Four Octobers Read online

  “You’re kidding! You were in Northbrook yesterday and didn’t wait for me to get home? I was down by the river, sitting on the bench.”

  “How was I supposed to know? I didn’t see you, and I couldn’t very well hang around forever.”

  “You ever think to call first?”

  “I would’ve, but I don’t have a cell phone. I figured you’d be home. Where else you gonna be?”

  “I do have a life, you know.”

  Letting his breath out in a slow whistle, Ben shook his head sadly from side to side. As he did, he caught another glimpse of his reflection in the living room window. It was completely dark outside now, and the single light by the couch was bright enough to make his reflection sharp and clear in the glass. Panic tightened his stomach, and Ben stared at himself for a heartbeat or two, amazed at how flat and lifeless he looked in reflection. He couldn’t help but think that it looked like he was trapped inside the flat plane of the glass.

  “Well, call next time, okay? Jesus!” he said, trying to keep his voice steady.

  “I’m never sure when I’ll be in the area, is all,” Rob said, and then, without even saying goodbye, the phone line went dead. The sudden silence was palpable, and Ben slowly pulled the phone away from his ear, looked at it for a moment, then switched it off.

  “Jerk,” he whispered as he walked back into the kitchen and replaced the receiver on its base. Feeling emotionally drained, he sat down at the kitchen table and stared off into space. Tiny white spiraling points of light drifted at the fringes of his vision. When he glanced at the clock, he saw that it was well past nine o’clock.

  Where did the time go?

  It had been daylight when Rob had called, but the last couple of hours since he’d watched the sun set were lost to him.

  Erased.

  He wondered if he might have fallen asleep or dozed, but he didn’t recall lying down on the couch or in bed, and he certainly didn’t feel rested. All he could remember was talking on the phone to his brother, but he knew the conversation had lasted no more than five or ten minutes, tops.

  So where did the time go?

  The panic he’d felt earlier still lingered, but it was more distant now, feeling like a clot of sour milk in the depths of his gut. His arms and legs throbbed with exhaustion. Maybe—finally—he could get some sleep. If he doubled the melatonin and went to bed right now, he thought, he might actually drift off; but even before he gathered his strength to get up from the table and go to the cupboard where he kept his medications, he convinced himself that it was a waste of time.

  Nothing was going to help, and he was certain that tonight—just like every other night since Mary died—he would end up sitting on the bench, watching the river and waiting…waiting…but for what?

  Part Two: After Midnight

  It was sometime after midnight. A solitary cricket, a lone survivor from the summer, was steadily chirping away unseen in the brush by the riverbank. Its song was slow and weak due to the rapidly dropping temperature but still loud enough to rake Ben’s nerves as he leaned back on the bench and stared out across the river. On the far shore, the silhouettes of trees were like black lace against the star-sprinkled sky. The water, as gray as smoke, slid silently by, its wind-ruffled surface looking like fish scales, unable to reflect the sprinkling of stars overhead. The air carried a damp, earthy, spring-like smell, but beneath that was the promise of a long, cold Maine winter.

  As much as he didn’t want to, Ben couldn’t stop dwelling on the phone conversation he’d had earlier in the evening with his brother. At least he thought it had been earlier this evening. Already, the memory seemed distant, like it had happened a long time ago. But for the thousandth time, he wished he and Rob had a better relationship…or any kind of relationship. Sadly, he realized that too much time had passed, and it no longer seemed feasible. He couldn’t remember exactly when the break between them had occurred. They had always been close while growing up, but for years now, they had allowed their relationship to wither and die. Both of them were at fault, and although Ben regretted the chasm between them, he knew there wasn’t much—if anything—he could do to fix it now. That left him feeling alone and isolated, just like the summer’s last cricket, chirping away in the dark.

  The loneliness twisting inside him made him wish there was someone he could talk to, but he couldn’t think of where to start. It wasn’t like he didn’t have friends he could call and get together with, but ever since Mary’s death, he had withdrawn more and more from all of them. Both before and immediately after Mary’s funeral, he’d gotten lots of phone calls—too many, in fact—but after a while, when their calls went unanswered and unreturned, his friends stopped calling to offer their support, and he stopped going to the therapist he’d seen three or four times.

  What did it matter, anyway?

  He was content with the way things were. Content enough, anyway. Even if he sank deeper into depression, what would it matter? Like the river, life would keep moving with or without him, so even if he exhausted himself by not sleeping until—finally—it killed him, it didn’t change a single thing. If he didn’t care, why should anyone else?

  The reflections of streetlights in the park upstream shimmered like yellow flares across the dark surface of the river. Ben found himself mesmerized by the wavering bands of light that kicked and twisted like a swimming cottonmouth. In the rushes on the far side of the river, a duck quacked once, sharply, and then silence embraced the night like unseen arms. Ben was lost in the silence until a faint splashing close to the shore drew his attention.

  His back stiffened as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head cocked to one side as he waited for the sound to be repeated. Already he was trying to convince himself that he hadn’t heard anything, that he must have imagined it, but as he replayed the sound in his memory, he tried to guess what it could have been…

  A fish jumping in the water?

  A log floating by unseen in the dark and scraping against the shore?

  A turtle tumbling from the bank into the river?

  He recalled the footsteps he had heard behind him the night before—

  Was it really just last night?

  —and a sudden rush of chills reached inside his collar and spread across his back, making him hunch his shoulders. A tendon in his neck cracked as he turned and looked over his shoulder down the path behind him, convinced he would see someone—a motionless, dark figure—silhouetted against the black backdrop of the trees, moving toward him.

  But there was nothing there…nothing that he could see, anyway. A sudden gust of wind sent a handful of dead leaves skittering across the ground. They made a dry, scratching sound like fingernails tapping on a chalkboard.

  Ben’s eyes strained to pierce the darkness. He wanted to say something, to speak out loud so if anyone were there, they would know he was aware of them and that he wasn’t afraid. But the truth was, he was afraid because no matter what he could or couldn’t see, he sensed something in the darkness…a presence that, even if he might not be able to see, he could feel coming closer. When the sound from the river came again, louder now, he got up quickly from the bench, poised in a half-crouch, his fists balled at his sides as he stared at the river.

  He wanted to call out, but the air in his lungs was too heavy to exhale. Beads of sweat broke out across his forehead like morning dew on a leaf. Close to shore, he discerned a dark shape that almost looked like a person, shifting like a shadow in the shallow water close to the steep riverbank. Ben opened his mouth and started to say something, but he checked himself and watched in amazement as the figure in the water resolved more clearly. Two long, thin arms broke the surface and reached up to hug one of the rocks close to the river’s edge. They were as black as an oil slick, but as he stared at them, they moved, sliding higher up onto the bank as whatever this was dragged itself out of the water and flopped onto dry land. It made wet sucking sounds that set Ben’s nerves on edge.

  “Are you�
��” he started to say, but his voice choked off when the figure rotated its head slowly and looked up at him.

  Ben felt totally vulnerable, knowing that, from down there, he stood out against the night sky. The human-looking thing moved slowly, lunging heavily forward like a drowning man, crawling onto the shore. It wasn’t long before only the bottom half of its legs were in the water, and all the while, the thing was staring up at Ben. He caught a glimpse of its eyes shining like quicksilver in the darkness where its face should be. The creature’s gaze froze him where he stood, but then, after a moment that seemed to stretch on forever, it continued to struggle up onto the slope, pulling first one leg, then the other up behind it. The night air was filled with a thick, dead-fish smell.

  Ben wished he had the strength to turn and run like he had last night from the human-shaped pile of leaves, but his knees were locked, and he couldn’t remember how to move. His heart was hammering in his chest like a drop forge. Rapid, painful throbs tightened and released his neck and wrists.

  What the hell is going on?

  He considered the possibility that someone had fallen into the river upstream and been swept away by the current and finally, near exhaustion, was able to make it to shore, but why hadn’t it spoken to him? The only sounds in the night, other than the steady chirping of the solitary cricket, was the wet, squishy sounds it made as it dragged itself up the rocky riverbank.

  Ben watched as its hands slid like dense shadows across the muddy bank, moving up toward the path. The urge to say something was almost overwhelming, but the only sound Ben could make was a faint whimper in the back of his throat. The figure turned and looked at him again, but now it seemed more intent on climbing out of the river than anything else.

  Ben almost called out to offer to help, but instead he stood rooted where he was, silently watching as the figure lurched up toward the asphalt pathway. The wind blew the rotten, fishy smell straight into his face, making him gag. The sounds seemed unnaturally loud in the stillness of the night, and he shrank back when the thing shifted to its left and started crawling toward him.

  Stay back. I don’t want any trouble, Ben wanted to call out, but his throat was sealed shut. His eyes widened, and his vision swelled with rings of lights at each throbbing beat of his pulse as the thing—he couldn’t think of it as a real person—got closer to him. All around, the night, charged with a tingling, dangerous energy, pressed in on him. In the corners of his eyes, other vague shapes shifted in and out of view. Faint shuffling sounds that sounded almost like laughter came at him from several directions at once.

  Ben desperately wanted to convince himself that he was imagining this, that this was another hallucination like the leaf-shaped figure that had frightened him the night before, but the figure on the ground in front of him had finally reached the path less than ten feet from where he stood, and it was struggling to stand up. The decaying flesh smell was overpowering, and Ben vomited up into his throat. His vision blurred, and he was suddenly afraid that he might faint.

  Wave after wave of vertigo swept through him, making his knees buckle. His eyelids drooped lower, narrowing his view until all he could see was the dark shape that was now standing nearly erect on the path a few feet in front of him. The streetlights from the park glowed with a misty glare, but the rays of light behind the shape appeared to bend as they reflected with an iridescent rainbow glow. The shape looked two-dimensional, its flat, black surface rippling like the surface of the river.

  Ben’s chest heaved and ached, and he realized that he hadn’t taken a breath in a long time; but when he took a gulp of air, hazy blue spots of light exploded across his vision, erasing the night. If this thing started toward him, he knew he wouldn’t have the strength to run or defend himself. He wished he could believe this was all in his imagination, but it was too real, too frightening to be imaginary.

  The thing moaned softly as it swung its head slowly from side to side, all the while sniffing with a thick, watery sound. Ben had the impression it was confused and trying to get its bearings. He cringed away from it, hoping it would ignore him. After a moment, with a wild shudder, the thing straightened up to its full height. For the first time, it actually looked human, but when it turned to look at Ben, he saw that, instead of eyes, there were round, black holes in its face, darker than the night. Ben staggered backwards, his shoulders hunched, fists clenched.

  The thing cocked its head to one side and opened its mouth. The lower jaw moved loosely, and a thick, whispery voice muttered something Ben didn’t understand. Ben took a step back and was about to turn and run when a shuffling sound behind him drew his attention. His heart squeezed painfully when he glanced over his shoulder and saw another dark figure moving down the path toward him. Like the thing in front of him, this one shifted slowly, its feet dragging heavily with every step.

  Ben stepped away from the paved path and watched as the thing behind him came abreast of the other one, and then both of them shambled off toward the town park. They drifted in the night like wet smoke, gradually thinning out the further they got away until, finally, all Ben could see was the dim glow of the park streetlights. Looking down, he noticed thick, dark smears like oil slicks on the pathway, and the fishy smell lingered in the air. When he finally dared take a breath, the cool night air was like a slap across the face.

  “I have to be dreaming,” he said in a raw voice, but on a deep level, he wanted desperately to believe that what he had just seen wasn’t real.

  It couldn’t be!

  The knowledge that he might be losing his mind, that he already had lost his mind, didn’t upset him as much as he thought it might. He had just enough grasp on reality to know that. After everything he had been through, losing his mind was understandable, if not inevitable.

  When Ben looked back at the bench, he braced himself, fully expecting to see himself sitting there, either asleep or dead, but the bench was empty. A fitful gust of wind swirled dust into the air, and for an instant, Ben mistook it for a figure. Then it dissolved into the darkness.

  He remembered hearing that it wasn’t possible to see your own hands in your dreams, so he raised both hands in front of his face and stared at them while flexing his fingers so they looked like claws. It was like watching someone else. His skin had a smoky translucent quality and looked gray and decaying.

  “OK, I can see my hands,” he whispered as he ran both of them down the sides of his face, pulling his cheeks, amazed by the sense of touch. “I can see and feel them, so either I’m having one hell of a dream, or something else is going on here.”

  Struggling against a powerful and unsettling feeling of dissociation, he shifted his focus down the path where the two figures had gone. He thought he could distinguish two gray smudges, hovering like clouds of exhaust against the lighted background of the park, but he couldn’t be sure. Cocking his head to one side, he listened but could no longer hear the heavy tread of their feet. He realized with a start that the cricket had stopped singing. He wondered if it had died from the cold. He took a slow breath and let it out.

  “What in the name of God is going on?” he whispered, surprised by the sound of his voice. He shuddered as he looked across the river, transfixed by the lights reflected in the dark current that slid silently past him.

  “You see them, don’t you?”

  The voice coming out of the night was so faint he barely heard it above the muffled rush of his pulse in his ears. It sounded simultaneously close to his ear and far away, and it left him with the distinct impression that he had imagined hearing it. He swallowed hard as his eyes darted back and forth, trying to pierce the night to see if anyone was nearby.

  “You did see them, didn’t you?”

  The voice, louder this time, was a woman’s, but where was she? Her words wafted on the breeze like a ribbon of mist, teasing him, taunting him. Ben looked all around until a hint of motion on the opposite shore of the river drew his attention. He tensed, wondering if there really was a person the
re and that’s who had spoken.

  Is this another one of those…whatever those things are?

  “Who…who are you?” he called out, surprised by the muffled flatness of his voice. He couldn’t shake the impression that he was talking or maybe just thinking to himself, but as he stared across the water, the figure on the opposite shore resolved more clearly.

  Without a doubt, there was someone standing there beneath the trees, but had she been talking to him?

  Maybe there was someone else with her, and her voice clearly carried across the water in the stillness of the night.

  “Those people,” the woman said with a rising lilt in her voice. “You saw them, didn’t you?”

  “Did you?” Ben asked.

  “Of course I did,” she replied. Her voice fluttered in the darkness like unseen wings, creating a weird effect of sounding closer than it actually was. “I see them out here all the time, and I’ve seen you over there every night.”

  “Yeah, well…” Ben said, but his voice faded away.

  Why should he tell her anything about who he was or why he was here? He didn’t know this person. What business was it of hers, even if she had seen him sitting on the bench night after night?

  “How many did you see tonight?” the woman called out.

  Before Ben could answer, a shuffling sound behind him drew his attention. Turning quickly, he saw several figures moving toward him along the paved pathway. It was too dark to see exactly how many. He guessed at least four or five, maybe more. They moved in a pack, looking like stains that were bleeding out of the night. The air was hushed. Faint tendrils of static electricity stirred the hairs on the back of his arms and neck.

  “Don’t worry,” the woman called out. “I don’t think they’ll hurt you. The truth is, I’m not sure they can see you any clearer than you can see them. Not yet, anyway.”