, bought her flowers, and spent all day cleaning his car. Just like he did when they were going steady in high school.
Clay arrived at the agreed-upon restaurant, early like always. He sat and wondered how much Pam had changed. Would she still be beautiful? Had she gotten fat? The thoughts passed the time, but before too long, he realized it was past time for her to arrive. Three hours later, he finished the last bite of his dinner. Stood up. I can’t believe it. How could she do that?
Clay went home, half angry, have hurt, but still determined to see Pam. If for no other reason, to tell her what a rotten thing it was to treat him like she did. He called the next day, but got no answer. He considered driving to her house, but his pride stopped him. Finally, he gave up. If she didn’t want to see him, so be it.
Three years had passed since then, and now their song was playing on the radio. Her memory just wouldn’t leave him alone. It was summertime and Clay knew Pam was probably spending summer at her parent’s cabin on the Wakombee River in Virginia. It was a family tradition for her and her sister to spend their summers there every year.
This time, he decided he would surprise her. He would go to the cabin, and if nothing else, see her from a distance. She probably wouldn’t know him if she stepped on him, anyway. The cabin, held special meaning for Clay. It had been the first place that he and Pam had made love. It wasn’t the first time for either one, but it was the first time either of them ever enjoyed it.
Clay turned off the exit for Portsmouth, the small town where Seneca met the Wakombee. Years before, Indians had roamed the land. Then the Civil War broke out and it became another Virginia battlefield. Now, tourist resorts dotted the landscape. Pam’s parents had purchased the cabin before was fashionable to have a cabin on the river.
When he pulled into the gravel drive, Clay was disappointed to see that there was no car in front of the cabin. And the cabin itself looked to be in a state of disrepair.
Perhaps her parents had died?
Clay was about to get back in his car when he caught the silhouette of someone in the window. A woman’s silhouette!
He walked up long steps of the embankment and stopped at the top now he saw the image in the window become a face. It was Pam.
He ran up the rest of the steps to the door and it seemed to open on its own accord. Danced across the room and looked at him. 10 years have done little to alter her beauty. Her raven hair and deep set blue eyes were as radiant as ever.
“Hello, Clay,” she said almost in a whisper.
“Pam, is that really you?”
“It’s good to finally see you again.”
“What went wrong, Pam? This was supposed to be years ago.”
She walked to the window and looked out. “Things happen, Clay.”
“Things happen, Clay. That’s it? You leave me waiting in a restaurant with a broken heart and don’t even call explain?”
“Clay, I’m sorry. Please try to understand I didn’t want it this way.”
Clay paused. The light shifted and he saw Pam staring straight ahead as if her own private demons haunted her.
“Let’s take a walk,” Clay said.
“All right.”
Clay reached out to her.
She drew back. “I can’t.”
“Why didn’t you tell me there was someone else, three years–”
“There is no one else.”
“Well why th--”
“Let’s walk, Clay.”
Pam seemed different to Clay. As they walked along the river, he sensed a deep sadness about her. A hurt shimmering just below the surface. In the receding sunlight, Clay could see now she’d aged more than he first noticed. She had a gauntness to her features he didn’t remember.
“Let’s go this way,” she said as she led him up a small hill.
She walked a few feet in front of him, and for the first time, Clay noticed the beautiful dress she was wearing.
“Pretty fancy dress for the cabin, don’t you think?”
Pam just smiled.
At the top of the hill, between two tall pines, stood a small cemetery. It looked old, and Clay figured it must be from the Civil War.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“This is where I say goodbye, Clay.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Touch me, Clay.”
Clay did touch her. He reached out and pulled her close--and suddenly he knew. He knew what Pam desperately wanted to tell him, but didn’t have the heart to. She was cold.
As cold as the grave she’d come from!
Clay stumbled backwards and cringed. Pam’s face changed before his eyes. Suddenly, it was a mangled mess of flesh and bone as if it had been sheered off by some huge farm machine.
Please... Claay doon’t loook awaay, it’s stiil meee...
Her voice sounded filtered as if she was talking through a fan.
Clay’s eyes bulged in their sockets. He jerked open the gate to the small cemetery and stared at the three headstones. The first two belonged to Pam’s parents. Both died 10 years ago. The third was a newer edition: PAMELA JAMISON. He fell to his knees and looked at the date of her death: April 19, 1996. It was the day she was to have met him at the restaurant, three years earlier.
Clay’s feet tangled together and he staggered as he ran from the cemetery. He looked back, but Pam was gone, as quickly as she’d materialized. I’ve imagined all this.
He climbed into his car and out of the damp mist of the river and drove slowly over the slick, black roads toward home. About a mile out of the town of Portsmouth, he stopped at a convenience store. An old man smiled at Clay as he paid for his coffee. Clay doubted the old man knew, but he decided to ask anyway.
“I was wondering,” Clay asked, “do you know if the Jamison’s still live on the river?”
The old man’s smile faded. “Well, I knew of them. They used to come in here once in a while. They passed away, though. Probably a blessing they didn’t live to see what happened to their daughter a few years back.”
“Oh. How’s that?” Clay asked.
“She got killed in a bad accident up on I-80. Think she was heading home or something. Too bad. She was a nice girl, I hear.”
“That’s a shame,” Clay said. “Well thanks.”
The old man’s smile returned. “No problem.”
Clay had his answer. Pam hadn’t stood him up. He should have known better. He was still going over the whole crazy thing in his mind as he pulled onto the highway.
The old man in the store turned around just in time to see the tractor trailer cut Clay’s small sports car in half. The front end was sheared off and carried a hundred feet down the highway. The rear was thrown onto the median. Clay’s body was splayed at an odd angle in the middle of the road. It had become unhinged in a great glut of blood when the truck sliced the car in two.
“He never knew what hit him,” the old man explained to state troopers a little while later.
* * *
Pam met Clay at the gate of the small cemetery. She was beautiful once again. They embraced and she looked up at him.
“Finally, we can be together forever,” she said.
“That’s all I ever wanted,” Clay said.
They turned and walked back to the cabin. Two young lovers with an eternity ahead of them.
The Healing
This is the way the conversation went most mornings in the Lorry home.
“I say those lights again last night, Dad.”
“They’re just truck lights. I told you already, Donnie.”
“No dad, they weren’t no truck lights. They were up in the air.”
“Donnie, just drop it. I don’t have time for this.”
“But dad-”
“Donnie I said drop it.”
“Fine.”
Now you have to understand, Donnie was six and had a great imagination. He was also an ADDH kid. Ritalin and all that. So it wasn’t hard to discount his stories. Somehow though, this time I had the feeling he was telling the truth.
The home was a run-down and dirty sixty by ninety-for trailer that mice and rats also called home. At this point you are probably asking yourself what I was doing there. Well, I took care of the other boy. Freddie. Freddie was born with cerebral palsy, and a host of other ailments too numerous to mention in these few pages.
Trust me, he was one messed up boy.
It was a Friday morning when the story really began for me. I arrived at the trailer at the usual time, 7A.M. The first thing I noticed different that day was the smell of hog manure blowing in my direction. You have to understand that the trailer sits on a ten-acre hog farm, so it’s not any big surprise to smell hog shit. But this was different. It smelled like burned hog shit. I excused the thought and went inside to start my usual morning routine. Bathing Freddie, giving him his medicine, diaper change, and everything that being a full time caregiver entails.
I could hear Donnie in the kitchen going on about “the lights.”
This particular morning, Donnie became so incensed about no one believing him; he threw his breakfast across the table and refused to go to school. I politely asked his father if I could intervene. Nurses have a way with children, you know. Unless you’re one of those Nurse Ratchet types. Definitely not my style.
I sat Donnie down and asked him about the lights.
“No one believes me,” he said, tears rimmed around his eyes.
“How about if I said I believe you,” I told him.
“That’d be okay,” he said.
“All right. Tell me about them”
Donnie pulled his chair in closer. I could see fear creep into his expression. “Every night when my mom and dad are sleeping, I see bright lights in the sky. Down behind the hog barns.”
Donnie pointed in the direction of the barn. I remembered his father telling him it was just the lights from the highway. At any rate, I felt his story warranted further investigation.
The rest of the story is so unbelievable, so wrought with emotion; I have a hard time believing it myself. But it is just the way it happened. It changed my life-and everyone else’s involved-and Freddie, well, we’ll get to that in a minute.
I called the night nurse and asked if I could work her shift, and she was happy to give it up. She’d been wanting to see Silence of the Lambs at the local theater, and this was her chance. I didn’t blame her. Hannibal Lechter was still my favorite character. Anyway, I wanted to be at the trailer that night to see the lights for myself. So Donnie and I sat and I read to him till he finally went to sleep. His father carried him off to bed sometime later, and I sat with Freddie and read to myself. By two A.M. I’d decided Donnie had a bigger imagination that even I suspected, and that there were indeed “no lights.”
Somnolence being what it is, I drifted off for a short nap.
I don’t know how long I slept, but suddenly I was roused awake by a tugging on my shirt.
“They’re here,” Donnie said, “they’re here, wake up!”
Finally, I jerked awake more fully. “Where?” I asked.
Donnie led me to the hall window. A rat ran across the floor and I jumped back. It didn’t seem to faze Donnie, he just kept pointing to the window.
“Lift me up,” he said. “There, you see.”
I saw my own reflection in the dirty window—then I was petrified. A hundred yards in from of us, a brilliant blue light ran in a straight line up to a circle of lights that hovered above the woods. I could hear a loud humming, like an electrical transformer. A really big transformer. I couldn’t tell what it was, but it looked like something I’d seen on some UFO TV show. I didn’t want to believe I was seeing it, but there it was.
Then it was gone.
Donnie looked at me. His color had turned clown-white and he gripped my arm tightly. “I told you so.”
“Yes... I believe you, Donnie.”
The next morning when I arrived, I asked Donnie’s Dad to sit.
“Alfred,” I said, “I know Donnie has been telling you about these lights he’s been seeing.”
Alfred nodded.
“Well, I saw them myself last night.”
“Yea, I know.”
My mouth fell open. “What do you mean, you know?”
“I’ve seen them myself,” he said. “I just don’t want Donnie scared.”
“Well, what are they?”
Alfred heaved a sigh. I don’t know. There’s been some dead hogs down there, though. Look like wild dogs got em. Cept we don’t have wild dogs around here.”
“How many dead hogs?”
“A few, maybe four. Like I said. Tore up real bad.”
“God. Can you show me?”
Alfred shook his head. “I suppose I can. I don’t want no trouble, though. I don’t know what that thing is.”
Later that morning, Alfred took me to the hog barn. They housed dozens of small pigs in the long wooden structure. Behind the building was a small pen. Alfred took me over to it. Laid out in the pen were three or four dead pigs. And I say three or four because it was hard to tell how many because something had torn them up so badly.
“Why didn’t you tell anyone about these?”
“I don’t want no trouble.”
I looked closer at the remains and noticed they’d all been laid wide open down the middle, almost like a scalpel would do. Except there was no blood anywhere. It was almost as though they’d cauterized them as they were opened up.
“How long has this been going on?” I asked.
Alfred scratched his chin. “Bout two months, I guess.”
“Don’t you thin-”
“I was afraid whatever it is would bother me if I told anyone. I don’t want anyone to know about this. Please can we just keep it between us?”
“All right,” I said. Not really sure I could do that, but trying to reassure him since I could see he was genuinely scared.
We walked back to the trailer together and Alfred gave wide berth to the charred circular area in the field. I left that morning with the feeling I had just witnessed something unexplainable.
I returned that night at eleven and oddly, found Alfred waiting for me at the kitchen table. Usually he was asleep by nine. Smoke surrounded his head and a pile of butts overflowed from the ash tray. His half-eaten dinner was still sitting in front of him.
“I want to see them tonight,” he said.
“So do I. Only this time, I’m going outside.”
I noticed a shotgun resting against the front door-jam.
“Is that thing loaded?” I asked.
“Not yet.”
My thought at the time was that if there was any truth to this whole thing about these lights and where they were from, that shotgun wouldn’t do a damn bit of good. Except maybe get Alfred killed.
An hour later, the lights started.
They were like scalpels jutting through the curtains at first, and then they seemed to change colors. And this time, they were closer. Much closer!
I felt the trailer begin to shake and it seemed to tilt violently to the right, like a carnival ride. The lights were now blinding me and I put my hand up to shield my face. I ran to the window and tried to look out but some kind of force seemed to push me back. Alfred was at the door with his shotgun now loaded, screaming obscenities at whatever was landing in his front yard. I knelt beside the couch and pulled back the curtain, fighting the feeling that gravity had suddenly gone berserk.