from "Two-Lips Reviews"
"Helen Fleize and Father Henry Pauley are both new neighbors to the Earthly Delights
housing edition. Except for the news that four young boys were missing and
unaccounted for the neighborhood seemed quiet and unassuming. Quiet and
unassuming until they meet Marvin and Ernestine Peregrine at the end of the
cul-de-sac. The Peregrines invite Helen and Father Henry over for dinner
and some fun and games. But Marvin and Ernestine’s idea of fun and games
are nothing like the two new neighbors have ever played and they are soon
playing for their lives and wishing they had never heard of the Earthly
Delights housing edition and the family at the end of the cul-de-sac.
Lost in the Cornfield plays on all of your childhood fears and more. Joseph A. Domino is a master at playing with your psyche and will have you guessing through the whole story whether the fear is real or imagined. If you are looking for a good scare to keep you awake at night pick up a copy of Lost in the Cornfield.--"
From Lost in the Cornfield: "As they began up the long winding stone path which led to the Peregrine’s front door, they could hear thunder. Distant lightning flashed to the west, beyond the corn field illuminating the scarecrow, who dangled high above the corn, condemned to hang and sway--except on certain nights--appointed overseer to the rustling emptiness which filled the rows of stalks. A sudden gust of wind loosened the scarecrow’s head so that it turned in the direction of the Peregrine’s house, perking up, attentive
to the arrival of the dinner guests."
It's a pretty good, scary and funny read, especially around Halloween. Currently out of circulation. But here it is for free. Currently working on converting it to a screenplay.
Lost in the Corn Field
One
Augurs of Innocence
The globular mass of iridescent goo oozed like hellish drool across Timmy’s twisted horrified features as he gasped for breath. A heaving panting form held him fast to the lawn and as its face drew closer it made slobbering, choking sounds.
“Please,” wheezed Timmy.
“It’ll soon be over,” said the slobbering voice. “You’ll be one of us.”
Timmy could see very little, but he thought two other ghoulish shapes had drawn near. When they giggled, eight-year old Timmy grew even more terrified.
“And now for the ceremony,” said the figure with the bright, peeling hacked face.
One of the others handed the “creature” a container filled with a kind of slime. It began to pour the contents onto to Timmy’s head when--
“Scott!” The ghoul looked up. “Scott Dillman. What are you doing to that poor child? You’re much bigger than him. You leave him alone right now, do you hear?”
“Aw mom, it’s just ‘bucket of dry slime’. It won’t hurt anything. Besides, it’s Mischief Night. All the kids are out and doin’ stuff.”
“If you use everything up tonight, you won’t have anything left for Halloween tomorrow. It’s getting late. And I don’t want you bothering the neighbors.”
“But Mom--”
“Don’t ‘but’ me. Now do as I say, or I’ll beat you to a pulp with your father’s strap!” For a moment, Scott felt as threatened as Timmy had a few moments ago. “And you stay out of that corn field. God knows what’s running around out there.”
“Sure Mom.”
“Don’t go too far from Winding Way. And stay away from Center Lane. Especially that big white house. And I want you back by nine, understand?”
“Yeah, Mom.” He glanced at his front door for a moment where he saw the shape of his mother, an undetailed shadow in the eerie street light, her hands on her hips, poised to inflict retribution for any acts of rebellion.
The builders of Earthly Delights had etched Center Lane, a dead end street, in a far corner of the development. Beyond Center Lane extended a vast expanse of corn fields, a desert of stalks belonging to a farmer no one had ever seen. Rumors circulated that the man was a descendant of an Indian chieftain of a tribe, which had been massacred by soldiers and settlers back in the 1870s. Children made up stories about ghosts of ancient warriors lurking in the fields, or about people going into the fields and disappearing, or being turned into scarecrows.
These stories assumed a frightful immediacy leading up to Halloween when mothers warned roaming children about the corn field, the mysterious farmer, by reputation, none too hospitable. Supposedly “a” farmer had lived on that land many years ago and had mutilated the hand of a child who had trespassed on his land. Naturally, as the story traveled about, many came to believe that the present occupant of the farm had actually perpetrated the deed.
About an hour later, after squirting shaving cream into randomly chosen mail boxes, twelve year-old Scotty Dillman regrouped with two of his buddies, Tony and Paul and eight-year old Timmy. Together they huddled in the moonlit shadow of a bulldozer left by the work crews in a pitted and cratered field. He pushed back his mask of a face partially dissolving into a green florescent gelatinous slime. They sat silently, tallying up their spoils which had filled their orange and black shopping bags.
Scott narrowed his eyes at Timmy. “Who wants to go into the corn field?”
It was a double dare in a sense. If they braved the corn field, they would also have to pass through the yard of the white house. Although he had never seen the people who lived there, Scott heard a story about how once a kid was in front of the house and the man came outside to take out the garbage. When he saw the kid, he threatened to slit his throat. Scott’s friends knew that he intended to leave Timmy in the corn field, a decision he would live to regret.
On the way Timmy kept asking questions. “What’s in the white house?”
“Oh nothing,” said Scott, looking away, trying not to crack up. Maybe he could talk Timmy into ringing the door bell. “We just have to go through the yard to get to the field.”
“Are we going near the farmhouse?”
“I guess not. We’re just going to find the scarecrow and turn around and come back.”
Timmy didn’t notice the others giggling.
“I think the scarecrow is somewhere in the middle of the field. So, all we have to do is move in a straight line.” Scott reached into his pocket and added. “Actually, we’ll mark our position with this ball of string. Tie it to the fence in the yard, unwind it as we go and then use it to find our way back.” Tony and Paul looked at each other and winked, for they knew the plan would be to lead Timmy to the dark center of the corn field, have him hide his eyes for ten seconds and on the count of two bolt the way they had come and grab up the string as they fled.
Clouds raced by overhead as they made their way unobstructed alongside the white house then through the yard to the back fence, looking over their shoulders. Scott felt confident as he fingered the flashlight in his pocket; it looked as though no one were home.
The rows of leafy stalks turned and twisted like a maze, so that Scott quickly abandoned the notion of moving in a straight line and headed where his instincts led him. Clutching that ball of string, he knew that it could be real easy to get lost in here, especially at night. The string was running out faster than he thought. Soon they came to a clearing where they could see a house on the top of a small rise beyond the far edge of the field.
Timmy whispered, hardly moving his lips, trying not to let his teeth chatter. “Is that where the farmer lives?”
Scott squinted, surprised to see the house. He saw one light in an upstairs window. “Uh, well, I guess,” he said falteringly, not wanting to get any closer. “Anyway, we can’t go any further. No more string. But here’s what you have to do.”
“What do you mean?” said Timmy, raising his voice.
“Shhhh,” said Scott, drawing Tony and Paul closer. “You want to be one of us, right. You’re a privileged guy. You think we let a lot of eight-year old dorks hang out with us?”
“Well--”
“All you have to do is put your hands over your eyes and count slowly to ten. You have to be absolutely still. When you’re done, we’ll all go back.”
“Go ahead, Timmy,” said Paul.
“Yeah,” added Tony, stifling laughter.
Tony and Paul knew the routine. Variations of it had been executed in the past. Scott had already begun to back away slowly.
“One, two....”
A rustling sound in the stalks halted the retreat of Scott and his minions and Timmy heard it but decided to continue believing they were trying to scare him.
“...Three, four...” A kind of footfall, more like a dragging, scuffing sound. “...Five, six...” Flapping, like the beating of wings. Scott was the first to turn around.
“Holy fucking shit!” he said in a strangled voice. The remaining ball of string, now no bigger in diameter than a golf ball, dropped from his opening palm to the ground. “...Seven, eight...” Tony and Paul turned around more slowly, but their eyes bulged out no less than Scott’s when they saw the scarecrow, which looked to be about eight feet tall standing upright without the aid of a pole or stake. On each of its outstretched arms, three huge crows had calmly perched themselves. Only Scott paused for a moment to wonder if someone in a costume had followed them. But the birds looked real. Wait, scarecrows were supposed to...
“...Nine...”
If Scott or the others could have moved their eyes, they would have seen the remnant ball of string leap away from their feet back into the murky labyrinth from which they had emerged. The scarecrow, too solid to be stuffed only with straw, moved its head and glanced down as the ball of string bounced between his legs and disappeared back into the thick rows of stalks. It “glanced” back at the boys, a kind of shifting blackness in its button eyes, its slit of mouth turning upward and making a sound like the opening of a plastic sandwich bag.
“Ten,” yelled Timmy, who whirled about. The sight hardly had time to register when the crows came at them, stinging piercing beaks at their heads, their collars, their wild wind-blow hair, and even their wide eyes when they looked behind them at their pursuers as they fled with brute mindless terror--in the direction of the farm house.
Back on Winding Way, the man from the white house smiled as he rested one leg on the fence which faced the corn field as he rolled up a ball of string. Tomorrow was the last day of October when the new neighbors were due to arrive. He knew the fun had only begun.
Two
Getting Acquainted
Moving day was bright and sunny. For the new arrivals the day bore great promise. The neighborhood’s typical Saturday exuberance had been muted, buzzing with an undertone of shock and concern as news circulated about the four missing boys. Children anxiously watched their parents, hoping trick-or-treating could go on as planned. A patrol car limped past the turn to Center Lane, avoiding a tipped over trash can. As it passed near the curb, streamers of toilet tissue grazed its side when it moved under the branches of a small tree.
Neither of the new neighbors on Center Lane had heard a word about it, even on the radio as they drove in to the Earthly Delights Development. Only three houses had been built on Center Lane and they were at the end of the lane where the street opened up into a neat cul-de-sac. Two of the houses, facing one another on the left and right, were small plain two-bedroom ranch homes, distinguishable only in color--one was green and the other blue. In between these houses, at the rear of Center Lane and set back a little, was a sprawling white colonial whose backyard disappeared into the corn field. Its front lawn unfolded like a green carpet. For some time, up until today, the colonial had been the only occupied residence on Center Lane.
Around eleven a.m. a variety of vans, station wagons, and U-hauls turned into Center Lane. Father Henry Oliver Pauley got out of a battered Chevy and clasped his hands and smiled. He had dressed in jeans and a plaid flannel shirt, but still wore his clerical collar. Some of his new parishioners and also one or two of his friends were helping him move. He strode over to the blue ranch, remembering that he wore his house key about his neck.
Father Pauley (they called him Hoppy at the seminary) had been a member of the Episcopal clergy for twelve years. He had fallen into disfavor with his last congregation, the First Episcopal Church in Highland, some seventy miles upstate.
In one of his rare attempts to assert himself in his career, Henry proposed longer sermons and less emphasis on upcoming fund drives and meetings and sagebrush dances and pancake brunches and Yankee baked bean suppers. His parishioners complained and got him in trouble with the Bishop. Not only did the Bishop caution him to limit his sermons to eight minutes, but the service was lengthened for even more announcements. After about a year, just when he felt he had gotten the hang of it, he was reassigned to a smaller church about two miles from Earthly Delights. Demoralized and disillusioned, he finally decided that he hadn’t tried hard enough. Bishop Thomas had said, “we have to maintain a certain perspective on things.” Henry wondered, but didn’t inquire about the man he was replacing, and the Bishop offered no explanation.
For most of his adult life Henry guiltily sought the pursuit of spirituality, as a refuge, a haven. So far, he had failed to realize that such a pursuit was not possible without the strong conviction of one’s beliefs.
Henry came to Center Lane at low ebb, in melancholy spirits, at a loss to decide where to turn for help or guidance. He called his old mentor, Fr. Carson Knight, whom he secretly referred to as his “tormentor,” for advice. Fr. Knight was less than helpful, hardly remembering a student named Pauley until Henry told him that he was the one who stumbled through his sermon and the liturgy and the communion whenever Fr. Knight evaluated him from the back pew. “Oh yes, I remember now: the “pastor of disaster.”
It wasn’t exactly a crisis of faith these days. God was still in his heaven. But Henry, one of his poor caretakers on earth, wrestled more and more with his loneliness, his inability to connect with people. He considered his congregations, social events, and programs over the years, concluding that he had been mostly going through the motions.
Across the court, Dr. Helen Fleize emerged from a new gray Volvo and was about to be assisted by some of her more successful patients with whom she remained in contact. Both Father Pauley and Dr. Fleize shared a vague awareness of the novelty that the “other” new owner had arrived at the same time. Helen marched up to the green ranch and, about the same time as Henry, became perplexed when her key would not unlock the front door. Henry experienced the same difficulty.
Helen looked at the ground and shook her head. She must really cut back on her case load, she thought. Of course there had been the pressure of the divorce. Well, a little pressure anyway. Adjusting wasn’t much of a problem. Her husband, whom she had met at a cross-counseling session, was also a psychiatrist. In addition to, in Helen’s view, failing as a life partner, he had not achieved much professionally. Helen wanted to restore her maiden name to her practice, but hadn’t yet found the time. “Fleize” was everywhere: letterhead, business cards, her office door. Her husband was still an unwelcome presence, but he had provided her with one advantage: his mediocrity enhanced the perception of her own competence and, in some cases, had even contributed to the advancement of her career. Still, Helen felt it had never been easy. There had been the failed affair with the British doctor at medical school. She finished only in the upper 25% of her graduating class (still higher than her eventual husband).
As if the stress of managing a mental health career plus a shaky marriage weren’t enough, a series of nightmares continued to plague Helen. These terrifying dreams left a broken trail all the way back to her childhood, to a single day of unspeakable horror, at least for the child she had been. Yet, the memory of it haunted her as though she were still a child. During periods of stress, the memory came back to her in her dreams, as vividly as if it happened yesterday. She shook herself free from her thoughts and squinted at the gangly fellow across the way who appeared, to say the least, confused.
Henry tapped his forehead with a fist and smiled self-deprecatingly. He really did need the Lord to watch over him, he thought. The two looked across the court at each other as they realized their error.
“Hi,” Henry called. He started to cross over as Helen met him half way. Henry was tall and gawky and had crusty, flaky skin. Although only forty-two, he could have been taken for fifty. By contrast, Helen, about the same age, was short and smooth. Her face glistened with an array of facial moisturizers and make-up.
“I get the green one,” said Henry, laughing. “Isn’t amazing that we both made the same mistake?”
“I suppose it is,” said Helen, maintaining a cool detachment, “but what probably happened was that one of us--I don’t know which--made the error first and the other sub-consciously reacted to it by going to the other house.” Helen wanted to bite her tongue. She just couldn’t keep her mind off her work.
Henry ignored the comment and then lamented that he hadn’t given it more consideration. “I’m Father Pauley. Call me Henry. I was transferred and now they’ve gotten around to moving me to the town of my parish. I begin services a week from tomorrow.”
A distinct cloud passed over Helen’s features. A man of the cloth, she thought, staring at his collar, someone who would be infuriatingly certain of everything. “How do you do? I’m Dr. Helen Fleize. I’m a psychiatrist.” There was a cold edge to her voice, but she was conscious of it. She felt she had to be like that with people who didn’t or couldn’t possibly view things her way. Maybe the people in the colonial would be more interesting. Henry was unperturbed by her attitude, if he even noticed.
“After we get settled later,” said Henry, “we ought to have a little supper. Together. I like to cook. My treat.”
Or trick, wondered Helen who regarded Henry with amusement. What could this bachelor-minister have in mind anyway? It must have been a long time since he--well, never mind, thought Helen. She considered for a few seconds and decided she’d take him up on his offer--out of professional curiosity. Besides, she hated to cook.
“Lovely neighborhood, isn’t it?” said Henry, scanning the cul-de-sac and noting the leftovers from last night’s Mischief Night orgy: scraps of toilet paper, egg shells, spent stink bomb shells. He paused when he noticed tufts of straw here and there, skittering along the sidewalk and street in the early morning breeze. When he turned to face Helen, she was staring at the white colonial.
“Know anything about them?” Helen nodded.
“No, actually. Did you see them when the realtor showed you around?”
“No, I think he told me they were away on a long vacation.”
“Funny, I was told the same thing when I was here last month.”
“I first came to see the place back at the end of the summer.”
Just then, the bustling sounds of the moving crews were swallowed up by a stereo blasting the opening sequence of ‘Night on Bald Mountain’, not the very beginning, but a few seconds in, at the climax of the first crescendo. It sounded as powerful as the trumpeting of the Apocalypse.
“God,” said Helen, “that’s some sound system.”
“Oh my, it is rather loud,” added Henry, checking his watch. “Mussoursky, I believe.”
“Of course,” Helen added meaninglessly.
As suddenly as it had come on, the music abruptly ended with the sound of someone dragging the stylus across the surface of the recording. This was followed by a deep moan, a thump, and the breaking of glass. Seconds later, the front door flew open and out stomped a woman, late fortyish, in a flowing pink night gown. Her features were puffy, almost swollen.
It had gotten so quiet--all the movers had stopped to look--that everyone could hear the tinkle of ice in the short stubby glass she clutched. She marched down the front path, stopping every few seconds and turning to look back as if trying to put a measured distance between herself and the house. When finally satisfied, she set her glass, having spilled not a drop, on a post with a horse’s head, and began what seemed like a planned performance.
“Marvin! You realllly sicken me. You’re a lousy fat worm. Good for nothing! You hear me, Marvin? A lousy stinking maggot fat worm. A rotten lousy stinking fat useless fucking worm!”
“Jesus!” a voice cried from inside, “you want to shut that oral cesspool of yours? What did I do?”
“You’re a worm, that’s what you did.”
“And you’re a drunken bitch, Ernestine,” said the voice wearily.
“Drunk?” The woman turned about to face the new neighbors, the vans, wagons, and the odd dozen or so movers who stood spellbound. When Ernestine took notice of the audience, she perked up even more. “Drunk?” she repeated more shrilly, her eyes filling with tears, “you got me started with that ‘sophisticated’ crowd you hung out with. A bunch of old cocks guzzling themselves blind and,” she paused, drawing a bit closer to the audience, “passing dope around--those impotent geezers. Can you believe it?”
“How do you know they’re impotent?” cried Marvin.
“You’d know better than me, you swine. Don’t think I don’t know what went on all those Saturday afternoons at the Club in that private room. ‘Do Not Disturb”. It’s a wonder I haven’t picked up AIDS.”
“That should be easy. You pick up everything else.”
“You’re such a pig, Marvin. Where’s the old gang, Marvin. The old farts you hung out with?”
“Speaking of hanging out, how about those skimpy outfits? At your age--they all got tired of looking at you hanging out. It’s enough to make a grown man gag.”
“You scum!” Ernestine marched back a ways toward the house. “Better lock your bedroom tonight. I’ll come in and cut off your ‘club member’--if I can find it!”
“Take up with a junkyard dog if it’ll have you.”
Marvin appeared by a side door near the garage. He was a short squat man with a sizable belly. He had a deep tan and wore a red polo shirt and a captain’s hat. He quickly waddled over to a red sports car, plopped in, and tore out of the driveway, tires screeching wildly. Marvin slowed for an instant as he bounced out into the street, and Ernestine hurled her glass at him. Everyone watched a watery trail of vodka and ice as it glimmered momentarily in the sunlit brightness that was high noon. The glass did not explode into shards, but, instead, struck the hood with a dull thump, remaining intact. It twirled briefly, finally spinning off to rest on a soft spongy curbside lawn. The sports car zoomed down Center Lane and on out to Winding Way. Ernestine cringed and whimpered, staring after Marvin until she remembered the new neighbors, who still gazed at her, transfixed.
Ernestine put her hands on her hips and said with a sneer, “What? Do you think you can help?”
Helen and Henry responded in unison, “Us? Why no.”
Three
The Summoning
By mid-afternoon, a freak warm front had moved through and almost everyone opened their windows, although not too wide. No sense in inviting in the malevolence which lurked about, the one that could steal children from their homes. It had gotten hot, dry, and dusty, with an occasional breeze carrying a faint scent of livestock and of fertilizer from the corn field.
The movers had completed their tasks and had disappeared as quickly and quietly as possible. In Helen’s new home, boxes were piled all around. She decided she wasn’t going to do much today. Maybe a little straightening. She did find solace in filling her teak bookcase with her favorite volumes without delay. Freud occupied nearly a whole shelf. Following the ritual, she sat on a reclining chair and held a small glass of white wine, nearly room temperature, waiting for the valium to take effect.
Helen had passed a tense evening the day before, hoping the move would go all right, trying to relax after the closing that afternoon. She tried to remain focused, but everywhere she looked were the reminders of Halloween: decorations in storefronts, mall displays. She shuddered at the thought of little children with their costumes being dragged about the streets and yelled at by their mothers and coming to her front door. They even had pumpkins at the realtor’s office where the closing was held. A warm Halloween, like today, so many years ago, a bizarre accident, couldn’t happen again in a million years, or so her father and uncle had said. Her brother, sister, and cousins went trick-or-treating that night, but she remained within, staying in her room. A few of the neighborhood kids, after hearing what happened, came to her window after dark and tried to scare her. They succeeded quite well, she recalled, even now remembering the feel of tepid urine running down her leg as she screamed herself hoarse. The memories could flare up at any time but, as she knew too well, traumas liked best to revisit their victims on their anniversary.
Anyway, she hoped Father Henry would make good on his promise concerning dinner. But, she hoped he would come to escort her to his house, even though the front door was only thirty yards or so away. She really didn’t want to venture out alone into Center Lane after that exhibition. Not long ago, she thought she heard the tentative rumble of that sports car easing into its long driveway. She jumped a little when the door bell rang. Must be that Henry, she thought.
She opened the door and there was the short man in red. The worm. The inadequate husband. The club member. His belly pressed inward on the screen door.
“Trick or treat?” he piped out merrily.
“Yes?”
“Dr. Fleize, I presume?” His voice was gravelly and reeking of authority. Helen convinced herself that he had been a high-ranking military officer.
“Yes?” she repeated, wondering if he and his wife were getting professional help.
“I’m Marvin Peregrine. Pronounced Perry Green. My wife is Ernestine. Kinda rhymes.”
He paused for effect rather than like someone who didn’t know what to say next. Helen assumed it was all part of another scripted performance and she braced for the pitiful apology she believed he was sure to recite, but it never came.
“Welcome,” he continued, sweeping his arm towards his house, “to the neighborhood. Or, should I say the corn fields which surround our little domain like some alternate universe--with its own set of natural laws.”
Helen blinked. “Thank you.” He acted a little drunk, she thought, but she couldn’t smell a drop. She blinked again and drew back slightly when Marvin casually opened the screen door and admitted himself.
“I would like,” he began deliberately, placing his hands in his pockets and jiggling coins, “to really welcome you to the neighborhood.” Helen tensed when he placed one hand on his belt buckle. He turned to face the open door and squint at his house. “You see, my wife and I have spent a lot of time recently trying to get in touch with our feelings. Any time. Anywhere. About anything. We’ve studied up some and we think that’s the best way to come to terms with our feelings. And guilt, too, I suppose. I don’t know where we’d be if we didn’t express ourselves from time to time. We’ve got to explore the layers of our personalities. Our psychosexual profile is definitely high-tension.”
Helen didn’t know whether to smile or recoil from this speech. “Did you know I was a shrink?”
“Really? Isn’t that interesting? Anyway, the missus, the wifey, the chief schnook and bottle guzzler, the apple of my ire, and yours truly would like to make it up to you.”
Helen stared at him blankly.
“I’m sure our little display, our little dispute, was a trifling unsettling for someone new to the neighborhood. Caused you no small trepidation. Knocked your socks off, honey--”
“I get the idea, Mr. Peregrine.”
“Please call me Marvin. Or better yet, Marv.”
“O.K. So?”
“So what?”
“Making it up.” Helen couldn’t believe she was reminding him. Oh well, this Marvin and his shrewish Ernestine, she thought, are probably a couple of teddy bears. Under the surface, they’re probably the best of neighbors.
“Oh yeah.” Marvin had now moved away from the door and was peeking out the window from behind the curtain. “Making it up,” he repeated a little louder. “You know, doing it up. Raising our spirits! Getting our spirits up,” still louder. Finally, “GETTING IT UP!” he shouted, loud enough to be heard in the corn field. “So how about dinner at my place? It’s a rule here. New neighbors on Center Lane don’t cook for themselves first night here.”
“Have there been a lot of new neighbors?” Helen bit her lip, fighting off a blush. “I mean, that rule must have been around a long time.”
Marvin jutted out his chin. “I just made the rule up now. What do you say to that?” he challenged with a sneer.
“Dinner at your place,” Helen repeated. “Yours and Mrs. Peregrine’s,” said Helen.
“Ernie-pooh? Yeah, she’ll be around somewhere. If she hasn’t fallen down the steps to the wine cellar.”
“Well, Mr.--Marvin, as a matter of fact, Henry across the street, has already invited me to his place.”
“He has?” asked Marvin, throwing his shoulders back and turning to look through the screen door in the general direction of Henry’s house. “Who does he think he is breaking the rules like that?”
“Maybe he doesn’t know the rules,” said Helen with more than a little hint of impatience. “But even if he does, he asked me first.”
“He’ll goddam know the rules before he’s through.” Marvin turned back around and stuffed his hands into his pockets. “I assure you both that you’ll find out all there is to know.”
Helen mulled this over for a few moments, concluding that this could not be genuine menace, rather an eccentric way of stating one’s territorial supremacy.
While Marvin paid his little visit to the doctor, Ernestine, not to be outdone, dashed over to see Henry. First, she changed into khaki shorts and a flowery print blouse, leaving as many buttons undone as decorum would allow. Henry’s breath caught in his throat when he saw her, hardly recognizing her as the puffy teary woman on the front lawn, who had thrown her drink at her husband’s red sports car.
“Yes, you’re uh--”
“Ernestine Peregrine from the white house. I don’t know how to say it, but I want to apologize for my husband and I. For our shameful display.” Ernestine pouted her lips and batted her eyelashes. “We’re really not as bad we seem.”
“Why, that’s all right,” said Henry, not meaning a word of it. An act of contrition, wondered Henry. The performance had been so flagrant, so outrageous.
Ernestine drew close and Henry took a strong whiff of perfume. She took his hands and her eyes grew glassy. “Thank you so much, Father, isn’t it?” she asked glancing at the collar. “We’ve all got to start out on the right foot and my husband and I didn’t do such a good job of it, did we?”
“Well-uh...”
“You’re so understanding. I’d really like to show my appreciation.”
As Henry smiled blankly, Ernestine, still holding his hands, pulled him close and kissed him on the cheek. This so unnerved Henry that he broke into a sweat.
“My husband’s across the street trying to make amends with our other female neighbor,” she said, gritting her teeth. “Why don’t we go join them? Perhaps we can all have dinner at our place.”
“But--”
“It’s no trouble, I assure you. Now, let’s go.”
Henry recalled his dinner promise to Helen. His gas still had not been turned on. “Well, but--OK, I--uh, need to put on my shoes.”
Henry sat on his bare mattress in his bedroom, staring at his shoes. It wasn’t just a peck on the cheek like he’d gotten over the years from assorted church lady cronies. It was a hard kiss, passionate, even if on the cheek. It reminded him of the time, near the end of high school, when he announced his decision to major in religion in college and go on to seminary. Some of his “friends” invited him to a party, where the parents were away for the weekend. They chipped in for a hooker to come to the house. After telling Henry they had a surprise for him in the bedroom, he waited there with the lights off as instructed, not something he liked one bit. The hooker was admitted, went right up to him and kissed him full on the mouth. The others waited outside, giggling. After a few minutes, the hooker came out. He remembered the exchange.
“Well, what happened?” everyone shouted.
“Nothing that’s what. Or, let me put it this way: nothing was able to happen.” Everyone laughed. Henry was so embarrassed that he crawled out the window and went home. But, as he sadly recalled, more pranks awaited him, even at the seminary. The worst was that Halloween night they took him to the graveyard. Henry chided himself for being so caught up in his past failures. Perhaps in the role of peacemaker, he could do some good here on Center Lane, he thought as Ernestine dragged him across the cul-de-sac.
Helen almost heaved a sigh of relief when they heard a knock at her screen door. In came Ernestine tugging Henry along and clinging to his arm. When Marvin noted the trace of lipstick on Henry’s cheek, his face turned almost as red as his polo shirt. Mechanically, yet cozily, he slid an arm around Helen’s waist.
“Why, dear,” said Ernestine, “is that a knee-jerk reaction?”
“Who would know better about knees than you,” said Marvin.
“And who would know better about jerks?” she responded. “You’re not going to get one leg up on me.”
“Up his leg? Why Ernie, where’s your sense of decency?”
Helen was certain these lines had been said before as she looked over at Henry, hoping for some confirmation of her thoughts, or at least an acknowledgment of her discomfort. Henry kept his gaze fixed on the tips of his shoes, beginning to believe that the ordeal had barely begun.
“That is,” Marvin continued, addressing Helen and Henry, “nothing gets past Ernie. She’s really better, though, at reading between the knees--I mean lines.”
“Look,” Helen piped out, feigning assertiveness, “Henry said he’d make dinner for me.”
Marvin and Ernestine looked at one another as though they had just sprung a trap.
“My gas isn’t turned on, I’m afraid,” said Henry apologetically.
“Well, that clinches it,” said Marvin, “you’ll have plenty of gas after Ernie’s cooking.”
“Oh yeah?” said Ernestine, taking her cue, “Turned him loose in the kitchen once. He made stuffed pork chops for some dinner guests. They had the trots for days.” Helen glanced in the direction of her kitchen. “Forget it, dearie, your gas isn’t turned on, either.”
“We don’t want to put you out,” said Helen, her resolve beginning to crumble. Why didn’t this preacher help her protest? An evening with these rowdy boors and she’d be back up to ten milligrams a day. After all, it was clear that just living on the same street with these world-class neurotics would be no picnic.
“Don’t worry about putting us out,” said Ernestine, dismissing the serious tone Helen had attempted to convey. “I’ve been all through that with the parson, which is what El Jefe des los roving manos was supposed to be doing with you.”
All but defeated, Helen said, “Henry and I could go to a restaurant.”
“The nearest one is a half hour drive,” said Marvin.
“Half an hour?” Helen brightened. “That’s not so terribly far.”
“Trust me, dearie, they’re all terrible anyway.”
“They’re not all that terrible,” countered Marvin.
“They’re not all that good,” said Ernestine, raising her voice.
“Well, then, they’re all generally mediocre,” said Marvin with slightly less conviction.
Ernestine shook her head. “I wouldn’t exactly put it that way.”
“Neither would I,” Marvin grunted from the side of his mouth.
“All right!” shouted Helen. “I give up. Henry?”
“I already said O.K.,” he said sheepishly.
“What time?” asked Helen.
“Dusk,” said Marvin.
This seemed to catch Ernestine off guard. She released her hold on Henry and grimaced, looking into Marvin’s eyes for a moment and then nodding to the others and leaving without uttering a word. She folded her arms as she slunk back to the white colonial.
Marvin also left silently, but he did smile broadly, an odd kind of triumphant smile, reminding Helen of a glaring jack o’ lantern with a ragged mouth, like some she had seen outside front doors of several houses when she drove into Earthly Delights that morning. Marvin got back in his red sports car, which he had left parked in the middle of Center Lane with the engine running.
Four
Field of Screams
Nothing to do but wait for dinner time, Henry guessed. After a short while of straightening up and going through his boxes, the doorbell again rang. What did they want now? Or, was it Ernestine alone again, dressed like God knows what. Somewhat to his relief, he smiled when he saw the realtor, Dominick Robusto, who had first showed him the house weeks ago.
“Hi, I’m Dominick Robusto. You remember me don’t you, Father?” Robusto was squat and barrel-chested and red-faced and Henry imagined that he ate a lot of Italian food.
“Why, of course. What can I do for you?”
“Well, actually, the Bishop’s office called my boss to make sure you got settled in okay. So here I am. If anything’s not quite in order, just tell old Dominick and I’ll get it fixed.” Robusto looked uncomfortable and sweaty around the collar. If the truth were known, he had no desire to be here, seeing how this house and occupant were a done deal. He had also heard about the missing children and hoped Henry wouldn’t comment or question him about it. After all, these incidents could happen anywhere. “You weren’t here when they did the inspection?” Henry nodded. “Well, let’s take a little tour, and see if everything’s in working order,” he concluded, checking his watch.
So, Robusto led Henry through his own house from top to bottom, finding just about everything in ship shape--until they came to the basement. He opened the door to the basement, flipped on the light, went half-way down, and stopped. Henry, practically on his heels, tapped him lightly on the shoulder.
“It’s a bit musty, isn’t it?”
“Well, yeah, a de-humidifier is what you need.”
Henry felt a cobweb cling to his cheek and almost shuddered. Robusto noticed and smiled sympathetically.
“Damn spiders,” he said. “Excuse me, Father, but they give me the creeps,” he confided. Creeps, thought Henry. Just the creeps. He wished it were that simple for him. He did not admit to Robusto that they gave him a lot more than the creeps--the foul bulbous shapes skittering along in the dark, or rappelling down the silver filament of their webs. Henry principally didn’t care for the “little beasties” as he referred to them, when he found himself alone in dark enclosed spaces, or once, especially confined in such a place with almost no light--for three and a half hours.
Robusto looked to the bottom of the stairs. He and Henry both saw the mother of all spiders, its body the size of a fat lima bean. Robusto leapt from the next to the last step and ground the spider into the gray concrete floor with his heel.
“Squash the bast--the dirty things!” Robusto wheezed. That concluded the tour of the new home.
Just before Robusto left, Henry mentioned his gas being off and the realtor told him that it often happened to newcomers in the development, so he handed him a phone number he could call. If he were lucky he could have service by late tonight or early tomorrow.
“Oh, one more thing,” said Henry as Robusto paused, filling the doorway and nervously pulling at his collar. “What do you know about the Peregrines?” Robusto stared blankly. “In the big white house across the way.”
“Oh, not much, really. Heard they travel a lot. Didn’t know they were still there, I mean, didn’t know they were home now. Well, have to go. If you need anything....” With that he turned and headed for his car.
Henry went inside to the kitchen and glanced down the dark stairs to the basement. After a moment, he closed the door and locked it. He roamed about the house looking for more spiders, but found none. Thinking about them again brought that Halloween night at the seminary back to him, alive and vivid. What started out as a “harmless” prank left him nearly hysterical, with bepissed briefs, and alternating bouts of nightmares and insomnia for months.
Two upperclassmen, who shared a room next to his, liked to torment the meek and timid Henry. They would put dead flies in his pudding and tell him it was tapioca with raisins. Or, they would slam Henry into the bleachers during basketball. Or, they would retype the cover page to his paper on “Martyrdom in the First Century Church” in Fr. Art McCall’s history course and misspell the instructor’s name (Fr. Fart McDull).
Henry’s room mate, lantern-jawed John Davidson dismissed the pranks as no worse than inflicted on anyone else.
“They never bother you,” said Henry.
“You better believe it, Hoppy,” said John, hoisting a 40-lb. dumbbell at the foot of his bed.
One night, the upperclassmen, Terry Shannon and Rudy Carver, talked Henry into joining them for a theological discussion in the seminary’s memorial cemetery, after hours of course and long after the trick-or-treaters had passed through. Terry and Rudy were hospitable, bringing along three bottles of wine. For their two bottles, they had substituted grape soda, however, they left the three-dollar hearty burgundy in Henry’s.
Somewhere between St. Augustine and Martin Luther, Henry fell off a tombstone, where he lay and began to moan about needing to sleep. Simultaneously, Terry and Rudy glanced at a tool shed lodged into the base of a sloping hill. They deposited Henry in a wheelbarrow inside the unlocked shed, but they failed to notice the click of the lock when they closed the heavy iron door.
Henry sobered up more quickly than he might have otherwise. He found it almost pitch black except for the six-inch square window covered with steel mesh. It didn’t take Henry long to piece together what had happened, taking it reasonably in stride until he tried the door. Not normally fond of the dark, Henry found its concealing menace enhanced tenfold. At first, he believed things were moving around him: mice, rats, snakes, worms, unidentifiable vermin, oozing, slithering about. His head spun and pounded from the wine and his stomach burbled with queasiness.
When he leaned against the wall and slumped down, he saw a pair of smoldering reddish eyes at the little window. Then he felt the cobwebs tugging at his eyebrows. The panic really set in when he felt something crawl across the back of his hand. Rather than brushing it off, he bashed his hand across the concrete wall and transformed the thing into a splat of goo. He got up, fighting off the urge to heave. He ran into more cobwebs as he tried to shout, not wanting to approach the demonic eyes at the window, but his voice sounded small and frail. He felt a wetness below. Whenever he tried to remain absolutely still, he thought he could hear the spiders dashing underfoot, crab-like, their mandibles churning and dripping furiously. Worms gnawing from within rotting carcasses, the utter corruption of the flesh. Despite Henry’s calling, with all the blessings of the salvation and the glory of the soul, he feared nothing more than the notion of being buried in a grave or vault, a feast for earthworms.
Some three and a half hours later, John Davidson came for him with a key proffered by the groundskeeper who only grumbled a little about being wakened from a sound sleep. It wasn’t the first time.
“Hoppy, you’re a mess,” said John. “Why do you let those guys get to you?”
“I--I” In the dim light, he glanced at the red welt on his hand, topped with a slick crusty yellow substance. Henry fainted at the sight and John carried him to the showers. Next, John paid a visit to Rudy and Terry and convinced them to place tormenting Henry on a permanently given up for Lent list.
Just as Henry decided to request the Church Board to take out a pest control contract on his new home, the door bell rang once again. Probably the Peregrines this time. Such passionate behavior, not to mention foul language and then Ernestine coming over dressed like that. But no, a middle-aged man with tired sagging features and dark circles under his eyes flashed a badge at Henry.
“Sergeant Detective Perry. Father?”
“Henry Pauley.”
“Understand you moved in today.”
“Yes and Dr. Helen Fleize across the way.”
“We’re checking with residents. Four boys missing since last night.”
“That’s terrible.”
“Yeah. Wandering around on Mischief Night. Whole Development’s spooked. Don’t think they’ll send out many trick-or-treaters tonight. Anyway, just a few questions. We can go over it together with Dr. Freeze at the same time.”
“It’s Fleize, I believe.”
“Yeah. Save us a bit of time. We’ve been nosing around out here for over twelve hours.”
“Have you talked to the Peregrines? In the white house? They’ve lived there longer, obviously.”
“Obviously,” said Perry, growing more weary with each passing minute. “Nobody home when I rang. Let’s go see the doctor.”
While the realtor Robusto led Henry through the dark corners of his unfamiliar home, Helen had been dozing on her sofa, the valium and wine having kicked in. Now and then, the dream revisited. It came upon her from time to time, but was almost a certainty on or about every Halloween. That ugly afternoon in the tree house when the dog fell, slipped, was inadvertently pushed. No one ever determined. All the children screamed, but being the youngest at six, hers was the most piercing. They just suddenly noticed him dangling. There hadn’t even been a yelp.
Dandy, the golden retriever, dropped like a stone. Who tied the leash so tightly? Dandy might have had a better chance, even at fifty or sixty feet. If not for the leash. She couldn’t remember the exact words of the older boy who was frightened and covered his eyes.
“Gawd, Dandy’s been hung.”
It wasn’t quite that simple, more a bizarre combination of weight, velocity, and the rough leather of the leash. Helen had the vaguest recollection of being carried down the ladder by Uncle Ron.
“Now, don’t you look, honey.”
She lifted her chin from Uncle Ron’s shoulder as they descended. Dandy’s head rested at an impossible angle as a result of the leash cutting half way through its throat. Dandy swayed, his eyes fixed on the farmhouse, his limp weight held only by the leash. That night, after neighborhood kids had heard the news and gone out trick-or-treating, two or three crept up to her bedroom window. One donned a dog’s mask and the others shined their flashlights eerily. Helen screamed herself breathless and voiceless and left a puddle of urine at her feet. Somehow, she made it to sleep, dreaming all night of Dandy.
The next morning, her parents found her sitting on the floor in her room. She had systematically removed the heads of all her dolls and stuffed animals. For some time after that, her sleep was broken regularly by unrelenting night terrors, waking the house with blood-curdling screams. At first, she’d look out the window and Dandy would be swaying, his black bottomless eyes seeming to stare right at her.
Helen, letting out a gasp, sat up abruptly, dabbing perspiration from her forehead.
“Damn,” she hissed.
When someone pressed the doorbell again, she straightened her blouse and stomped to the front door, ready to begin a mini-tirade.
As she flung the door back, she said in a loud voice, “Just what is it now, Mr. Per--”
“Dr. Fleize?” Helen blinked at the disheveled man and noticed Henry standing behind him, smiling tepidly and waving his fingers with that stupid, “well, here we all are again” look. “Sergeant Detective Perry.”
“Yes?” she said numbly, wondering if the strife at the Peregrine’s had escalated further.
“A question or two,” Perry began and then summarized for her benefit and Henry’s the names and ages of the missing children. When he finished, he showed them some photographs, none too clear.
“We’ll keep an eye out,” said Henry.
What’s this “we” stuff, thought Helen. “It doesn’t sound good, if you don’t mind my saying so, Sergeant. I mean they can’t be hiding. They must have gone somewhere.”
“Or were taken somewhere,” Henry said hastily. Helen glanced at him sharply for saying what she was about to add.
Perry had no patience with amateur sleuths. “We’ve got some good people on the case and if the kids don’t turn up real soon, the FBI will be called in.” Helen started to speak, but Perry wanted to end this exchange as soon as possible. “Call us at this number if you see or hear anything,” he concluded, handing a card to each. He nodded and abruptly returned to his car. Helen and Henry stood, almost mesmerized, holding Perry’s card like an admission ticket. Neither would speak aloud what they both thought. It seemed like a quiet peaceful neighborhood.
Five
A Strange Eruption...In Accents Terrible
As dusk drew near, ghosts and goblins, ninja turtles, Simpsons, and toxic crusaders wandered the Earthy Delights Development as lost souls, seeking candies and goodies, everywhere except Center Lane.
Preparing for dinner at the Peregrines, Helen lamented only briefly that she had nothing to bring. Considering those Peregrines, she thought, bringing herself was more than sufficient. By the end of the night, she’d probably dole out hundreds of dollars of “free” therapy, even if on an informal basis.
She peered out of her window and thought it was around dusk. The eerie quiet which had gripped the development continued, although a breeze had stirred up. The sky had darkened considerably in the last several minutes like the onset of a thunderstorm. The unseasonable warmth persisted.
“Think we’re in for rain,” said Henry suddenly through the screen door. Helen jumped a little and then shook her head, wondering when she had last been this jittery.
“We’re in for something,” she said, regaining her composure.
“Pardon?” he asked as she came out. “Oh,” said Henry as if remembering the answer from a game-show quiz. “You mean the Peregrines?”
“That’s O.K., I understand,” she said, comforting, in her mind at least, the bewildered. “From what we’ve seen so far, they’re difficult to speak of, or even acknowledge.”
“Oh no, not really, Dr.--Helen. I just didn’t get you at first. I’ve come to learn to be prepared for anything. Bishop Thomas always told me to be prepared. I’m certainly prepared for anything.” (While in your profession, it sounded to Helen, you are really prepared for very little).
“Anyway,” she continued as they began to walk across the cul-de-sac, “I hope as dinner hosts they’ll be somewhat better behaved.” She eyed Henry from head to foot and smirked with self-assurance, “It must be difficult for someone like yourself to deal with their kind.”
“No doubt about it. Do you know anyone who might be able to help with their particular problem?”
That stung Helen, but she couldn’t tell from Henry’s innocent demeanor whether or not he intended the comment.
Henry had begun to shake his head in a preoccupied manner, “Isn’t that awful about the children?”
“What? Oh yes.” Well, it seemed natural for Henry to react that way, but Helen prided herself on remaining detached in such situations, allowing her to remain cool and objective, able to analyze the possibilities in solving a problem in a crisis. So much suffering and loss and one could only treat the symptoms with therapy and medication. She felt she had trained herself well. For a second, however, she winced, and the missing children reminded her of her dolls when she was little, the ones whose heads she had removed on that horrible night. She hoped everyone would not dwell on this topic tonight. Perhaps, depending on the outcome, she should visit the families and leave behind her card, the one that still read ‘Fleize”. But, no, she had an overstocked case load as it was.
As they began up the long winding stone path which led to the Peregrine’s front door, they could hear thunder. Distant lightning flashed to the west, beyond the corn field illuminating the scarecrow, who dangled high above the corn, condemned to hang and sway--except on certain nights--appointed overseer to the rustling emptiness which filled the rows of stalks. A sudden gust of wind loosened the scarecrow’s head so that it turned in the direction of the Peregrine’s house, perking up, attentive to the arrival of the dinner guests.
“I forgot my cell phone,” said Helen. “That's all right. Normally, I don’t like patients calling me during off hours.”
“I left mine back at the house, said Henry. “No one calls me anyway.”
She held her purse with both hands. “I just hope these people don’t smoke all over us. I just spent a small fortune on this program to quit.”
“That’s good. Good for you,” said Henry, half-concentrating. “Should we press the door bell?”
“You want me to?”
“No, that’s O.K.”
When Henry tensely jabbed at the button, a woman’s piercing scream filled the air. Henry jumped, but Helen grinned, almost prepared for it.
“Relax, it’s a joke. A gag. A recording. Remember that sound system? I’ve been to parties where they’ve done stuff like this.”
“I guess you’re right,” said Henry, almost stammering. “We had our share of pranksters at the seminary,” he added, recalling Terry and Rudy who would have loved the idea.
“I’ll bet you did,” said Helen, growing more annoyed with Henry by the moment.
The front door opened slowly and Marvin Peregrine stood before them. “What do you know? Trick-or-treaters. A doctor and a preacher. So, hello you two,” said and then he stood silently.
“We heard that recording of the woman screaming,” laughed Henry nervously. Right up Terry’s and Rudy’s alley, but he found the joke in poor taste, especially after today’s earlier performance and the fearful anxiety which had gripped the development, although perhaps not on this street. Helen didn’t think the joke was tasteless so much as uninspired.
“What recording?” asked Marvin. “She always screams like that when I try to choke her.” The guests smiled, humoring Marvin, but he remained impassive. Finally, he continued, “We like to kid around.” He made it sound as though he were speaking of an entirely unrelated subject. “Ernie’s run off upstairs somewhere. Probably planning a good one. It’s her turn. Why don’t you go on ahead, and I’ll see if Ernie left us anything for cocktails.”
Attempting to appear decisive, Helen led Henry down a hallway, filled with an impressive combination of paintings, vases, Victorian-style lamps and tables, a restored settee, and other assorted bric-a-brac. The walls were richly finished with dark maple paneling. Somehow, it reminded Helen of the entrance to the Haunted Mansion in Disneyland.
When they rounded a corner, they passed a wide stairway to their right. Helen was the first to glance up and see a pair of legs apparently suspended from the second floor landing. At first, she smiled in a puzzled way, until the image fired off an association with her trail of nightmares, which led all the way back to the tree house. Her senses absorbed conflicting signals as she struggled to remember that this had nothing to with any of her experiences. Instead, this was just a quaint joke, none too original, rather sophomoric, for she recalled similar stunts from her sorority days. On the other hand, she couldn’t imagine the solid Ernestine holding on to the unseen ledge above and hardly swaying. She looked to Henry who had shuffled on down the hall, not even noticing.
Marvin suddenly appeared behind her. “Oh my God! She’s finally done it! She’s finally done it!” He slipped onto the settee, his hands over his heart, staring wild-eyed.
Helen tried not to accept the signal Marvin was sending. “Come on, Marvin, I’ve seen this gag before. I used to--”
“No, you don’t understand,” Marvin wailed. “See the rope? She’s pulled this stunt before, but never with the rope! She’s really done it!”
Henry came back, took one look, and began to mount the stairs. Remembering she was an M.D., Helen, stepped in front of him, trying to take charge. “Help me get her down. I’ll try to resuscitate her and you call an ambulance!” What kind of place is this Earthly Delights anyway?
Squeamishly, Helen went up to peer at the ledge and as she did, a coil of rope dropped and struck her on the head and she screamed. Ernestine had indeed been holding on to the ledge, possessing more strength than one would have believed. She climbed up, turned, and came down. Half-way down, she paused with her hands on her hips and laughed like a loon.
“Pretty good, huh? I’ve been setting Marvin up a long time for that one. I’ve always done it without the rope. I knew the psychopathic darling would notice a little detail like that.” Marvin was just now catching his breath. “It’s easy. I’m only forty-six. I used to be a gymnast when I was younger.”
Marvin wiped the perspiration from his face and stood slowly. He spoke deliberately, almost with respect. “Not bad, Ern, but we’ll weigh the results at the end of the night.”
“What is everyone drinking?” asked Ernestine, ignoring the comment.
“I’d like a vodka martini,” said Helen. “Better make it a double.” Henry had his hand over his mouth, still pondering the imponderable. “Perhaps Henry here would like a club soda or ginger ale.”
“Actually,” said Henry in a quavering voice, “I’d like a scotch.” He felt rising emotion in his throat, more at Helen for her patronizing manner which had begun to get on his nerves than for the mean-spirited jokes of the Peregrines.
“Ern,” said Marvin, regaining some of his earlier glibness, “you’ve pulled down a man of God. With water? Soda, Reverend?”
“Ice, please, and it’s Father, but call me Henry.”
“And call me Helen, not doctor,” said Helen.
“What makes you think we were going to call you anything but your names?” Marvin sounded off in an offended tone.
“We’ll have a short cocktail hour,” said Ernestine, “since dinner’s almost ready.”
“What are we having?” asked Helen.
“What else?” replied Marvin. “Pork chops. Pork chops with my mystery stuffing. And corn. Lots of corn. You’ll be sick of corn before the night’s through. Mark my words.”
Ernestine bustled off to the kitchen toward the back of the house, while Marvin led the guests to a sitting room with a wet bar, where he prepared the drinks and checked his watch. The room contained more of the same odds and ends found in the hallway with one notable exception: there were literally dozens of table picture frames, some with fuzzy black and white snapshots, others with studio-quality color prints. All the photographs were of children.
“That must be some large family,” said Helen, seating herself with her drink at the dining table. “I hesitate to say grandchildren. Nieces? Nephews? Children of your own?” Helen felt she was touching on a delicate subject, but it was too late to stop.
Ernestine hovered near her chair, waving her half-filled drink in a pensive manner. “Children?” she said distantly, barely concealing emotion. For half a second she glared at Marvin, who handed Henry a scotch.
“Never had kids,” said Marvin. “Never will.”
“Then what were all those--”
Henry unexpectedly jumped in. “You mean you couldn’t have children?” Ernestine looked away. “I know. Were those children who had been dear to you, possibly foster children?” Helen hoped this to be the answer.
Marvin ignored the second part of Henry’s comment. “Ernie ruined herself when she was young,” he said matter-of-factly. Everyone froze for a few moments and then Helen and Henry laughed.
“What’s so damn funny?” said Ernestine.
“Well,” said Henry.
“We thought you guys were funning around again,” said Helen, believing that there had been more than a little truth to what Marvin said.
Ernestine put her drink down and placed her hands on her hips. “And who ruined me?” she said, almost baring her teeth, before stomping off to the kitchen. “Dinner’s ready.”
As Marvin opened the wine and filled the glasses, Helen’s fertile imagination began to run wild. She half-expected to find the remains of all those children in the photos in the coal bin in the basement, not to mention the bodies of the newest victims. She glanced uneasily at Henry, who seemed to understand her anxiety.
Helen had to ask the next logical question, to test the emotional reaction of their hosts if nothing else. “Isn’t that awful about the neighborhood children?”
Marvin, who had been staring at his ring, slowly looked up and from his expression, the guests could tell it was not a subject he wished to discuss. He continued to study his hands, his fingers, and Helen thought he was checking his fingernails for signs of some unwholesome evidence that he sought to conceal.
Ernestine appeared with a tray and Marvin began to serve the food as Ernestine returned to the kitchen for side dishes and condiments, and the salads. Henry offered to say grace, but Marvin perked up and said he’d do it.
“For what we are about to receive,” he paused looking at Ernestine, “we are grateful.”
“Whatsamatter?” said Ernestine, who had poured herself another drink and had placed it next to her filled wine glass. “Is Marvin starvin’? What is Marvin starvin’ for?” she taunted.
“These pork chops are quite good,” said Helen, genuinely impressed.
“Sure,” said Ernestine, lightening up, “we were just kidding before--about the trots.”
“Yeah,” said Marvin, “we were kidding.” He snorted a laugh as he gulped his wine.
Everyone continued eating in silence, ingesting steaming mounds of creamed corn. Marvin got up several times to fill everyone’s wine glass. After dinner, he served brandy and offered Henry a cigar, which he accepted reluctantly. Ernestine got up, left the room briefly, and returned with a cigarette.
“I only smoke after meals,” she said, lighting up.
Helen, mellow, misgivings having receded, full of vodka, pork, corn, wine, and brandy leaned forward. “Could I trouble you for one?”
“No trouble at all,” said Ernestine getting up again.
“Helen,” said Henry, puffing on his cigar, “what about your program?”
“Few people quit cold turkey,” she replied, glaring at the minister. She thought it must be the meal and drink, but now she felt more at ease with the Peregrines and annoyed again with Henry.
Ernestine handed Helen a cigarette and Marvin jumped up and gave her a light with an gold lighter. She noted the inscription, “To Marv, Love E.”.
“How lovely,” she said, feeling more relaxed than she had all day. Perhaps once you got to know these people, they’d seem practically normal. After all, she seemed to be adjusting easier than Henry. The cloud of cigar smoke which lingered about him provided a good metaphor for his state of bewilderment. Helen stifled a giggle when she thought of him at seminary: The Brothers of Perpetual Confusion.
“We’ll save dessert and coffee for later,” said Ernestine.
“Dessert will definitely be later,” said Marvin, who now appeared deep in thought, staring at the bones from his pork chops. Finally, roused from contemplation, he leaned back in his chair and waved his cigar like some executive in a board meeting. He glanced peremptorily at Henry.
“The clergy, I presume, must take a dim view of suicide.”
Henry glanced at Helen and Ernestine, but all he could muster was, “Well....”
“What are you talking about, Marvin?” asked Ernestine, raising her voice.
“I’m recalling that gag of yours--hanging yourself from the stairs.”
“Where do you get suicide? It could have been murder.”
“By me?” Marvin shook his head. “You’re too athletic. You could resist.”
Ernestine beamed. “You’re damn right I could have resisted. Like I said before,” she addressed the guests, “I was a gymnast.”
“Ernie always liked to wrap her thighs around things.”
“Don’t start up,” Ernestine countered. “Maybe Doctor Helen has something to say on the subject.”
“The subject?” Helen didn’t want to become more than a spectator in this game of character assassination, which the Peregrines seemed to have perfected to an art form.
“Suicide.”
Helen felt as if she were being called to the podium to deliver a public lecture. “Suicide is most often a cry for help. Victims frequently don’t want to die; they want attention. Others want to kill themselves, but do so in a flamboyant manner to make those left behind feel guilt for driving them to take their own lives. And then there is a small number who really do wish to succeed without being discovered.”
“Sounds familiar,” said Ernestine, looking at her fingernails in a bored way. “I think I read all that in the National Enquirer.”
“Yeah,” said Marvin, “There was somebody on “The Tonight Show” who said something like that.”
“People Magazine ran a piece on that not too long ago.”
“Merv Griffin.”
“Dick Cavett.”
Helen was about to say something about the nature of those sources as authorities on the subject when Henry cleared his throat.
“You know,” he began as he emptied his brandy glass, “I find it difficult to take much of that seriously when, if you’ll pardon me Helen, it comes from a profession that has the highest suicide rates amongst its practitioners.” As soon as the words escaped, Henry had no idea why he’d said them.
“So,” said Marvin, assuming the role of mediator, “what is the church’s position?”
“Well, the church doesn’t try to rationalize it away.”
“Henry,” said Helen, still smarting ,”you’re evading the question.” Why had he turned on her like that?
“Look,” said Ernestine, “let’s be fair. Maybe we should examine a high incidence rate of something with members of the clergy. Let’s see, what would that be?”
“How about celibacy?” Helen shot out.
“Apples and oranges,” said Henry. “Besides, I’m not Catholic, so I am certainly not celibate, that is would not be celibate, could not be celibate if I got married.”
Marvin leaned forward. “But premarital sex is out,” he said.
“Naturally,” said Henry as the brandy glowed warmly within making him feel as if he were in control. “The church doesn’t condone that for anyone.”
“What about post-marital sex?”
“I beg your pardon,” said Henry, suddenly feeling the control slipping.
“Come on Marvin,” said Ernestine, “you’re being obtuse. That could mean after marriage, or after divorce.”
Marvin shrugged.
“Divorce,” repeated Henry, as if being enticed into a street fight, “what does your learned profession have to say about that?”
“Father, I’m surprised at you.” Helen tried to stay calm, hardly expecting such an assault from the meek Henry. She had to maintain her professional detachment, objectivity. “You’re not only attacking my profession, but me personally as well.” She must have mentioned her husband, but she couldn’t recall doing so. “You’re obviously suffering from some kind of repressed hostility. We’ll have to discuss your childhood some time.”
“Sure,” said Ernestine, almost unnoticed, “Potty training can be very revealing.”
“Doctor,” said Henry, rising angrily and none too steadily, “your condescending smugness is insufferable!”
“And,” said Helen, grasping her wine glass by the stem, “you are a milk toast, butter wouldn’t melt in the mouth, purveyor of guilt, shell of a man who’d know what it really means to live if you’d just once get laid!”
“I have gotten laid!” Henry lied. “Before I joined the ministry! You psychoanalytic fake!”
“Fake? You fire and brimstone boob!”
“Psychobabbler!”
“Hopeless unvirile drone!”
“Babylonian trinket!”
Helen flung what remained of her wine in Henry’s face. Father Pauley promptly seated himself.
“An unholy baptism,” shouted Marvin.
“Blessed are the boors,” said Ernestine.
“Blessed are the piqued,” said Marvin.
No one moved or spoke for a few seconds. Marvin and Ernestine looked at each other and then stood together and applauded. Both Henry and Helen had turned pale and broke out in cold sweats.
“I don’t feel well,” said Helen.
“Neither do I,” said Henry.
“Maybe that’s good,” said Marvin, “because you both looked like you were ready to knock the stuffing out of each other.”
“The mystery stuffing,” added Ernestine.
Six
More Mystery Stuffing
Marvin ushered Henry to the second floor bathroom.
“Go on, Henry, puke your guts out. You’ll feel better. Then we can have a man to man talk.” Marvin had a twinkle in his eye.
Henry knelt by the toilet, with Marvin’s hand on his head. He hadn’t felt this sick since that night in the shed. He managed to keep it down then, but there was no holding back now: the years of indecision and lack of assertiveness, the doubts which spanned all the way back to the seminary and beyond. All of it seemed to come forth now and make him indeed feel like a shell, just as Helen had said.
“You know, Henry,” began Marvin in a fatherly tone, sounding like the Bishop, “there are always alternate ways of looking at things. Give Helen some credit. She’s right about the guilt thing. I can’t think of anything more responsible for guilt than religion.”
“Yes,” Henry managed to rasp out, “when it’s been misapplied. Religion should be identified with love instead.”
“Well, are you serving as the best example?”
“That’s what Bishop Thomas said to me,” he said nodding his head. Right now, he almost hated the Bishop, for treating him like a child.
“Of course he did. Now think a minute. Just because Helen doesn’t have all the answers is no reason to jump down her throat. God is represented by men and men are fallible. In fact, your intolerance borders on the inquisitional.”
Henry stared in disbelief for a moment, and then lowered his head in resignation.
“Give Helen some space to be valid. That’s it. Don’t you see. Your intolerance invalidates her. God doesn’t like intolerance, Henry. He strikes us down for it. There are hidden ways of the mind we can’t fathom. That’s all Helen is trying to do. Your professions aren’t so very different. You’ve got to work together.”
“Together,” Henry repeated as Marvin winked.
As Marvin helped Henry to his feet, he checked his watch.
“Now it’s time to play a game.”
“Game?” asked Henry, fighting back the empty dizziness.
“Time to have some fun,” said Marvin, undeterred.
“Well, all right,” Henry relented, knowing he’d cave in again.
Marvin peeked out from behind the shade of the bathroom window which faced the back of the house. He stared into the formless dark, sensing the presence in the field.
“Soon,” he said. “Soon.”
Off in the center of the field, the right arm of the scarecrow flopped about in the wind, moving steadily back and forth, beckoning all the occupants of Center Lane to join him.
Ernestine shouted from downstairs, “Marvin!”
“We’re coming,” he replied as he stared out the window.
Suddenly he turned and clambered down the stairs, calling to Henry who followed hesitantly, “Come on, I’ll help you violate--I mean validate Helen!”
A few minutes before, Ernestine had been helping Helen from the first floor bathroom. “Come on, honey, don’t cry. It’ll be all right.”
Helen sniffed. “But I’m not supposed to fly off the handle like that. I don’t know what possessed me.”
“Well,” Ernestine began, calmly and deliberately, “and I think you’ll agree, we too often stress the rational and the analytic in modern living and forget we have a spiritual side. It’s a question of respect for other people. We do have a spiritual side, don’t we? There are more things in heaven and earth--”
“Than are dreamt of in your psychology,” concluded Marvin. All four converged in the hallway where Ernestine had tried to “hang” herself. “Come on you kids,” said Marvin, “it’s time to make up. And then we’re going to play a game.”
“What do you mean ‘game’?” asked Ernestine.
“Look,” said Marvin, “you had your fun when the evening started. They’ve just had theirs. When do I get mine?”
Ernestine defiantly placed both hands on her hips, “You’ll get it when you get it.”
“You’re damn right. Anyway,” said Marvin, turning to his guests, “we all have to be neighbors. Let’s bury the hatchet and get off this serious business.”
“I suppose you’re right,” said Helen, pale and weak. “It was very unprofessional to shoot my mouth off like that.”
“No more than me,” said Henry. “I don’t know what came over me.”
Helen and Henry sheepishly moved closer and each extended a limp hand. It was a tepid warm handshake.
“Do you call that making up?” shouted Marvin. “Let’s see some feeling.”
“A nice kiss,” added Ernestine.
They embraced coolly and pecked each other on the cheek. Before they moved away, Marvin again intervened.
“Come on, show that you both mean it. You know--more feeling.”
They stood close and kissed longer and embraced more firmly while Marvin and Ernestine alternately intoned.
“A nice kiss,” said Ernestine.
“A nice sloppy wet kiss,” said Marvin.
“A nice lip-sucking kiss.”
“A nice tongue-probing kiss.”
“A nice all-round panting mouth wide open do me hard kiss,” concluded Ernestine.
“All right,” said Marvin, “that’s enough you horny devils. God, you’re a couple of animals.”
“Yes,” said Ernestine, “let’s not forget who you are.”
Suddenly, Helen and Henry parted as if discovered in some promiscuous tryst.
“Let’s adjourn to the sitting room,” said Marvin with an affected air. “And dear Ernie will put on some coffee.”
“You put on the coffee,” said Ernestine, almost with a snarl.
“Now, gang, it’s time for fun,” said Marvin, rubbing his hands as if trying to release a genie from a magic lamp. “The land on which the Earthly Delights Development is built has an interesting history, you know.” Ernestine rolled her eyes. “Goes all the way back to settlers and Indians. A violent history. Settlers killed a scouting party of Indians, hunters actually. Then the whole tribe came down on the settlers. The remains of those who died here on both sides are buried right beneath us.” Marvin looked at his feet. “Finally, someone built a farm here. Used to be much larger of course. The farmer went mad, killed his family. Around the turn of the century, the farm passed to other relatives who sold off part of the land to cover debts. A nephew or somebody like that committed suicide when the farm went belly up during the Depression. Another relative stepped in and sold off more land to keep the farm going. An orphanage was built on the sold off land and twenty years later a fire destroyed it--and all its occupants.”
Helen, who had been half-listening, snapped to attention. Henry shook his head sorrowfully.
“Forty children and the staff perished in the blaze,” Marvin continued. Ernestine got up and poured herself another drink. “So a cemetery was built here. Actually called Earthly Delights. To add local residents to the Indians, settlers, and orphans. So you see,” he paused for sober reflection, “it’s getting kind of crowded down there! Hah!”
“Really, Marvin,” said Ernestine. “Is that the best you can do?”
“It’s a warm-up exercise, Ern.”
“Then, none of that is true?” asked Helen.
“Actually, most if not all of it is true. The icing on the cake is the developers who came in and bought up the land. Didn’t clear the graves out you understand. Strange history to that, too. The owner of the cemetery fell down some stairs and broke his neck the day the sale of land was signed, sealed, and delivered. Four years later, when the last house was finished, the developer suffered a massive stroke.”
“It’s as if they were punished for their greed and insensitivity,” ventured Henry.
“What’s next?” Ernestine sneered. “Graves will open and yield their dead?”
Helen chuckled uneasily.
“Now look, Ernie pooh, I’ve been good and patient since you nearly scared the living crap out of me before supper.”
“All right,” said Ernestine, “go ahead and get it over with. You’re boring these poor folks to tears.”
“I wouldn’t exactly describe that story as boring,” said Henry.
Helen was still mulling over the forty children. She pictured all their faces, lined up like so many portraits in a gallery.
“O.K.,” said Ernestine. “I warned you folks he’s going to try to get back at me.”
Both Helen and Henry wanted to go home, but neither wanted to offend their obliging if eccentrically menacing host.
Marvin took the floor with his hands behind his back. “I’d like to do the handcuffs.”
“The handcuffs?” Ernestine whined, “That’s as old as the hills.”
“I don’t think I know it,” said Henry, thinking back to the seminary, trying to remember if his tormentors ever did anything with handcuffs.
“No, I don’t know it either,” said Helen, almost breaking into a smile, remembering how her husband used to like--
“Oh, it’s silly,” said Ernestine. “Marvin handcuffs the guests together and tries to scare everyone. Says weird things to make them nervous and think that maybe he’s some kind of nut who’s gone off the deep end. The challenge is supposed to be knowing whether he is or not.”
“I wouldn’t say it’s silly,” said Henry. “It sounds like one of those murder mysteries which are enacted at a weekend resort or something, and the guests participate in the investigation.”
“A vicarious thrill,” added Helen. “There are even psychological benefits from this kind of recreation, but Ernestine has kind of let the cat out of the bag since she told us how it turns out.”
“There can always be an unexpected twist,” said Marvin.
“Oh come on,” said Helen, compelled to side with Marvin, somehow feeling it precautionary to do so.
“Really, Marvin, it’s not very creative,” said Ernestine, somewhat relenting. Marvin stepped into an adjacent room promptly returned with two sets of handcuffs. “What do you need with two sets of those?”
“Like I said, a different twist, Ernie. I’d like you to participate.”
“I will not. It’s for the guests.”
“Hanging yourself was for everyone.”
“He’s got you there,” Helen piped out. “Come on, be a sport.”
“It’ll be more fun,” said Henry.
Marvin handcuffed Helen to Ernestine’s right wrist and Henry to her left wrist. Helen and Henry giggled, but Ernestine sighed impatiently. Marvin again disappeared for a minute. The others shuffled along to a long sofa and sat down, but not before twisting a wrist, stepping on an instep.
“That’s it,” Marvin sang out, “make yourselves comfortable.”
“Suppose he gets in the car and drives off?” asked Henry.
“He’ll be more imaginative than that,” said Helen.
“And if that’s all he comes up with,” said Ernestine, “it’s no problem. He’s done this before at parties. I know where there’s a spare key.”
Marvin entered the room with a small suitcase which he placed on a folding table, right in front of his “prisoners”. He opened the suitcase so the others could not view its contents. Calmly and systematically, even humming, he set out a formidable assortment of hunting knives, hatchets, and a butcher’s knife. Next, he produced a thirty-eight caliber pistol and, finally, three large heavy-duty flashlights.
Ernestine turned to her fellow captives and smiled. “This is the part where he says, ‘how do you know I’m just trying to scare you?’.”
“Those knives look real sharp,” said Henry.
“Is that a real gun?” asked Helen.
Marvin ignored them and looked directly at Ernestine. “You may think this is a dull gag having seen it before but, for the uninitiated, it’ll make the palms sweat. It’s more unsettling than, say, wearing blindfolds and feeling for bananas in the toilet.”
“In fact,” said Henry, now tight-lipped, “if you hadn’t tipped us off, it could be pretty terrifying right about now.”
“So,” said Marvin, “if it’s not for real, why am I still going on with it? Did I mention the name of the family that owned the farm was Peregrine?”
Helen and Henry looked at one another.
“What did I tell you?” said Ernestine.
No one spoke for a few moments.
“What are you gonna do, Marvin? Kill us? What a bore.”
“Right here? Now? That would be a bore.”
“Oh, you’re gonna cut our throats in five minutes, is that it?” said Ernestine, growing less sure of herself.
“Ten from when I start counting.” Marvin removed a kitchen timer from the suitcase.
“That’s rich,” said Ernestine.
“Did Ernestine mention that I’ve been under observation? That I almost beat a man to death over a parking space?”
Helen and Henry turned to Ernestine, their eyes begging for her to dismiss the story, but she looked away, flustered.
“Yes it’s true,” she admitted, “but the medication seemed to be helping.”
“I stopped taking it a month ago.”
“But the knives are always fake and there are never any bullets, so I don’t believe a bit of this bullshit, Marvin.”
Marvin stroked his chin deliberately and then looked up. “Henry, do you like cheese?”
“Cheese,” repeated Henry, confused. “Why, sure,” he nodded.
“Well, here.” Marvin reached into his pocket and tossed a small plastic bag at Henry.
“No thanks,” he said as it landed in his lap.
“O.K. Before you give it back, is it soft and smooth?”
Henry tested it. “No it’s as hard as a rock. It must be aged.”
“Yes, now give it back.” Henry tossed it back with his free hand.
Marvin removed it from the bag and sliced through it with one of the hunting knives as though it were warm butter.
“Shall I show you the bullets in the revolver?”
Helen squirmed, feeling the knots of tension in her stomach turn to ice.
“O.K.,” said Henry, “the fun is going out of this. I give up. Let us out. You win.”
“It is getting a bit tense,” said Helen, hardly able to keep from shivering.
“A bit ugly, I’d say,” said Ernestine. “Get us out of here. I need a drink.”
All started to rise when Marvin grasped one of the hunting knives by the blade and threw it at the wall. It entered firmly and held rigidly.
“All of you sit the fuck down!”
Everyone complied, but Ernestine launched into a tirade. “I’m not convinced, you windbag! You king of sleaze and scum! Tasteless swine--”
“Shut up you fat ugly bitch!” Marvin’s veins stood out on his neck and his face turned pink as he trembled with rage. “You’ll all get a fighting chance.”
Henry tried to clear his throat. “I think the joke’s gone far--”
“I said shut up, preacher,” Marvin said in a low, almost growling tone.
“Why us?” pleaded Helen, lowering her face into her right hand, trying to stifle a sob.
“Why not?” Marvin glared at his guests. “Just who do you people think you are?”
Henry tried to clasp his hands, but Ernestine tugged back when he moved his right arm. “Let’s just stop this,” he said. “Just tell me--us what you want.”
“You’ll be given a fighting chance,” said Marvin, ignoring the appeal. “I’m going to set the timer for ten minutes. You three may take these two flashlights here, since Helen and Henry each have a free hand. You, Ern, will be at the mercy of their guiding light.” Marvin stroked his chin pensively and continued with instructions. “You will then proceed in an orderly fashion to the field. You all know the field, right? Where our nightmares live forever. We’re all going to play in the field. Among the corn stalks.”
Ernestine ventured, “What if we don’t--”
“Then I’ll kill you all right away. I’ll follow when the timer rings, unless I decide to cheat and follow early. If you manage to elude me until dawn, I will spare you.”
Ernestine looked to her right and her left. “I still don’t believe you.”
“All right. Fair enough. I think all of you would be adequately convinced if I were to shed my own blood. After all, only a madman would do that. Right?”
No one answered. Marvin picked up the meat cleaver, moved behind the open suitcase, placed his left hand flat on the table, out of sight, and brought the knife down swiftly. There was a red spray. Marvin winced as though he had nicked himself shaving. With a clenched left fist, blood running down his hand, he moved away from the suitcase, and held aloft something that resembled part of a pinky, all slickly red and pulpy. He then set it down and wrapped a small towel around his left hand. After taking a deep breath, he set the timer.
Simultaneously, Helen and Henry stood and attempted to bolt in opposite directions, yanking Ernestine’s arms. She recoiled, almost pulling the others down with her.
“My God,” she cried out with genuine terror, “he’s never done anything this crazy. I’m sure he means it. Follow me! We’ll hide in the field. It’s big. He’ll never find us!”
They were a jumbled mass of bodies, attempting to coordinate their movements into a unified purpose. They stumbled, hopped, clinked their cuffs, and squeezed through a doorway to the garage.
Henry wheezed, “What are you taking us in here for? We’ve got to get outside.”
Ernestine grabbed a handful of his shirt and hissed in his face. “The spare key is here. We can get loose and get out of here.”
There was a box on top of a small workbench. When they paused, Helen stumbled and skinned her knee. Henry wanted out of the dark confining garage and Helen began to worry about her wrist, her hand, her entire arm, shackled to Ernestine. Ernestine scrambled to the box and flung it open and howled like a cornered animal.
“It’s not here! I always kept it here!”
Directly above the workbench was a window to the kitchen. A light flashed on. They all looked up and saw Marvin, sneering, holding the timer in his right hand and a small key on a chain dangling from his bloodied hand.
All three screamed and began to flee, Ernestine slamming open the garage side door so hard that its glass panes flew out. As their sudden rapid movements caused cuts and scrapes, Helen began to sob. They knocked over a chaise lounge and barbecue grill.
“Turn on the flashlights, you stupid bastards!” cried Ernestine.
They did so, but bright floodlights mounted on the sundeck came on, swiftly followed by the opening from ‘Night on Bald Mountain’. As they neared the perimeter of the corn field, Henry grazed a bug zapper which hung on a tree, sending an array of purple sparks into the damp night. Just as they burst into the field, a stalk slapped Henry in the face and knocked off his glasses.
“I can’t see,” he shouted.
“What’s the difference?” said Ernestine. “Just point the flashlight in front of you. The ten minutes might save us. If we can get deep enough into the corn, we might be safe till morning. Oh God, I hope we can manage until then. I didn’t know how bad off Marvin really was.”
As chilly gusts of wind whistled through the stalks, leaves of corn rustled like paper streamers at an outdoor party.
The trio straddled the wooden fence momentarily before falling over, their limbs tangled and entwined. Ernestine got to her feet first, yanking the cuffed wrists of her fellow captives. She stared straight ahead into a kind of opening where the stalks had been pushed back and the crisp dry leaves underfoot beaten down. Instantly she knew someone had taken this path before them. Could Marvin be in there already?
“Point those goddam flashlights in front of us!” she hissed.
The others whimpered and groaned and struggled to their feet, but they did exactly as they were told. Ernestine jogged as far ahead as she could extend the arms of Helen and Henry and so they all took on the appearance of three strange beasts in a kind of harness, led by one slightly more determined and clear-sighted. As the leaves of the stalks slapped them from head to foot, they managed to better harmonize their movements, becoming a twelve-limbed animal winding and slouching its way through the corn field, fueled only by instinct. Its chains of bondage clinked like porch chimes swaying in the balmy breezes of a midsummer’s eve.
Unaccustomed to such physical exertion, Helen and Henry quickly tired, but Ernestine continued to pull and urge them on.
“Come on, you...or would you rather die? Hold those flashlights up. Come on!”
“How big is this field?” Henry wheezed.
“No one knows,” Ernestine shot back, “and what does it matter anyway? We’ll go as far as we have to.”
“Isn’t there another way?” Helen wept, “why didn’t we head for the street? To another street with houses and people, someone who would have helped us.”
“Shut up you sniveling bitch! Who would have helped? People like you? You would have locked your doors, turned off the lights, and hid in the basement. Now keep moving!”
Henry thought about this accusation and what he might have done if three handcuffed and hysterical people suddenly pounded on his front door, claiming to be hunted by a psychopathic killer.
“We’ll take a rest in a little while,” said Ernestine, easing up. “Then, we’re going to move on. We’ve got to keep moving. That’s the best way. If we stop, he’ll find us.”
They continued on, deeper, somehow with more conviction, through a wide lane, almost a well-traveled path. Helen was the first to notice the green glow-in-the-dark mask lying in a crumpled heap. Panic momentarily seared her insides, but she quickly recalled that it was indeed Halloween. What better place for ghouls and goblins than this field at night? She glanced back at the mask as they passed, thinking it small enough to belong to a child. She then wondered if the missing children had preceded them. Before long there was more. Henry spotted a spilled shopping bag of candy, some of which appeared to have been eaten or picked at. Even in the faint light, Henry couldn’t help but notice the ants and worms and white bloated maggoty things crawling all through the chocolate and marshmallow. Ernestine told them to step over a puddle of green ooze, the kind which could be squeezed from tubes and bottles.
“It’s almost like a trail has been left for us,” said Helen half-aloud.
Helen pulled up hard on her handcuffs when she heard a dog bark, a bark which sounded too familiar for comfort.
“It’s only a dog,” said Ernestine.
“I think I heard laughing,” said Henry, his voice cracking.
“You’re both so tired you’re having delusions,” said Ernestine. “We can take a rest--for a little while.”
Helen looked off to her left. “There’s a little lean-to or part of a storage shed over there.”
Ernestine stopped and drew almost nose to nose with Helen. “You’re not really that stupid are you?” Helen had no idea what she meant. Just as suddenly, she turned on Henry, who hadn’t a clue as to the latest bone of contention.
“Any kind of makeshift shelter like that would be the first place Marvin would look.” Helen and Henry looked at one another, not disagreeing, but hardly knowing what to do instead. “Here’s the deal. Follow me.”
With absolutely no warning, Ernestine plunged into a thick section of corn stalks, but not before sliding down a slight incline and into a muddy irrigation ditch, of course dragging the others with her.
“If we’re going to stop,” she began, wiping a clod of dirt from her brow, “then it must be somewhere which doesn’t stand out. Now, turn off the flashlights and let’s try to be still and listen.”
Helen drew the perverse conclusion that Ernestine approached their dilemma like a seasoned guerilla fighter. Henry groaned, but he put out his light.
“What’s your problem, Rev.?” asked Ernestine.
“It’s just the dark is all. I was never fond of it. An unnatural fear going back to my school days.”
“Not so unnatural,” Ernestine whispered, not totally unsympathetic. “But just where do you think spiritual needs are greatest?” Henry blinked at her without comprehension. “Why, in darkness, of course.” She raised her hands and fanned them out, of course raising one each of Helen and Henry in the process, smiling like some witch-goddess of the night as the chains of the cuffs tinkled in the dead stillness which surrounded them. “Not to mention the darkness of the subconscious,” she added turning to Helen.
Helen felt they were being taunted again like back at the house. “Are you in on this?” she ventured.
“Yes and no,” she teased. “Not this part,” she quickly added. “It would be an elaborate hoax. I almost wish we had thought of it, but no. Marvin is supremely whacked out. I really thought the medication could control the violent streak.” She looked away. “I was wrong. Helen, if we get out of this, would you treat him?”
This caught Helen off guard. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Uh-huh, well, just think about it. We’ve got to try to survive. That’s our first priority.”
Helen looked over at Henry and patted him with her free hand. “It’s O.K. about the dark. It really is. A really common phobia. We all have them.” The dog barked again and she started. “With me it’s pets, dogs specifically. I had a pet dog as a young child and it died in a freak accident.”
Henry took her hand in his. “I suppose everyone has their own special, private pain. How about you, Ernestine?”
“Oh, are we in sharing mode now?” she scoffed.
“Come on,” said Helen. “Tell us.”
“My memories of frightening experiences are unspeakable. Probably the worst was my honeymoon night with Marvin.” She stared, distantly, straight in front of her.
Helen and Henry nodded at the joke, but behind her eyes they could both see the pain of remembrance burning like a cold fire.
When a breeze stirred up, rustling the leaves and bending the stalks, Ernestine peered up over the edge of the ditch.
“There’s lights up that way,” she said. The others tensed. “They’re not moving. Could be the farmhouse. Can’t really tell how far it is.”
“Should we try for it?” asked Henry.
“The farmer, he’ll probably have a gun, a rifle,” said Helen. “We always kept them on the farm growing up.”
“And what good will that do?”
“He can protect us, get help--”
“You think I want to see Marvin splattered with a twelve-gauge?”
“Well, no, of course not,” said Henry.
Helen looked away. She just wanted out of this and she almost hated herself for not considering her professional obligations toward someone so deeply disturbed as Marvin.
They made their way, more slowly now, more or less “together”, without Ernestine pulling them along, their collective gazes fixed on hopeful lights in the distance. The path to the farmhouse was unobstructed, except for a post, maybe ten feet high.
“What’s that?” said Henry.
“A scarecrow pole?” wondered Helen.
“Looks like he got away,” said Ernestine. “Come on now.”
They emerged from the field and saw the house rising up on a long sloping hill: an ordinary white clapboard house with a wide porch complete with swing. There seemed to be a light on in every window of its three stories. They clumped onto the porch, all brightly lit, moths and gnats buzzing about in a frenzy. Ernestine rapped on the screen door.
“Hello in there. We’re in trouble. Could you help us?” Ernestine spoke in an even and untroubled voice.
“I know it’s late,” said Henry, “but we need help.”
“There’s someone trying to kill us!” cried Helen, rattling the screen door in its frame. “From the other side of the field!”
“Will you both pipe down?” said Ernestine, angrily tugging on the handcuffs. “Is there anyone home?”
“This is nuts,” said Helen. “It’s the middle of the night. This makes no sense.”
“Let’s go in,” said Ernestine. She tried the door and found it unlocked.
“We can’t do that,” said Henry.
“And would you rather stay out here?”
“Ernestine’s right,” said Helen. “There must be a phone. We can call for help even if no one’s here.”
The house felt familiar to Helen and Henry. After all, Helen had grown up on a farm and Henry had spent a few summers with an uncle on one. Old fashioned lamps with lace and tassels on side tables, resting on hand-sewn doilies. Coarse woven area rugs. A rocking chair with hand-carvings. A newspaper on a sofa. A pipe rack on a fireplace mantle. A chandelier in the main hall next to a wide staircase. A whiff of baked pies, or biscuits from the kitchen. Piles of magazines, an almanac, a basket of yarn and knitting on a hall table--where the phone should be.
“Is anyone fucking here?!” howled Ernestine, almost beyond desperation. Everyone waited for some response, but all they heard was the wind and the swaying porch lamp which creaked.
“Maybe they keep the phone in the kitchen.”
Helen now took the lead and, as they hunched together and passed through a narrow hallway, she paused ever so slightly to notice all the framed photographs hanging on the wall, many of children, one of a large brick building, some kind of institution, like a small hospital or school. Old, faded photographs. Like the ones in the Peregrines’ house. She tugged on Ernestine’s handcuff and glared at her, but Ernestine shrugged her shoulders. Closer inspection revealed even older pictures. One appeared to be from the Depression era of men standing in a field, two shaking hands, one holding a sign posted in the ground. Still, the oldest, barely recognizable with torn corners and scratches, appeared to be from the late 1800s, with men and women and horses and wagons and, possibly an Indian or two.
“What are you looking at?” said Ernestine. “There’s no time for that.”
“Come on,” said Henry gently. “We’ve got to find a phone.”
“I wouldn’t pass up a shotgun, either,” said Helen in an uneven voice.
Helen felt herself break out in a cold sweat, feeling light-headed now from fatigue, but mostly pure unadulterated fear. She saw scrapbooks stacked on a table and when she bent down and opened some of their covers, she saw many yellowed newspaper clippings. She refused to examine these further, knowing with hardly a doubt they would chronicle many of the horror stories offered by Marvin.
She turned to Henry. “This is where Marvin got all those stories. These people, these Peregrines have something to do with this house, this farm, and all that history.”
“You’re overreacting,” said Ernestine none too certainly.
“Remember?” said Henry. “Marvin said an ancestor had been one of the owners of this land.”
“They’re still setting us up,” said Helen.
“You’ve got to be kidding,”said Ernestine. “You think I’d put myself through this?”
“Where’s the goddam phone?” said Helen through clenched teeth.
“How do I know? I’ve never been here before.”
Helen ignored this. “You’ll go where Henry and I say. Now let’s get to the kitchen.” Her eyes lingered on the scrapbooks, but they continued on, she and Henry now taking the lead.
They stood in the doorway to the kitchen. The appliances were old, but tidy. A mixing bowl with some kind of concoction lay on a table dusted with flour in the center of the room. Helen, shuffling along, led the others to the stove.
“It’s still warm. Someone’s been around.”
“I don’t see a phone in here,” said Henry.
“Then we’ll try upstairs.”
Ernestine spoke up. “Maybe we should forget that. Maybe we should go to the barn. Look for power tools to cut these cuffs. Maybe there’s a gun there.”
Helen and Henry wondered for a moment and then someone knocked on the screen door at far end of the kitchen. They saw a figure standing back from the door just out of the light, a black shadowy form.
“It’s not Marvin?” said Helen haltingly.
“Marvin wouldn’t knock,” said Ernestine. “Mister, is this your place? We’re in trouble.”
“Sorry for trespassing,” Henry added pointlessly, but at the same time wondering why the owner would knock.
“Please help us,” begged Helen. They waited for some reaction, but none was forthcoming. “Perhaps we’ve frightened you, but someone has been chasing us...with a meat cleaver. I know it sounds wild--”
The door swung open and the figure entered and addressed them in a low growling raspy voice.
“You mean like this?” asked the figure, holding up a kitchen knife.
Their senses froze when they realized that not only was it too tall for Marvin, but too tall for any normal human being, even a professional basketball center. And then this elaborate scarecrow costume. Could it be the farmer with a very eccentric sense of humor--on stilts--or could it be a psychopath, perhaps the one who snatched the four children, who liked to wear absurd costumes, ones with a theme of terror, of course. Scarecrows were not generally thought of as frightening--unless you happened to be a crow.
Its mouth was a slit, almost a solid black line which didn’t move when it spoke, like a ventriloquist. Ragged tufts of straw protruded from every joint, and even from under the old hat perched on top of its head, over which was some kind of burlap covering--not exactly a mask.
It spoke again. “I was cooling these off outside. Would you like one?” It held a baking pan in its gloved hand.
“What are they?”
“Corn muffins of course.”
“Who are you?” asked Helen.
“Well, I’m supposed to scare off the crows, but I know who my real enemies are.”
“And who are they?” The macabre humor of psychoanalyzing a walking straw man was not lost on Helen, at least not until she received a deliberate reply.
“People,” it said. “People with fears, people with smug attitudes, people who don’t know how to treat each other. How are you Mrs. Peregrine? Sure you wouldn’t like one?” The scarecrow looked down at the muffin pan and one of his button eyes fell, bouncing off the edge of the pan before it clattered to the floor. “Oh well, time for the main course.” He set the pan down.
“Pleased to meet you, doctor.” He extended a hand and although Helen knew better, she reached for it. Helen shook and the arm separated from the body with a soft, swishing sound. Ernestine stifled a scream and Henry’s mouth hung wide open. The scarecrow calmly took back the arm from Helen, who moved her lips, but could not utter a sound. He stuffed it back in its “socket”. Helen took a step back.
“How do you do, Father?”
Henry almost lifted his hand as a reflex, but the scarecrow did not offer to shake. Instead, he unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it wide open, revealing a chest cavity of straw. When Henry peered a bit closer, he believed the straw was moving, squirming. No, upon closer inspection he saw worm-like things, almost the size of eels, their bodies distended, slithering through the blades of straw, making sticking and oozing sounds. Henry could feel the color drain from his face.
Next, the scarecrow closed his shirt and pulled out a tuft of straw and sliced it cleanly and evenly with a knife from the counter. It was only then that Helen looked down and noticed that its feet were wads of straw held together with twine, like whisk brooms. When it began to shuffle toward them, Ernestine reached for a chair and pushed it over at the creature’s feet, causing it to stumble and fall. At once, they turned and fled, their movements coordinated well enough, having practiced all night.
Out into the night they ran with short rapid steps, turning to see the scarecrow pausing on the front porch, directly under the swaying lamp. Somewhere between the kitchen and the porch the creature had gotten hold of an axe. He stood there, appearing over eight feet tall, the axe resting on his shoulder, a stitched smile fixed on his burlap face.
“That’s no scarecrow,” said Helen. “It’s some psychopath dressed up.”
“Too tall for Marvin,” said Henry.
“Does it matter?” asked Ernestine.
“He’s smiling. He wants us to go back into the field,” said Helen.
“There’s no where else to go,” said Henry.
“Helen,” asked Ernestine, her free hand on Helen’s shoulder, “do you have a lighter? Matches?”
“No, I don’t carry them anymore.”
“What about you?” asked Henry.
“Nice idea, Rev. Back at the house. Real or no, with all that straw, he’d probably burn pretty good.”
The scarecrow began to move forward, awkwardly down the stairs, stiffly, as though he had a limp. When he was about half way between the farm house and the others, everyone got a big surprise. Everyone stopped, including the scarecrow, when a low rumbling began, that of an engine. This was followed by thrashing sounds and a mechanized roar and finally bright headlights. From the side of the farmhouse, coming down a long, winding gravel driveway was a combine harvester. Seated at the controls was Marvin Peregrine.
“Marvin!” all three cried.
“Hi, everybody,” he shouted back, standing up from his seat and waving. “Have you guys been--ahem, stalked?”
“Marvin, what is that thing?” cried Helen.
“What is it? It’s shredded wheat is what it is!”
They stood transfixed as Marvin opened up the throttle. The scarecrow turned to face the churning machine. The harvester bore down on the scarecrow, first flattening him like so many rows of corn and then chopped, cubed, and diced the giant into an unrecognizable tangle of straw and mulch.
Marvin stopped the harvester and turned off the motor. “How ‘bout a little ire, scarecrow?”
When Ernestine laughed uneasily, the others followed suit.
“Marvin,” began Ernestine with a sob, seeming to be the first to realize exactly what Marvin had done. “If that wasn’t a person--God, we must all be going mad. If it’s a person, we just witnessed a murder--”
“Most foul,” interrupted Marvin.
“Or,” she continued, “we’ve all lost our minds.”
“The night’s still young,” said Marvin with renewed vigor.
Henry looked up. “You’re not through with this? With us?”
“You fucking bastard,” said Helen, almost lacking conviction.
Marvin walked to the front of the harvester, bent down and retrieved the axe, hoisting it up to his shoulder. “You think your nightmares are over? They’ve only just begun.” He checked his watch. “Give you all fifteen minutes this time. While you have another head start, I’m going inside for some hot muffins and coffee.”
Helen had an impulse that they should all just rush him. Between the three of them, they could prevail. Henry looked like he was thinking the same thing. But Ernestine turned and began to pull them along, back into the blackness of the corn field. They were halfway to dawn.
Seven
It’s a Good Life...A Real Good Life
Again, they dashed off, driven by a raw unthinking urge to survive. Several minutes later, Ernestine again led them breathlessly tumbling over one another into an irrigation ditch. Exhausted, they silently decided to await either a dawn of salvation, or an endless night of oblivion. The threat of Marvin now extended itself beyond that of a single malevolent being into all pervasive numbing fear. Not only had Marvin threatened to kill them, but had eradicated someone or something who might have done likewise. He had saved them, but from what? Throughout the rest of the long dark night, they trembled, clutching one another, but neither offering or receiving comfort. They dared not sleep for fear of their waking nightmares pursuing them even into their subconscious. Occasionally, as if to pass the time, they took note of distant shrill cries, their source much obscured. Helen believed it to be the cries of children, like when all the children cried in her family after Dandy’s accident. At the same time, she imagined the cries of the children perishing in the orphanage fire.
Henry tried to control his fear of the dark, constantly brushing himself off, imagining ants and spiders and worms crawling on him. Ernestine, nearly catatonic, stared straight ahead, east as it turned out, awaiting the first signs of dawn.
As the sun rimmed over the edge of the horizon, Ernestine shook free of her trance, and even demonstrated a renewed spirit. She raised herself up and calmly proclaimed,
“It’s over now. He’s gone.”
Helen and Henry got up and stared at her as if to say, “how do you know?”
“Let’s go. It’s light now. I can find our way back.”
“Back where?” asked Henry, genuinely confused.
“The house.” She raised a cuffed hand. “I’ll find another key.”
Helen shook her head violently and tugged back on the handcuffs. “He’s a homicidal maniac. He’s--”
“He’s not there.”
“How do you know?”
“It’s over. That’s all.”
“If you’re wrong--”
“I’m wrong. No one lives forever.”
Helen and Henry looked at each other, wondering at this pronouncement. Could Ernestine have been so terrified in the farm house, in the pitch blackness as they had been, and now so stoical and accepting of the still remaining possibilities of mutilation and death? When they got right down to it, they were still lost, a sea of corn stalks all they could see in any direction. What else could they do but follow?
They re-entered uneventfully, the back door having been left unlocked. Once inside, Helen and Henry were conscious of a feeling of new visitation, of human presence in a place that had not been merely vacant for several hours, but untouched in recent memory.
They passed the table with Marvin’s open suitcase which lay like a magician’s discarded satchel. They saw no chopped off pinky, no bloodied towel, no dried red pool. Marvin’s was indeed a conjured performance. There remained an assortment of knives and a pistol with which the guests did not fail to arm themselves. Helen grabbed the handle of a knife without looking while Henry seized the pistol, neither knowing or confident of their use. Helen imagined that the whole episode must be very similar to the psychotic terrors suffered by some of her patients. For Henry, it was a hellish landscape, a true Dante’s Inferno, with no hope of purgatory.
Ernestine led them upstairs to the master bedroom. “There’s another key. It must be in here somewhere.”
“Where do we look?” said Henry falteringly.
“Yes, where?” Helen piped up.
Ernestine studied them both for a moment and then declared she had to pee. She turned to face the bathroom as if confirming some pre-determined appointment. For the guests, it was almost a welcome return: the beckoning of normal bodily functions. Again, Henry faltered. Helen wondered at the strength of her own bladder which she had managed to hold all night.
“Yes, well, I suppose I can look the other way,” said Henry.
“I suppose you can at that,” said Ernestine, regaining some of her challenging tone. “Both of you can just look the other way.”
Henry averted his gaze as Ernestine lowered her slacks and panties. When she sat down, she looked around suspiciously, but Helen and Henry were too fatigued to notice. Henry was in the doorway, facing out into the bedroom. He cast a quick furtive glance at Ernestine whose features contorted into cold, raw alarm.
“Oh my God,” she said softly through clenched teeth. She beheld the cramped space in front of her as if confronted by some hellish apparition. Helen assumed she was in some discomfort, brought on by the ordeal, but she sighed impatiently and regarded the modest Henry with a measure of contempt, as she had done the night before.
“Ernestine,” she said wearily, “we’ve got to get that key so we can get out of here.” And then what, she wondered to herself. Hide in her house? Call the police? What would she tell them? That she saw a deranged man drive a combine harvester over a straw man who had threatened to kill them? “Can you get on with it?” There could be no going back to normal after this night.
From behind the shower curtain, a thunderous voice cried, “By all means! Let’s get on with it!” When the curtain flew back, they beheld Marvin, holding an axe that rested on one shoulder, his features twisted into a delirious sneer. Some reddish gauze dangled from his left hand. No one moved at first. Ernestine began to whimper.
“It’s too late. It’s dawn. You had your chance. You promised.”
The man standing in the tub was not the Marvin of last night: boorish and uncouth, marginally hospitable, and more than remotely menacing. It was more than being muddied, scratched and bruised, assuming that Marvin had been slogging after them through the corn field. It occurred to Ernestine that like they, he had confronted his own tormentor. But who or what could that have been? He had eradicated the eight-foot straw man.
“Hell and damnation!” he cried, condemning everyone present, while at the same time turning his terror inward. His features reflected torturing visions of charnel houses, putrid and fetid sinkholes filled with rotting corpses, encircled by leathery serpentine demons, breathing fire and hissing smoke and emanating an unspeakable stench, all fueled by blind rage, hatred, and fear.
Ernestine stood abruptly and peed all over herself, the bathroom, the guests. They stumbled out of the doorway with Marvin following. Ernestine glanced at the knife and pistol clutched by Helen and Henry, respectively. The psychiatrist struck first, lashing out with her eyes closed shut. The gray rubber blade curled up against Marvin’s belly that was tautly covered with his now soiled red polo shirt. Henry, remembering police detectives on TV, tried to raise and aim his pistol, but Ernestine’s plump arm weighed him down some. He pulled the trigger anyway, and a stick protruded from the barrel with a click, unfurling a little flag with the letters, “BANG”.
Marvin began to slowly stalk his prey all over the bedroom. With all three handcuffed together, they could hardly outmaneuver him. Marvin huffed and puffed and wheezed with the axe poised on his shoulder. He appeared perfectly content to continue shuffling about the bedroom until they dropped. His bandage, stained red, dropped from his hand, but no one could see the pinky, or what remained of it because he kept his fists clenched.
Ernestine finally paused abruptly, drawing her hands up to her head and stopping her fellow prisoners in their tracks.
“Enough!” she screamed. “I don’t care. Go ahead, you fat bastard!” Slaughter us! They’ll fry you for it!”
“Ernestine, no,” whimpered Helen.
“Now, Mr., Mrs. Peregrine,” stammered Henry.
“All of you shut up!” said Marvin contemptuously. His voice was husky and hoarse and strained as if someone had tried to strangle him. Helen noticed a white patch of hair on the side of his head which she had not seen last night. Marvin seemed as worse for wear as the rest of them, if not more so. His face reddened and he trembled with rage. Ernestine began to sob deeply. For a long moment, they looked in each other’s eyes and surprised the guests by uttering in unison, “Why all this?”
Marvin let the axe fall. It hit the floor, just missing Henry’s foot.
“Why? You have no respect for yourself,” Marvin began. “You drink and eat and sleep too much. You spend money like water. You have nothing to show for your existence. And, you have no feeling or concern for my professional and personal interests and problems. Is that reason enough?”
“There are alternatives,” Helen broke in. “I know from personal experience.”
“And ways to resolve differences.”
“Shut up, you psycho-bimbo,” Ernestine shouted at Helen.
“And you, too, you mealy-mouthed preacher,” Marvin shouted at Henry.
Ernestine sobbed and then abruptly stopped. “Maybe I wouldn’t do all those things if you didn’t make me unhappy. You ignore me. You’re always at the office, the club, driving that sports car and picking up those teenage girls. That’s why I drink. I used to want to spend money on you. I bought you things, but you hated everything. Custom silk shirts, monogrammed ties, Swiss watches, rare classical recordings, imported cigars and brandy.”
“I picked up those girls because you drink.” Marvin rubbed his sagging features with his hands, “Those things you got me cost too much.”
“You were so unkind. It hurt. I started drinking because it hurt. I wouldn’t give you the time of day now. I hate all those things--especially your goddam music!”
As Ernestine became more impassioned, she flung her arms about, flinging also the captive wrists of Helen and Henry. They offered no resistance. They were one-armed silent marionettes directed by Ernestine as though she were some master puppeteer.
“You braying cow!” continued Marvin. “I started ignoring you when you started hanging around bars, wearing those sleazy black and gold dresses. There’s no point in telling you to crawl out of the bottle. You’re too bloated with the sauce.”
“Unspeakable swine!” Ernestine raised both cuffed hands and tensed her fingers into claws as if preparing to scratch Marvin with her nails.
“Cheap whore!” Marvin started to bend down and pick up the axe.
“Oversexed scumbag!” She pursed her lips as if making ready to spit in Marvin’s direction.
“Sleazy bitch!” he shouted from his toes so loudly he almost gagged, his face turning beet red, hardly able to catch his breath, drool forming in the corners of his mouth. Helen broke into sobs and Henry fought back the tears, for now they seemed genuinely touched by the pain the Peregrines had inflicted and suffered.
Ernestine drew closer to Marvin, as everyone watched a tear drop perched on the end of her nose. “I knew when we first moved into this house, trying to start fresh. I was so tired that night. You were grumpy to me all day. And when you didn’t take out the garbage, that was the last straw. So, I got drunk that night.”
“You wouldn’t even get me a beer from the kitchen. I was just as tired as you--”
“And I knew, like a revelation, that nothing would change.”
“You said it. An endless cycle.”
“I ignored you more.”
“I spent more time away from the house. From you.”
“We drove our friends away. Drinking in the morning. Reading filthy magazines and watching pornographic movies. Screaming bouts in public.”
“Brawls in shopping malls.”
“The analyst’s office.”
“Parking lots.”
“You almost beat that man to death.”
“You broke into the neighbors’ houses.”
“You followed me and we beat each other with our bare hands and wrecked their furniture. One house almost caught fire.”
“And then they moved.”
“Of course. Everyone moves.”
“You guys,” gestured Marvin with a nod of his head, “want to, don’t you? You wouldn’t stay and face the likes of this, would you? Confront the beast? Huh?”
Helen and Henry looked away. All the layers had been pared away. They felt the Peregrines had looked deep inside and saw the truth: how their fears, anxieties, insecurities occupied the center of their lives, hardly affected by their so-called professional aspirations. To help heal the mind and the spirit: how could they do that for others when they couldn’t do it for themselves?
“Even we won’t be here forever,” said Ernestine.
“In fact, Ernie, it’s come to an end right about now.”
“It couldn’t go on,” she replied in resignation.
All the chaos of their passion had been distilled down to a single note of discord. And now, even that faded. They had brought themselves back, back before the first callous reply, the first disinterested sigh. From this emerged a bizarre sense of harmony. At first, mesmerized by the exchange, as though it had been rehearsed, Helen and Henry were now shaken and alarmed by its note of finality. They beheld their hosts and then each other with tearful supplication, as if seeking a stay of execution.
“Let us go,” they said in unison.
Marvin’s features twisted with disgust. “Innocent--”
“Bystanders,” completed Ernestine.
“Standing by at any rate,” said Marvin. He reached into his pocket and produced a key. Before he unlocked the handcuffs, he asked the guests if they had anything to say. Helen wished she could feel for them, try to help, but her fear stopped any words of solace. Henry experienced a sense of guilt, for not being able to step forward and fill this void brought on by their suffering. They both shook their heads rigidly. Marvin unlocked the handcuffs.
“Then,” began Marvin portentously, “we sentence you to exile.” They stared, dumbfounded. “The party’s over. Get out.”
Stiffly, Helen and Henry exited the bedroom, urged on gently by Marvin, like a loan officer turning away an unqualified couple. Ernestine continued sitting on the bed, near a night table. She looked away as the guests left, her features clouded with disappointment, as Marvin closed the double door. The guests not only found their spirit blunted, but their legs weak and unwilling. They had been breathing in short spastic bursts during their final moments of captivity. Now, they tried to draw more air into their lungs before attempting the stairs. They heard Marvin inside. It sounded as though he were beginning his tirade anew. Would they go on forever?
“You were a cut up all last night, Ern. Now, it’s my turn.”
Helen and Henry could hear the axe scraping the floor as Marvin sighed wearily, bending over to pick it up.
“How about a little off the top, you slut, you--” There was a sound of a drawer opening quickly. “Where’d you get that gun? Put it down. No--”
Almost simultaneously, a shot rang out and a bloody axe blade crashed through the bedroom door, splintering wood and spraying Helen and Henry with red droplets. This was followed by piercing, unnatural screams. Roused from their stupor, the guests fled from the Peregrine residence for the last time. Out on Center Lane, they fumbled with their house keys again momentarily confusing their new homes, rushing past one another as they corrected the error. Their minds raced with images of flashing red lights, squad cars, ambulances--they imagined they heard the sirens. They envisioned a quiet and efficient removal of the bodies, three of them, one in pieces out at the farm house to the local morgue and subsequent probings by the county Medical Examiner. They anticipated the return of Detective Perry at their front doors, eventually linking them to the slain couple and the man in the bizarre scarecrow costume. It had to be a costume. Next, gossip, then scandal. Scurrilous tales of mayhem. Another in the catalog of tales surrounding the Earthly Delights development and the adjacent farm.
Father Henry Pauley bolted all his doors, closed the shades, and turned on all the lights. He quickly ate some stale bread in his kitchen and washed it down with tap water. Next, he checked the locks again, especially the one to the basement, and then went upstairs to his bedroom, stepping around unopened boxes. Methodically, he began picking pieces of straw from his clothes and hair. He then stripped and lay on his mattress with a blanket and reached for his reading copy of the Bible, which he clutched to his heart while he offered a short prayer--for everyone, the Peregrines, Helen, the missing boys, and himself. He opened the Bible, but before he could begin to read he fell into a deep sleep, the Bible open and face down across his chest and he slept all day and into the early evening.
Dr. Helen Fleize slammed the door behind her and, in darkness, she backed slowly into her living room, not remembering her teak bookcase with her favorite volumes and textbooks. When she jumped, she lost her balance, her weight lurching against the bookcase. It tottered and swayed and some books fell. A particularly large textbook struck her on the head. Dazed, she slumped to the floor and succumbed to exhaustion and slept as long as Henry, but without nightmares.
Detective Perry stopped back early that evening and, as before, went to see Henry first. Henry staggered to the front door and as the gaunt Perry eyed him from rumpled head to foot, he asked if he wouldn’t mind coming with him so he could talk to “the both of you so he wouldn’t have to repeat himself.”
“You mean Helen,” Henry said, barely able to clear his throat. He dressed quickly and followed the detective across the cul-de-sac, sneaking a glance at the Peregrine house, which appeared normal and undisturbed. Helen had awakened a little before and managed to get in a quick shower. Clad in her bathrobe, she stood in the kitchen, waiting for the microwave to heat water for instant coffee. She jumped when she heard the doorbell, but refused to believe it could be the Peregrines. When she saw Detective Perry and Henry, she invited them in. She exchanged glances with Henry, sharing the assumption that Perry was now investigating the grisly double murder of the Peregrines. She would tell the truth as she sensed Henry would. What else could they do? Tell the truth to Detective Perry. Tell the truth to themselves. Helen sincerely regretted how the Peregrines were beyond her healing powers as Henry likewise lamented his inability to reach them with his ministry, to make a difference.
“OK, folks, this shouldn’t take long. The children were found--”
“Oh, God,” said Helen.
“Alive, alive,” said Perry, almost enjoying the semi-intentional suspense. “They appear to be all right except for a bad scare. We found them hiding in a barn--in a hay loft actually.” Helen and Henry braced for further questioning about the field, the farm house, the scarecrow, but none was forthcoming. “We are puzzled about one thing, though. We went to the Peregrines’ house a little while ago, and, well this is odd, but they appear to have suddenly taken a long trip.”
Helen and Henry could not contain their surprise. “A trip? How do you know?” asked Helen.
“We looked around the outside of the house.” Helen and Henry waited for the phrase “signs of a struggle”. “We could see in the windows. Most of the furniture was covered with sheets. But the weird part was the note they left pinned to the front door addressed to me. That they knew nothing about the missing boys, but that, and I quote,” he said retrieving a crumpled sheet of paper from his pocket, “‘DOCTOR Fleize and FATHER Pauley might have some answers.’ What do you make of that?”
Helen and Henry each took a deep breath and announced at the same time, “You’re not going to believe this.”
Perry blinked. “How’s that?”
“I’ll get us some coffee,” said Helen, “this is going to take a while.”
“And,” added Henry, “if you don’t cart us away after we’re done, maybe we can go see if those boys or their families need help.” Helen nodded in agreement.
From this All Soul’s Day forward the Peregrines remained away and the house was eventually sold to an elderly couple who seemed perfectly normal. Thanks in part to Helen and Henry, the boys, Scott, Tony, Paul, and little Timmy recovered, but never seemed able or willing to describe exactly what they had seen. The identity of the farmer remained a mystery, but on rare occasions, usually early morning, some residents of Earthly Delights thought they caught a fleeting glimpse of someone moving about the corn fields, but no one investigated. They would just stop and listen, but all they ever heard was the wind rustling countless stalks of corn. The immense man of straw was back at his post on this windy early November day. His thin slit of a mouth turned up at one corner, as if anticipating new visitors, waiting for the proper time.
"Helen Fleize and Father Henry Pauley are both new neighbors to the Earthly Delights
housing edition. Except for the news that four young boys were missing and
unaccounted for the neighborhood seemed quiet and unassuming. Quiet and
unassuming until they meet Marvin and Ernestine Peregrine at the end of the
cul-de-sac. The Peregrines invite Helen and Father Henry over for dinner
and some fun and games. But Marvin and Ernestine’s idea of fun and games
are nothing like the two new neighbors have ever played and they are soon
playing for their lives and wishing they had never heard of the Earthly
Delights housing edition and the family at the end of the cul-de-sac.
Lost in the Cornfield plays on all of your childhood fears and more. Joseph A. Domino is a master at playing with your psyche and will have you guessing through the whole story whether the fear is real or imagined. If you are looking for a good scare to keep you awake at night pick up a copy of Lost in the Cornfield.--"
From Lost in the Cornfield: "As they began up the long winding stone path which led to the Peregrine’s front door, they could hear thunder. Distant lightning flashed to the west, beyond the corn field illuminating the scarecrow, who dangled high above the corn, condemned to hang and sway--except on certain nights--appointed overseer to the rustling emptiness which filled the rows of stalks. A sudden gust of wind loosened the scarecrow’s head so that it turned in the direction of the Peregrine’s house, perking up, attentive
to the arrival of the dinner guests."
It's a pretty good, scary and funny read, especially around Halloween. Currently out of circulation. But here it is for free. Currently working on converting it to a screenplay.
Lost in the Corn Field
One
Augurs of Innocence
The globular mass of iridescent goo oozed like hellish drool across Timmy’s twisted horrified features as he gasped for breath. A heaving panting form held him fast to the lawn and as its face drew closer it made slobbering, choking sounds.
“Please,” wheezed Timmy.
“It’ll soon be over,” said the slobbering voice. “You’ll be one of us.”
Timmy could see very little, but he thought two other ghoulish shapes had drawn near. When they giggled, eight-year old Timmy grew even more terrified.
“And now for the ceremony,” said the figure with the bright, peeling hacked face.
One of the others handed the “creature” a container filled with a kind of slime. It began to pour the contents onto to Timmy’s head when--
“Scott!” The ghoul looked up. “Scott Dillman. What are you doing to that poor child? You’re much bigger than him. You leave him alone right now, do you hear?”
“Aw mom, it’s just ‘bucket of dry slime’. It won’t hurt anything. Besides, it’s Mischief Night. All the kids are out and doin’ stuff.”
“If you use everything up tonight, you won’t have anything left for Halloween tomorrow. It’s getting late. And I don’t want you bothering the neighbors.”
“But Mom--”
“Don’t ‘but’ me. Now do as I say, or I’ll beat you to a pulp with your father’s strap!” For a moment, Scott felt as threatened as Timmy had a few moments ago. “And you stay out of that corn field. God knows what’s running around out there.”
“Sure Mom.”
“Don’t go too far from Winding Way. And stay away from Center Lane. Especially that big white house. And I want you back by nine, understand?”
“Yeah, Mom.” He glanced at his front door for a moment where he saw the shape of his mother, an undetailed shadow in the eerie street light, her hands on her hips, poised to inflict retribution for any acts of rebellion.
The builders of Earthly Delights had etched Center Lane, a dead end street, in a far corner of the development. Beyond Center Lane extended a vast expanse of corn fields, a desert of stalks belonging to a farmer no one had ever seen. Rumors circulated that the man was a descendant of an Indian chieftain of a tribe, which had been massacred by soldiers and settlers back in the 1870s. Children made up stories about ghosts of ancient warriors lurking in the fields, or about people going into the fields and disappearing, or being turned into scarecrows.
These stories assumed a frightful immediacy leading up to Halloween when mothers warned roaming children about the corn field, the mysterious farmer, by reputation, none too hospitable. Supposedly “a” farmer had lived on that land many years ago and had mutilated the hand of a child who had trespassed on his land. Naturally, as the story traveled about, many came to believe that the present occupant of the farm had actually perpetrated the deed.
About an hour later, after squirting shaving cream into randomly chosen mail boxes, twelve year-old Scotty Dillman regrouped with two of his buddies, Tony and Paul and eight-year old Timmy. Together they huddled in the moonlit shadow of a bulldozer left by the work crews in a pitted and cratered field. He pushed back his mask of a face partially dissolving into a green florescent gelatinous slime. They sat silently, tallying up their spoils which had filled their orange and black shopping bags.
Scott narrowed his eyes at Timmy. “Who wants to go into the corn field?”
It was a double dare in a sense. If they braved the corn field, they would also have to pass through the yard of the white house. Although he had never seen the people who lived there, Scott heard a story about how once a kid was in front of the house and the man came outside to take out the garbage. When he saw the kid, he threatened to slit his throat. Scott’s friends knew that he intended to leave Timmy in the corn field, a decision he would live to regret.
On the way Timmy kept asking questions. “What’s in the white house?”
“Oh nothing,” said Scott, looking away, trying not to crack up. Maybe he could talk Timmy into ringing the door bell. “We just have to go through the yard to get to the field.”
“Are we going near the farmhouse?”
“I guess not. We’re just going to find the scarecrow and turn around and come back.”
Timmy didn’t notice the others giggling.
“I think the scarecrow is somewhere in the middle of the field. So, all we have to do is move in a straight line.” Scott reached into his pocket and added. “Actually, we’ll mark our position with this ball of string. Tie it to the fence in the yard, unwind it as we go and then use it to find our way back.” Tony and Paul looked at each other and winked, for they knew the plan would be to lead Timmy to the dark center of the corn field, have him hide his eyes for ten seconds and on the count of two bolt the way they had come and grab up the string as they fled.
Clouds raced by overhead as they made their way unobstructed alongside the white house then through the yard to the back fence, looking over their shoulders. Scott felt confident as he fingered the flashlight in his pocket; it looked as though no one were home.
The rows of leafy stalks turned and twisted like a maze, so that Scott quickly abandoned the notion of moving in a straight line and headed where his instincts led him. Clutching that ball of string, he knew that it could be real easy to get lost in here, especially at night. The string was running out faster than he thought. Soon they came to a clearing where they could see a house on the top of a small rise beyond the far edge of the field.
Timmy whispered, hardly moving his lips, trying not to let his teeth chatter. “Is that where the farmer lives?”
Scott squinted, surprised to see the house. He saw one light in an upstairs window. “Uh, well, I guess,” he said falteringly, not wanting to get any closer. “Anyway, we can’t go any further. No more string. But here’s what you have to do.”
“What do you mean?” said Timmy, raising his voice.
“Shhhh,” said Scott, drawing Tony and Paul closer. “You want to be one of us, right. You’re a privileged guy. You think we let a lot of eight-year old dorks hang out with us?”
“Well--”
“All you have to do is put your hands over your eyes and count slowly to ten. You have to be absolutely still. When you’re done, we’ll all go back.”
“Go ahead, Timmy,” said Paul.
“Yeah,” added Tony, stifling laughter.
Tony and Paul knew the routine. Variations of it had been executed in the past. Scott had already begun to back away slowly.
“One, two....”
A rustling sound in the stalks halted the retreat of Scott and his minions and Timmy heard it but decided to continue believing they were trying to scare him.
“...Three, four...” A kind of footfall, more like a dragging, scuffing sound. “...Five, six...” Flapping, like the beating of wings. Scott was the first to turn around.
“Holy fucking shit!” he said in a strangled voice. The remaining ball of string, now no bigger in diameter than a golf ball, dropped from his opening palm to the ground. “...Seven, eight...” Tony and Paul turned around more slowly, but their eyes bulged out no less than Scott’s when they saw the scarecrow, which looked to be about eight feet tall standing upright without the aid of a pole or stake. On each of its outstretched arms, three huge crows had calmly perched themselves. Only Scott paused for a moment to wonder if someone in a costume had followed them. But the birds looked real. Wait, scarecrows were supposed to...
“...Nine...”
If Scott or the others could have moved their eyes, they would have seen the remnant ball of string leap away from their feet back into the murky labyrinth from which they had emerged. The scarecrow, too solid to be stuffed only with straw, moved its head and glanced down as the ball of string bounced between his legs and disappeared back into the thick rows of stalks. It “glanced” back at the boys, a kind of shifting blackness in its button eyes, its slit of mouth turning upward and making a sound like the opening of a plastic sandwich bag.
“Ten,” yelled Timmy, who whirled about. The sight hardly had time to register when the crows came at them, stinging piercing beaks at their heads, their collars, their wild wind-blow hair, and even their wide eyes when they looked behind them at their pursuers as they fled with brute mindless terror--in the direction of the farm house.
Back on Winding Way, the man from the white house smiled as he rested one leg on the fence which faced the corn field as he rolled up a ball of string. Tomorrow was the last day of October when the new neighbors were due to arrive. He knew the fun had only begun.
Two
Getting Acquainted
Moving day was bright and sunny. For the new arrivals the day bore great promise. The neighborhood’s typical Saturday exuberance had been muted, buzzing with an undertone of shock and concern as news circulated about the four missing boys. Children anxiously watched their parents, hoping trick-or-treating could go on as planned. A patrol car limped past the turn to Center Lane, avoiding a tipped over trash can. As it passed near the curb, streamers of toilet tissue grazed its side when it moved under the branches of a small tree.
Neither of the new neighbors on Center Lane had heard a word about it, even on the radio as they drove in to the Earthly Delights Development. Only three houses had been built on Center Lane and they were at the end of the lane where the street opened up into a neat cul-de-sac. Two of the houses, facing one another on the left and right, were small plain two-bedroom ranch homes, distinguishable only in color--one was green and the other blue. In between these houses, at the rear of Center Lane and set back a little, was a sprawling white colonial whose backyard disappeared into the corn field. Its front lawn unfolded like a green carpet. For some time, up until today, the colonial had been the only occupied residence on Center Lane.
Around eleven a.m. a variety of vans, station wagons, and U-hauls turned into Center Lane. Father Henry Oliver Pauley got out of a battered Chevy and clasped his hands and smiled. He had dressed in jeans and a plaid flannel shirt, but still wore his clerical collar. Some of his new parishioners and also one or two of his friends were helping him move. He strode over to the blue ranch, remembering that he wore his house key about his neck.
Father Pauley (they called him Hoppy at the seminary) had been a member of the Episcopal clergy for twelve years. He had fallen into disfavor with his last congregation, the First Episcopal Church in Highland, some seventy miles upstate.
In one of his rare attempts to assert himself in his career, Henry proposed longer sermons and less emphasis on upcoming fund drives and meetings and sagebrush dances and pancake brunches and Yankee baked bean suppers. His parishioners complained and got him in trouble with the Bishop. Not only did the Bishop caution him to limit his sermons to eight minutes, but the service was lengthened for even more announcements. After about a year, just when he felt he had gotten the hang of it, he was reassigned to a smaller church about two miles from Earthly Delights. Demoralized and disillusioned, he finally decided that he hadn’t tried hard enough. Bishop Thomas had said, “we have to maintain a certain perspective on things.” Henry wondered, but didn’t inquire about the man he was replacing, and the Bishop offered no explanation.
For most of his adult life Henry guiltily sought the pursuit of spirituality, as a refuge, a haven. So far, he had failed to realize that such a pursuit was not possible without the strong conviction of one’s beliefs.
Henry came to Center Lane at low ebb, in melancholy spirits, at a loss to decide where to turn for help or guidance. He called his old mentor, Fr. Carson Knight, whom he secretly referred to as his “tormentor,” for advice. Fr. Knight was less than helpful, hardly remembering a student named Pauley until Henry told him that he was the one who stumbled through his sermon and the liturgy and the communion whenever Fr. Knight evaluated him from the back pew. “Oh yes, I remember now: the “pastor of disaster.”
It wasn’t exactly a crisis of faith these days. God was still in his heaven. But Henry, one of his poor caretakers on earth, wrestled more and more with his loneliness, his inability to connect with people. He considered his congregations, social events, and programs over the years, concluding that he had been mostly going through the motions.
Across the court, Dr. Helen Fleize emerged from a new gray Volvo and was about to be assisted by some of her more successful patients with whom she remained in contact. Both Father Pauley and Dr. Fleize shared a vague awareness of the novelty that the “other” new owner had arrived at the same time. Helen marched up to the green ranch and, about the same time as Henry, became perplexed when her key would not unlock the front door. Henry experienced the same difficulty.
Helen looked at the ground and shook her head. She must really cut back on her case load, she thought. Of course there had been the pressure of the divorce. Well, a little pressure anyway. Adjusting wasn’t much of a problem. Her husband, whom she had met at a cross-counseling session, was also a psychiatrist. In addition to, in Helen’s view, failing as a life partner, he had not achieved much professionally. Helen wanted to restore her maiden name to her practice, but hadn’t yet found the time. “Fleize” was everywhere: letterhead, business cards, her office door. Her husband was still an unwelcome presence, but he had provided her with one advantage: his mediocrity enhanced the perception of her own competence and, in some cases, had even contributed to the advancement of her career. Still, Helen felt it had never been easy. There had been the failed affair with the British doctor at medical school. She finished only in the upper 25% of her graduating class (still higher than her eventual husband).
As if the stress of managing a mental health career plus a shaky marriage weren’t enough, a series of nightmares continued to plague Helen. These terrifying dreams left a broken trail all the way back to her childhood, to a single day of unspeakable horror, at least for the child she had been. Yet, the memory of it haunted her as though she were still a child. During periods of stress, the memory came back to her in her dreams, as vividly as if it happened yesterday. She shook herself free from her thoughts and squinted at the gangly fellow across the way who appeared, to say the least, confused.
Henry tapped his forehead with a fist and smiled self-deprecatingly. He really did need the Lord to watch over him, he thought. The two looked across the court at each other as they realized their error.
“Hi,” Henry called. He started to cross over as Helen met him half way. Henry was tall and gawky and had crusty, flaky skin. Although only forty-two, he could have been taken for fifty. By contrast, Helen, about the same age, was short and smooth. Her face glistened with an array of facial moisturizers and make-up.
“I get the green one,” said Henry, laughing. “Isn’t amazing that we both made the same mistake?”
“I suppose it is,” said Helen, maintaining a cool detachment, “but what probably happened was that one of us--I don’t know which--made the error first and the other sub-consciously reacted to it by going to the other house.” Helen wanted to bite her tongue. She just couldn’t keep her mind off her work.
Henry ignored the comment and then lamented that he hadn’t given it more consideration. “I’m Father Pauley. Call me Henry. I was transferred and now they’ve gotten around to moving me to the town of my parish. I begin services a week from tomorrow.”
A distinct cloud passed over Helen’s features. A man of the cloth, she thought, staring at his collar, someone who would be infuriatingly certain of everything. “How do you do? I’m Dr. Helen Fleize. I’m a psychiatrist.” There was a cold edge to her voice, but she was conscious of it. She felt she had to be like that with people who didn’t or couldn’t possibly view things her way. Maybe the people in the colonial would be more interesting. Henry was unperturbed by her attitude, if he even noticed.
“After we get settled later,” said Henry, “we ought to have a little supper. Together. I like to cook. My treat.”
Or trick, wondered Helen who regarded Henry with amusement. What could this bachelor-minister have in mind anyway? It must have been a long time since he--well, never mind, thought Helen. She considered for a few seconds and decided she’d take him up on his offer--out of professional curiosity. Besides, she hated to cook.
“Lovely neighborhood, isn’t it?” said Henry, scanning the cul-de-sac and noting the leftovers from last night’s Mischief Night orgy: scraps of toilet paper, egg shells, spent stink bomb shells. He paused when he noticed tufts of straw here and there, skittering along the sidewalk and street in the early morning breeze. When he turned to face Helen, she was staring at the white colonial.
“Know anything about them?” Helen nodded.
“No, actually. Did you see them when the realtor showed you around?”
“No, I think he told me they were away on a long vacation.”
“Funny, I was told the same thing when I was here last month.”
“I first came to see the place back at the end of the summer.”
Just then, the bustling sounds of the moving crews were swallowed up by a stereo blasting the opening sequence of ‘Night on Bald Mountain’, not the very beginning, but a few seconds in, at the climax of the first crescendo. It sounded as powerful as the trumpeting of the Apocalypse.
“God,” said Helen, “that’s some sound system.”
“Oh my, it is rather loud,” added Henry, checking his watch. “Mussoursky, I believe.”
“Of course,” Helen added meaninglessly.
As suddenly as it had come on, the music abruptly ended with the sound of someone dragging the stylus across the surface of the recording. This was followed by a deep moan, a thump, and the breaking of glass. Seconds later, the front door flew open and out stomped a woman, late fortyish, in a flowing pink night gown. Her features were puffy, almost swollen.
It had gotten so quiet--all the movers had stopped to look--that everyone could hear the tinkle of ice in the short stubby glass she clutched. She marched down the front path, stopping every few seconds and turning to look back as if trying to put a measured distance between herself and the house. When finally satisfied, she set her glass, having spilled not a drop, on a post with a horse’s head, and began what seemed like a planned performance.
“Marvin! You realllly sicken me. You’re a lousy fat worm. Good for nothing! You hear me, Marvin? A lousy stinking maggot fat worm. A rotten lousy stinking fat useless fucking worm!”
“Jesus!” a voice cried from inside, “you want to shut that oral cesspool of yours? What did I do?”
“You’re a worm, that’s what you did.”
“And you’re a drunken bitch, Ernestine,” said the voice wearily.
“Drunk?” The woman turned about to face the new neighbors, the vans, wagons, and the odd dozen or so movers who stood spellbound. When Ernestine took notice of the audience, she perked up even more. “Drunk?” she repeated more shrilly, her eyes filling with tears, “you got me started with that ‘sophisticated’ crowd you hung out with. A bunch of old cocks guzzling themselves blind and,” she paused, drawing a bit closer to the audience, “passing dope around--those impotent geezers. Can you believe it?”
“How do you know they’re impotent?” cried Marvin.
“You’d know better than me, you swine. Don’t think I don’t know what went on all those Saturday afternoons at the Club in that private room. ‘Do Not Disturb”. It’s a wonder I haven’t picked up AIDS.”
“That should be easy. You pick up everything else.”
“You’re such a pig, Marvin. Where’s the old gang, Marvin. The old farts you hung out with?”
“Speaking of hanging out, how about those skimpy outfits? At your age--they all got tired of looking at you hanging out. It’s enough to make a grown man gag.”
“You scum!” Ernestine marched back a ways toward the house. “Better lock your bedroom tonight. I’ll come in and cut off your ‘club member’--if I can find it!”
“Take up with a junkyard dog if it’ll have you.”
Marvin appeared by a side door near the garage. He was a short squat man with a sizable belly. He had a deep tan and wore a red polo shirt and a captain’s hat. He quickly waddled over to a red sports car, plopped in, and tore out of the driveway, tires screeching wildly. Marvin slowed for an instant as he bounced out into the street, and Ernestine hurled her glass at him. Everyone watched a watery trail of vodka and ice as it glimmered momentarily in the sunlit brightness that was high noon. The glass did not explode into shards, but, instead, struck the hood with a dull thump, remaining intact. It twirled briefly, finally spinning off to rest on a soft spongy curbside lawn. The sports car zoomed down Center Lane and on out to Winding Way. Ernestine cringed and whimpered, staring after Marvin until she remembered the new neighbors, who still gazed at her, transfixed.
Ernestine put her hands on her hips and said with a sneer, “What? Do you think you can help?”
Helen and Henry responded in unison, “Us? Why no.”
Three
The Summoning
By mid-afternoon, a freak warm front had moved through and almost everyone opened their windows, although not too wide. No sense in inviting in the malevolence which lurked about, the one that could steal children from their homes. It had gotten hot, dry, and dusty, with an occasional breeze carrying a faint scent of livestock and of fertilizer from the corn field.
The movers had completed their tasks and had disappeared as quickly and quietly as possible. In Helen’s new home, boxes were piled all around. She decided she wasn’t going to do much today. Maybe a little straightening. She did find solace in filling her teak bookcase with her favorite volumes without delay. Freud occupied nearly a whole shelf. Following the ritual, she sat on a reclining chair and held a small glass of white wine, nearly room temperature, waiting for the valium to take effect.
Helen had passed a tense evening the day before, hoping the move would go all right, trying to relax after the closing that afternoon. She tried to remain focused, but everywhere she looked were the reminders of Halloween: decorations in storefronts, mall displays. She shuddered at the thought of little children with their costumes being dragged about the streets and yelled at by their mothers and coming to her front door. They even had pumpkins at the realtor’s office where the closing was held. A warm Halloween, like today, so many years ago, a bizarre accident, couldn’t happen again in a million years, or so her father and uncle had said. Her brother, sister, and cousins went trick-or-treating that night, but she remained within, staying in her room. A few of the neighborhood kids, after hearing what happened, came to her window after dark and tried to scare her. They succeeded quite well, she recalled, even now remembering the feel of tepid urine running down her leg as she screamed herself hoarse. The memories could flare up at any time but, as she knew too well, traumas liked best to revisit their victims on their anniversary.
Anyway, she hoped Father Henry would make good on his promise concerning dinner. But, she hoped he would come to escort her to his house, even though the front door was only thirty yards or so away. She really didn’t want to venture out alone into Center Lane after that exhibition. Not long ago, she thought she heard the tentative rumble of that sports car easing into its long driveway. She jumped a little when the door bell rang. Must be that Henry, she thought.
She opened the door and there was the short man in red. The worm. The inadequate husband. The club member. His belly pressed inward on the screen door.
“Trick or treat?” he piped out merrily.
“Yes?”
“Dr. Fleize, I presume?” His voice was gravelly and reeking of authority. Helen convinced herself that he had been a high-ranking military officer.
“Yes?” she repeated, wondering if he and his wife were getting professional help.
“I’m Marvin Peregrine. Pronounced Perry Green. My wife is Ernestine. Kinda rhymes.”
He paused for effect rather than like someone who didn’t know what to say next. Helen assumed it was all part of another scripted performance and she braced for the pitiful apology she believed he was sure to recite, but it never came.
“Welcome,” he continued, sweeping his arm towards his house, “to the neighborhood. Or, should I say the corn fields which surround our little domain like some alternate universe--with its own set of natural laws.”
Helen blinked. “Thank you.” He acted a little drunk, she thought, but she couldn’t smell a drop. She blinked again and drew back slightly when Marvin casually opened the screen door and admitted himself.
“I would like,” he began deliberately, placing his hands in his pockets and jiggling coins, “to really welcome you to the neighborhood.” Helen tensed when he placed one hand on his belt buckle. He turned to face the open door and squint at his house. “You see, my wife and I have spent a lot of time recently trying to get in touch with our feelings. Any time. Anywhere. About anything. We’ve studied up some and we think that’s the best way to come to terms with our feelings. And guilt, too, I suppose. I don’t know where we’d be if we didn’t express ourselves from time to time. We’ve got to explore the layers of our personalities. Our psychosexual profile is definitely high-tension.”
Helen didn’t know whether to smile or recoil from this speech. “Did you know I was a shrink?”
“Really? Isn’t that interesting? Anyway, the missus, the wifey, the chief schnook and bottle guzzler, the apple of my ire, and yours truly would like to make it up to you.”
Helen stared at him blankly.
“I’m sure our little display, our little dispute, was a trifling unsettling for someone new to the neighborhood. Caused you no small trepidation. Knocked your socks off, honey--”
“I get the idea, Mr. Peregrine.”
“Please call me Marvin. Or better yet, Marv.”
“O.K. So?”
“So what?”
“Making it up.” Helen couldn’t believe she was reminding him. Oh well, this Marvin and his shrewish Ernestine, she thought, are probably a couple of teddy bears. Under the surface, they’re probably the best of neighbors.
“Oh yeah.” Marvin had now moved away from the door and was peeking out the window from behind the curtain. “Making it up,” he repeated a little louder. “You know, doing it up. Raising our spirits! Getting our spirits up,” still louder. Finally, “GETTING IT UP!” he shouted, loud enough to be heard in the corn field. “So how about dinner at my place? It’s a rule here. New neighbors on Center Lane don’t cook for themselves first night here.”
“Have there been a lot of new neighbors?” Helen bit her lip, fighting off a blush. “I mean, that rule must have been around a long time.”
Marvin jutted out his chin. “I just made the rule up now. What do you say to that?” he challenged with a sneer.
“Dinner at your place,” Helen repeated. “Yours and Mrs. Peregrine’s,” said Helen.
“Ernie-pooh? Yeah, she’ll be around somewhere. If she hasn’t fallen down the steps to the wine cellar.”
“Well, Mr.--Marvin, as a matter of fact, Henry across the street, has already invited me to his place.”
“He has?” asked Marvin, throwing his shoulders back and turning to look through the screen door in the general direction of Henry’s house. “Who does he think he is breaking the rules like that?”
“Maybe he doesn’t know the rules,” said Helen with more than a little hint of impatience. “But even if he does, he asked me first.”
“He’ll goddam know the rules before he’s through.” Marvin turned back around and stuffed his hands into his pockets. “I assure you both that you’ll find out all there is to know.”
Helen mulled this over for a few moments, concluding that this could not be genuine menace, rather an eccentric way of stating one’s territorial supremacy.
While Marvin paid his little visit to the doctor, Ernestine, not to be outdone, dashed over to see Henry. First, she changed into khaki shorts and a flowery print blouse, leaving as many buttons undone as decorum would allow. Henry’s breath caught in his throat when he saw her, hardly recognizing her as the puffy teary woman on the front lawn, who had thrown her drink at her husband’s red sports car.
“Yes, you’re uh--”
“Ernestine Peregrine from the white house. I don’t know how to say it, but I want to apologize for my husband and I. For our shameful display.” Ernestine pouted her lips and batted her eyelashes. “We’re really not as bad we seem.”
“Why, that’s all right,” said Henry, not meaning a word of it. An act of contrition, wondered Henry. The performance had been so flagrant, so outrageous.
Ernestine drew close and Henry took a strong whiff of perfume. She took his hands and her eyes grew glassy. “Thank you so much, Father, isn’t it?” she asked glancing at the collar. “We’ve all got to start out on the right foot and my husband and I didn’t do such a good job of it, did we?”
“Well-uh...”
“You’re so understanding. I’d really like to show my appreciation.”
As Henry smiled blankly, Ernestine, still holding his hands, pulled him close and kissed him on the cheek. This so unnerved Henry that he broke into a sweat.
“My husband’s across the street trying to make amends with our other female neighbor,” she said, gritting her teeth. “Why don’t we go join them? Perhaps we can all have dinner at our place.”
“But--”
“It’s no trouble, I assure you. Now, let’s go.”
Henry recalled his dinner promise to Helen. His gas still had not been turned on. “Well, but--OK, I--uh, need to put on my shoes.”
Henry sat on his bare mattress in his bedroom, staring at his shoes. It wasn’t just a peck on the cheek like he’d gotten over the years from assorted church lady cronies. It was a hard kiss, passionate, even if on the cheek. It reminded him of the time, near the end of high school, when he announced his decision to major in religion in college and go on to seminary. Some of his “friends” invited him to a party, where the parents were away for the weekend. They chipped in for a hooker to come to the house. After telling Henry they had a surprise for him in the bedroom, he waited there with the lights off as instructed, not something he liked one bit. The hooker was admitted, went right up to him and kissed him full on the mouth. The others waited outside, giggling. After a few minutes, the hooker came out. He remembered the exchange.
“Well, what happened?” everyone shouted.
“Nothing that’s what. Or, let me put it this way: nothing was able to happen.” Everyone laughed. Henry was so embarrassed that he crawled out the window and went home. But, as he sadly recalled, more pranks awaited him, even at the seminary. The worst was that Halloween night they took him to the graveyard. Henry chided himself for being so caught up in his past failures. Perhaps in the role of peacemaker, he could do some good here on Center Lane, he thought as Ernestine dragged him across the cul-de-sac.
Helen almost heaved a sigh of relief when they heard a knock at her screen door. In came Ernestine tugging Henry along and clinging to his arm. When Marvin noted the trace of lipstick on Henry’s cheek, his face turned almost as red as his polo shirt. Mechanically, yet cozily, he slid an arm around Helen’s waist.
“Why, dear,” said Ernestine, “is that a knee-jerk reaction?”
“Who would know better about knees than you,” said Marvin.
“And who would know better about jerks?” she responded. “You’re not going to get one leg up on me.”
“Up his leg? Why Ernie, where’s your sense of decency?”
Helen was certain these lines had been said before as she looked over at Henry, hoping for some confirmation of her thoughts, or at least an acknowledgment of her discomfort. Henry kept his gaze fixed on the tips of his shoes, beginning to believe that the ordeal had barely begun.
“That is,” Marvin continued, addressing Helen and Henry, “nothing gets past Ernie. She’s really better, though, at reading between the knees--I mean lines.”
“Look,” Helen piped out, feigning assertiveness, “Henry said he’d make dinner for me.”
Marvin and Ernestine looked at one another as though they had just sprung a trap.
“My gas isn’t turned on, I’m afraid,” said Henry apologetically.
“Well, that clinches it,” said Marvin, “you’ll have plenty of gas after Ernie’s cooking.”
“Oh yeah?” said Ernestine, taking her cue, “Turned him loose in the kitchen once. He made stuffed pork chops for some dinner guests. They had the trots for days.” Helen glanced in the direction of her kitchen. “Forget it, dearie, your gas isn’t turned on, either.”
“We don’t want to put you out,” said Helen, her resolve beginning to crumble. Why didn’t this preacher help her protest? An evening with these rowdy boors and she’d be back up to ten milligrams a day. After all, it was clear that just living on the same street with these world-class neurotics would be no picnic.
“Don’t worry about putting us out,” said Ernestine, dismissing the serious tone Helen had attempted to convey. “I’ve been all through that with the parson, which is what El Jefe des los roving manos was supposed to be doing with you.”
All but defeated, Helen said, “Henry and I could go to a restaurant.”
“The nearest one is a half hour drive,” said Marvin.
“Half an hour?” Helen brightened. “That’s not so terribly far.”
“Trust me, dearie, they’re all terrible anyway.”
“They’re not all that terrible,” countered Marvin.
“They’re not all that good,” said Ernestine, raising her voice.
“Well, then, they’re all generally mediocre,” said Marvin with slightly less conviction.
Ernestine shook her head. “I wouldn’t exactly put it that way.”
“Neither would I,” Marvin grunted from the side of his mouth.
“All right!” shouted Helen. “I give up. Henry?”
“I already said O.K.,” he said sheepishly.
“What time?” asked Helen.
“Dusk,” said Marvin.
This seemed to catch Ernestine off guard. She released her hold on Henry and grimaced, looking into Marvin’s eyes for a moment and then nodding to the others and leaving without uttering a word. She folded her arms as she slunk back to the white colonial.
Marvin also left silently, but he did smile broadly, an odd kind of triumphant smile, reminding Helen of a glaring jack o’ lantern with a ragged mouth, like some she had seen outside front doors of several houses when she drove into Earthly Delights that morning. Marvin got back in his red sports car, which he had left parked in the middle of Center Lane with the engine running.
Four
Field of Screams
Nothing to do but wait for dinner time, Henry guessed. After a short while of straightening up and going through his boxes, the doorbell again rang. What did they want now? Or, was it Ernestine alone again, dressed like God knows what. Somewhat to his relief, he smiled when he saw the realtor, Dominick Robusto, who had first showed him the house weeks ago.
“Hi, I’m Dominick Robusto. You remember me don’t you, Father?” Robusto was squat and barrel-chested and red-faced and Henry imagined that he ate a lot of Italian food.
“Why, of course. What can I do for you?”
“Well, actually, the Bishop’s office called my boss to make sure you got settled in okay. So here I am. If anything’s not quite in order, just tell old Dominick and I’ll get it fixed.” Robusto looked uncomfortable and sweaty around the collar. If the truth were known, he had no desire to be here, seeing how this house and occupant were a done deal. He had also heard about the missing children and hoped Henry wouldn’t comment or question him about it. After all, these incidents could happen anywhere. “You weren’t here when they did the inspection?” Henry nodded. “Well, let’s take a little tour, and see if everything’s in working order,” he concluded, checking his watch.
So, Robusto led Henry through his own house from top to bottom, finding just about everything in ship shape--until they came to the basement. He opened the door to the basement, flipped on the light, went half-way down, and stopped. Henry, practically on his heels, tapped him lightly on the shoulder.
“It’s a bit musty, isn’t it?”
“Well, yeah, a de-humidifier is what you need.”
Henry felt a cobweb cling to his cheek and almost shuddered. Robusto noticed and smiled sympathetically.
“Damn spiders,” he said. “Excuse me, Father, but they give me the creeps,” he confided. Creeps, thought Henry. Just the creeps. He wished it were that simple for him. He did not admit to Robusto that they gave him a lot more than the creeps--the foul bulbous shapes skittering along in the dark, or rappelling down the silver filament of their webs. Henry principally didn’t care for the “little beasties” as he referred to them, when he found himself alone in dark enclosed spaces, or once, especially confined in such a place with almost no light--for three and a half hours.
Robusto looked to the bottom of the stairs. He and Henry both saw the mother of all spiders, its body the size of a fat lima bean. Robusto leapt from the next to the last step and ground the spider into the gray concrete floor with his heel.
“Squash the bast--the dirty things!” Robusto wheezed. That concluded the tour of the new home.
Just before Robusto left, Henry mentioned his gas being off and the realtor told him that it often happened to newcomers in the development, so he handed him a phone number he could call. If he were lucky he could have service by late tonight or early tomorrow.
“Oh, one more thing,” said Henry as Robusto paused, filling the doorway and nervously pulling at his collar. “What do you know about the Peregrines?” Robusto stared blankly. “In the big white house across the way.”
“Oh, not much, really. Heard they travel a lot. Didn’t know they were still there, I mean, didn’t know they were home now. Well, have to go. If you need anything....” With that he turned and headed for his car.
Henry went inside to the kitchen and glanced down the dark stairs to the basement. After a moment, he closed the door and locked it. He roamed about the house looking for more spiders, but found none. Thinking about them again brought that Halloween night at the seminary back to him, alive and vivid. What started out as a “harmless” prank left him nearly hysterical, with bepissed briefs, and alternating bouts of nightmares and insomnia for months.
Two upperclassmen, who shared a room next to his, liked to torment the meek and timid Henry. They would put dead flies in his pudding and tell him it was tapioca with raisins. Or, they would slam Henry into the bleachers during basketball. Or, they would retype the cover page to his paper on “Martyrdom in the First Century Church” in Fr. Art McCall’s history course and misspell the instructor’s name (Fr. Fart McDull).
Henry’s room mate, lantern-jawed John Davidson dismissed the pranks as no worse than inflicted on anyone else.
“They never bother you,” said Henry.
“You better believe it, Hoppy,” said John, hoisting a 40-lb. dumbbell at the foot of his bed.
One night, the upperclassmen, Terry Shannon and Rudy Carver, talked Henry into joining them for a theological discussion in the seminary’s memorial cemetery, after hours of course and long after the trick-or-treaters had passed through. Terry and Rudy were hospitable, bringing along three bottles of wine. For their two bottles, they had substituted grape soda, however, they left the three-dollar hearty burgundy in Henry’s.
Somewhere between St. Augustine and Martin Luther, Henry fell off a tombstone, where he lay and began to moan about needing to sleep. Simultaneously, Terry and Rudy glanced at a tool shed lodged into the base of a sloping hill. They deposited Henry in a wheelbarrow inside the unlocked shed, but they failed to notice the click of the lock when they closed the heavy iron door.
Henry sobered up more quickly than he might have otherwise. He found it almost pitch black except for the six-inch square window covered with steel mesh. It didn’t take Henry long to piece together what had happened, taking it reasonably in stride until he tried the door. Not normally fond of the dark, Henry found its concealing menace enhanced tenfold. At first, he believed things were moving around him: mice, rats, snakes, worms, unidentifiable vermin, oozing, slithering about. His head spun and pounded from the wine and his stomach burbled with queasiness.
When he leaned against the wall and slumped down, he saw a pair of smoldering reddish eyes at the little window. Then he felt the cobwebs tugging at his eyebrows. The panic really set in when he felt something crawl across the back of his hand. Rather than brushing it off, he bashed his hand across the concrete wall and transformed the thing into a splat of goo. He got up, fighting off the urge to heave. He ran into more cobwebs as he tried to shout, not wanting to approach the demonic eyes at the window, but his voice sounded small and frail. He felt a wetness below. Whenever he tried to remain absolutely still, he thought he could hear the spiders dashing underfoot, crab-like, their mandibles churning and dripping furiously. Worms gnawing from within rotting carcasses, the utter corruption of the flesh. Despite Henry’s calling, with all the blessings of the salvation and the glory of the soul, he feared nothing more than the notion of being buried in a grave or vault, a feast for earthworms.
Some three and a half hours later, John Davidson came for him with a key proffered by the groundskeeper who only grumbled a little about being wakened from a sound sleep. It wasn’t the first time.
“Hoppy, you’re a mess,” said John. “Why do you let those guys get to you?”
“I--I” In the dim light, he glanced at the red welt on his hand, topped with a slick crusty yellow substance. Henry fainted at the sight and John carried him to the showers. Next, John paid a visit to Rudy and Terry and convinced them to place tormenting Henry on a permanently given up for Lent list.
Just as Henry decided to request the Church Board to take out a pest control contract on his new home, the door bell rang once again. Probably the Peregrines this time. Such passionate behavior, not to mention foul language and then Ernestine coming over dressed like that. But no, a middle-aged man with tired sagging features and dark circles under his eyes flashed a badge at Henry.
“Sergeant Detective Perry. Father?”
“Henry Pauley.”
“Understand you moved in today.”
“Yes and Dr. Helen Fleize across the way.”
“We’re checking with residents. Four boys missing since last night.”
“That’s terrible.”
“Yeah. Wandering around on Mischief Night. Whole Development’s spooked. Don’t think they’ll send out many trick-or-treaters tonight. Anyway, just a few questions. We can go over it together with Dr. Freeze at the same time.”
“It’s Fleize, I believe.”
“Yeah. Save us a bit of time. We’ve been nosing around out here for over twelve hours.”
“Have you talked to the Peregrines? In the white house? They’ve lived there longer, obviously.”
“Obviously,” said Perry, growing more weary with each passing minute. “Nobody home when I rang. Let’s go see the doctor.”
While the realtor Robusto led Henry through the dark corners of his unfamiliar home, Helen had been dozing on her sofa, the valium and wine having kicked in. Now and then, the dream revisited. It came upon her from time to time, but was almost a certainty on or about every Halloween. That ugly afternoon in the tree house when the dog fell, slipped, was inadvertently pushed. No one ever determined. All the children screamed, but being the youngest at six, hers was the most piercing. They just suddenly noticed him dangling. There hadn’t even been a yelp.
Dandy, the golden retriever, dropped like a stone. Who tied the leash so tightly? Dandy might have had a better chance, even at fifty or sixty feet. If not for the leash. She couldn’t remember the exact words of the older boy who was frightened and covered his eyes.
“Gawd, Dandy’s been hung.”
It wasn’t quite that simple, more a bizarre combination of weight, velocity, and the rough leather of the leash. Helen had the vaguest recollection of being carried down the ladder by Uncle Ron.
“Now, don’t you look, honey.”
She lifted her chin from Uncle Ron’s shoulder as they descended. Dandy’s head rested at an impossible angle as a result of the leash cutting half way through its throat. Dandy swayed, his eyes fixed on the farmhouse, his limp weight held only by the leash. That night, after neighborhood kids had heard the news and gone out trick-or-treating, two or three crept up to her bedroom window. One donned a dog’s mask and the others shined their flashlights eerily. Helen screamed herself breathless and voiceless and left a puddle of urine at her feet. Somehow, she made it to sleep, dreaming all night of Dandy.
The next morning, her parents found her sitting on the floor in her room. She had systematically removed the heads of all her dolls and stuffed animals. For some time after that, her sleep was broken regularly by unrelenting night terrors, waking the house with blood-curdling screams. At first, she’d look out the window and Dandy would be swaying, his black bottomless eyes seeming to stare right at her.
Helen, letting out a gasp, sat up abruptly, dabbing perspiration from her forehead.
“Damn,” she hissed.
When someone pressed the doorbell again, she straightened her blouse and stomped to the front door, ready to begin a mini-tirade.
As she flung the door back, she said in a loud voice, “Just what is it now, Mr. Per--”
“Dr. Fleize?” Helen blinked at the disheveled man and noticed Henry standing behind him, smiling tepidly and waving his fingers with that stupid, “well, here we all are again” look. “Sergeant Detective Perry.”
“Yes?” she said numbly, wondering if the strife at the Peregrine’s had escalated further.
“A question or two,” Perry began and then summarized for her benefit and Henry’s the names and ages of the missing children. When he finished, he showed them some photographs, none too clear.
“We’ll keep an eye out,” said Henry.
What’s this “we” stuff, thought Helen. “It doesn’t sound good, if you don’t mind my saying so, Sergeant. I mean they can’t be hiding. They must have gone somewhere.”
“Or were taken somewhere,” Henry said hastily. Helen glanced at him sharply for saying what she was about to add.
Perry had no patience with amateur sleuths. “We’ve got some good people on the case and if the kids don’t turn up real soon, the FBI will be called in.” Helen started to speak, but Perry wanted to end this exchange as soon as possible. “Call us at this number if you see or hear anything,” he concluded, handing a card to each. He nodded and abruptly returned to his car. Helen and Henry stood, almost mesmerized, holding Perry’s card like an admission ticket. Neither would speak aloud what they both thought. It seemed like a quiet peaceful neighborhood.
Five
A Strange Eruption...In Accents Terrible
As dusk drew near, ghosts and goblins, ninja turtles, Simpsons, and toxic crusaders wandered the Earthy Delights Development as lost souls, seeking candies and goodies, everywhere except Center Lane.
Preparing for dinner at the Peregrines, Helen lamented only briefly that she had nothing to bring. Considering those Peregrines, she thought, bringing herself was more than sufficient. By the end of the night, she’d probably dole out hundreds of dollars of “free” therapy, even if on an informal basis.
She peered out of her window and thought it was around dusk. The eerie quiet which had gripped the development continued, although a breeze had stirred up. The sky had darkened considerably in the last several minutes like the onset of a thunderstorm. The unseasonable warmth persisted.
“Think we’re in for rain,” said Henry suddenly through the screen door. Helen jumped a little and then shook her head, wondering when she had last been this jittery.
“We’re in for something,” she said, regaining her composure.
“Pardon?” he asked as she came out. “Oh,” said Henry as if remembering the answer from a game-show quiz. “You mean the Peregrines?”
“That’s O.K., I understand,” she said, comforting, in her mind at least, the bewildered. “From what we’ve seen so far, they’re difficult to speak of, or even acknowledge.”
“Oh no, not really, Dr.--Helen. I just didn’t get you at first. I’ve come to learn to be prepared for anything. Bishop Thomas always told me to be prepared. I’m certainly prepared for anything.” (While in your profession, it sounded to Helen, you are really prepared for very little).
“Anyway,” she continued as they began to walk across the cul-de-sac, “I hope as dinner hosts they’ll be somewhat better behaved.” She eyed Henry from head to foot and smirked with self-assurance, “It must be difficult for someone like yourself to deal with their kind.”
“No doubt about it. Do you know anyone who might be able to help with their particular problem?”
That stung Helen, but she couldn’t tell from Henry’s innocent demeanor whether or not he intended the comment.
Henry had begun to shake his head in a preoccupied manner, “Isn’t that awful about the children?”
“What? Oh yes.” Well, it seemed natural for Henry to react that way, but Helen prided herself on remaining detached in such situations, allowing her to remain cool and objective, able to analyze the possibilities in solving a problem in a crisis. So much suffering and loss and one could only treat the symptoms with therapy and medication. She felt she had trained herself well. For a second, however, she winced, and the missing children reminded her of her dolls when she was little, the ones whose heads she had removed on that horrible night. She hoped everyone would not dwell on this topic tonight. Perhaps, depending on the outcome, she should visit the families and leave behind her card, the one that still read ‘Fleize”. But, no, she had an overstocked case load as it was.
As they began up the long winding stone path which led to the Peregrine’s front door, they could hear thunder. Distant lightning flashed to the west, beyond the corn field illuminating the scarecrow, who dangled high above the corn, condemned to hang and sway--except on certain nights--appointed overseer to the rustling emptiness which filled the rows of stalks. A sudden gust of wind loosened the scarecrow’s head so that it turned in the direction of the Peregrine’s house, perking up, attentive to the arrival of the dinner guests.
“I forgot my cell phone,” said Helen. “That's all right. Normally, I don’t like patients calling me during off hours.”
“I left mine back at the house, said Henry. “No one calls me anyway.”
She held her purse with both hands. “I just hope these people don’t smoke all over us. I just spent a small fortune on this program to quit.”
“That’s good. Good for you,” said Henry, half-concentrating. “Should we press the door bell?”
“You want me to?”
“No, that’s O.K.”
When Henry tensely jabbed at the button, a woman’s piercing scream filled the air. Henry jumped, but Helen grinned, almost prepared for it.
“Relax, it’s a joke. A gag. A recording. Remember that sound system? I’ve been to parties where they’ve done stuff like this.”
“I guess you’re right,” said Henry, almost stammering. “We had our share of pranksters at the seminary,” he added, recalling Terry and Rudy who would have loved the idea.
“I’ll bet you did,” said Helen, growing more annoyed with Henry by the moment.
The front door opened slowly and Marvin Peregrine stood before them. “What do you know? Trick-or-treaters. A doctor and a preacher. So, hello you two,” said and then he stood silently.
“We heard that recording of the woman screaming,” laughed Henry nervously. Right up Terry’s and Rudy’s alley, but he found the joke in poor taste, especially after today’s earlier performance and the fearful anxiety which had gripped the development, although perhaps not on this street. Helen didn’t think the joke was tasteless so much as uninspired.
“What recording?” asked Marvin. “She always screams like that when I try to choke her.” The guests smiled, humoring Marvin, but he remained impassive. Finally, he continued, “We like to kid around.” He made it sound as though he were speaking of an entirely unrelated subject. “Ernie’s run off upstairs somewhere. Probably planning a good one. It’s her turn. Why don’t you go on ahead, and I’ll see if Ernie left us anything for cocktails.”
Attempting to appear decisive, Helen led Henry down a hallway, filled with an impressive combination of paintings, vases, Victorian-style lamps and tables, a restored settee, and other assorted bric-a-brac. The walls were richly finished with dark maple paneling. Somehow, it reminded Helen of the entrance to the Haunted Mansion in Disneyland.
When they rounded a corner, they passed a wide stairway to their right. Helen was the first to glance up and see a pair of legs apparently suspended from the second floor landing. At first, she smiled in a puzzled way, until the image fired off an association with her trail of nightmares, which led all the way back to the tree house. Her senses absorbed conflicting signals as she struggled to remember that this had nothing to with any of her experiences. Instead, this was just a quaint joke, none too original, rather sophomoric, for she recalled similar stunts from her sorority days. On the other hand, she couldn’t imagine the solid Ernestine holding on to the unseen ledge above and hardly swaying. She looked to Henry who had shuffled on down the hall, not even noticing.
Marvin suddenly appeared behind her. “Oh my God! She’s finally done it! She’s finally done it!” He slipped onto the settee, his hands over his heart, staring wild-eyed.
Helen tried not to accept the signal Marvin was sending. “Come on, Marvin, I’ve seen this gag before. I used to--”
“No, you don’t understand,” Marvin wailed. “See the rope? She’s pulled this stunt before, but never with the rope! She’s really done it!”
Henry came back, took one look, and began to mount the stairs. Remembering she was an M.D., Helen, stepped in front of him, trying to take charge. “Help me get her down. I’ll try to resuscitate her and you call an ambulance!” What kind of place is this Earthly Delights anyway?
Squeamishly, Helen went up to peer at the ledge and as she did, a coil of rope dropped and struck her on the head and she screamed. Ernestine had indeed been holding on to the ledge, possessing more strength than one would have believed. She climbed up, turned, and came down. Half-way down, she paused with her hands on her hips and laughed like a loon.
“Pretty good, huh? I’ve been setting Marvin up a long time for that one. I’ve always done it without the rope. I knew the psychopathic darling would notice a little detail like that.” Marvin was just now catching his breath. “It’s easy. I’m only forty-six. I used to be a gymnast when I was younger.”
Marvin wiped the perspiration from his face and stood slowly. He spoke deliberately, almost with respect. “Not bad, Ern, but we’ll weigh the results at the end of the night.”
“What is everyone drinking?” asked Ernestine, ignoring the comment.
“I’d like a vodka martini,” said Helen. “Better make it a double.” Henry had his hand over his mouth, still pondering the imponderable. “Perhaps Henry here would like a club soda or ginger ale.”
“Actually,” said Henry in a quavering voice, “I’d like a scotch.” He felt rising emotion in his throat, more at Helen for her patronizing manner which had begun to get on his nerves than for the mean-spirited jokes of the Peregrines.
“Ern,” said Marvin, regaining some of his earlier glibness, “you’ve pulled down a man of God. With water? Soda, Reverend?”
“Ice, please, and it’s Father, but call me Henry.”
“And call me Helen, not doctor,” said Helen.
“What makes you think we were going to call you anything but your names?” Marvin sounded off in an offended tone.
“We’ll have a short cocktail hour,” said Ernestine, “since dinner’s almost ready.”
“What are we having?” asked Helen.
“What else?” replied Marvin. “Pork chops. Pork chops with my mystery stuffing. And corn. Lots of corn. You’ll be sick of corn before the night’s through. Mark my words.”
Ernestine bustled off to the kitchen toward the back of the house, while Marvin led the guests to a sitting room with a wet bar, where he prepared the drinks and checked his watch. The room contained more of the same odds and ends found in the hallway with one notable exception: there were literally dozens of table picture frames, some with fuzzy black and white snapshots, others with studio-quality color prints. All the photographs were of children.
“That must be some large family,” said Helen, seating herself with her drink at the dining table. “I hesitate to say grandchildren. Nieces? Nephews? Children of your own?” Helen felt she was touching on a delicate subject, but it was too late to stop.
Ernestine hovered near her chair, waving her half-filled drink in a pensive manner. “Children?” she said distantly, barely concealing emotion. For half a second she glared at Marvin, who handed Henry a scotch.
“Never had kids,” said Marvin. “Never will.”
“Then what were all those--”
Henry unexpectedly jumped in. “You mean you couldn’t have children?” Ernestine looked away. “I know. Were those children who had been dear to you, possibly foster children?” Helen hoped this to be the answer.
Marvin ignored the second part of Henry’s comment. “Ernie ruined herself when she was young,” he said matter-of-factly. Everyone froze for a few moments and then Helen and Henry laughed.
“What’s so damn funny?” said Ernestine.
“Well,” said Henry.
“We thought you guys were funning around again,” said Helen, believing that there had been more than a little truth to what Marvin said.
Ernestine put her drink down and placed her hands on her hips. “And who ruined me?” she said, almost baring her teeth, before stomping off to the kitchen. “Dinner’s ready.”
As Marvin opened the wine and filled the glasses, Helen’s fertile imagination began to run wild. She half-expected to find the remains of all those children in the photos in the coal bin in the basement, not to mention the bodies of the newest victims. She glanced uneasily at Henry, who seemed to understand her anxiety.
Helen had to ask the next logical question, to test the emotional reaction of their hosts if nothing else. “Isn’t that awful about the neighborhood children?”
Marvin, who had been staring at his ring, slowly looked up and from his expression, the guests could tell it was not a subject he wished to discuss. He continued to study his hands, his fingers, and Helen thought he was checking his fingernails for signs of some unwholesome evidence that he sought to conceal.
Ernestine appeared with a tray and Marvin began to serve the food as Ernestine returned to the kitchen for side dishes and condiments, and the salads. Henry offered to say grace, but Marvin perked up and said he’d do it.
“For what we are about to receive,” he paused looking at Ernestine, “we are grateful.”
“Whatsamatter?” said Ernestine, who had poured herself another drink and had placed it next to her filled wine glass. “Is Marvin starvin’? What is Marvin starvin’ for?” she taunted.
“These pork chops are quite good,” said Helen, genuinely impressed.
“Sure,” said Ernestine, lightening up, “we were just kidding before--about the trots.”
“Yeah,” said Marvin, “we were kidding.” He snorted a laugh as he gulped his wine.
Everyone continued eating in silence, ingesting steaming mounds of creamed corn. Marvin got up several times to fill everyone’s wine glass. After dinner, he served brandy and offered Henry a cigar, which he accepted reluctantly. Ernestine got up, left the room briefly, and returned with a cigarette.
“I only smoke after meals,” she said, lighting up.
Helen, mellow, misgivings having receded, full of vodka, pork, corn, wine, and brandy leaned forward. “Could I trouble you for one?”
“No trouble at all,” said Ernestine getting up again.
“Helen,” said Henry, puffing on his cigar, “what about your program?”
“Few people quit cold turkey,” she replied, glaring at the minister. She thought it must be the meal and drink, but now she felt more at ease with the Peregrines and annoyed again with Henry.
Ernestine handed Helen a cigarette and Marvin jumped up and gave her a light with an gold lighter. She noted the inscription, “To Marv, Love E.”.
“How lovely,” she said, feeling more relaxed than she had all day. Perhaps once you got to know these people, they’d seem practically normal. After all, she seemed to be adjusting easier than Henry. The cloud of cigar smoke which lingered about him provided a good metaphor for his state of bewilderment. Helen stifled a giggle when she thought of him at seminary: The Brothers of Perpetual Confusion.
“We’ll save dessert and coffee for later,” said Ernestine.
“Dessert will definitely be later,” said Marvin, who now appeared deep in thought, staring at the bones from his pork chops. Finally, roused from contemplation, he leaned back in his chair and waved his cigar like some executive in a board meeting. He glanced peremptorily at Henry.
“The clergy, I presume, must take a dim view of suicide.”
Henry glanced at Helen and Ernestine, but all he could muster was, “Well....”
“What are you talking about, Marvin?” asked Ernestine, raising her voice.
“I’m recalling that gag of yours--hanging yourself from the stairs.”
“Where do you get suicide? It could have been murder.”
“By me?” Marvin shook his head. “You’re too athletic. You could resist.”
Ernestine beamed. “You’re damn right I could have resisted. Like I said before,” she addressed the guests, “I was a gymnast.”
“Ernie always liked to wrap her thighs around things.”
“Don’t start up,” Ernestine countered. “Maybe Doctor Helen has something to say on the subject.”
“The subject?” Helen didn’t want to become more than a spectator in this game of character assassination, which the Peregrines seemed to have perfected to an art form.
“Suicide.”
Helen felt as if she were being called to the podium to deliver a public lecture. “Suicide is most often a cry for help. Victims frequently don’t want to die; they want attention. Others want to kill themselves, but do so in a flamboyant manner to make those left behind feel guilt for driving them to take their own lives. And then there is a small number who really do wish to succeed without being discovered.”
“Sounds familiar,” said Ernestine, looking at her fingernails in a bored way. “I think I read all that in the National Enquirer.”
“Yeah,” said Marvin, “There was somebody on “The Tonight Show” who said something like that.”
“People Magazine ran a piece on that not too long ago.”
“Merv Griffin.”
“Dick Cavett.”
Helen was about to say something about the nature of those sources as authorities on the subject when Henry cleared his throat.
“You know,” he began as he emptied his brandy glass, “I find it difficult to take much of that seriously when, if you’ll pardon me Helen, it comes from a profession that has the highest suicide rates amongst its practitioners.” As soon as the words escaped, Henry had no idea why he’d said them.
“So,” said Marvin, assuming the role of mediator, “what is the church’s position?”
“Well, the church doesn’t try to rationalize it away.”
“Henry,” said Helen, still smarting ,”you’re evading the question.” Why had he turned on her like that?
“Look,” said Ernestine, “let’s be fair. Maybe we should examine a high incidence rate of something with members of the clergy. Let’s see, what would that be?”
“How about celibacy?” Helen shot out.
“Apples and oranges,” said Henry. “Besides, I’m not Catholic, so I am certainly not celibate, that is would not be celibate, could not be celibate if I got married.”
Marvin leaned forward. “But premarital sex is out,” he said.
“Naturally,” said Henry as the brandy glowed warmly within making him feel as if he were in control. “The church doesn’t condone that for anyone.”
“What about post-marital sex?”
“I beg your pardon,” said Henry, suddenly feeling the control slipping.
“Come on Marvin,” said Ernestine, “you’re being obtuse. That could mean after marriage, or after divorce.”
Marvin shrugged.
“Divorce,” repeated Henry, as if being enticed into a street fight, “what does your learned profession have to say about that?”
“Father, I’m surprised at you.” Helen tried to stay calm, hardly expecting such an assault from the meek Henry. She had to maintain her professional detachment, objectivity. “You’re not only attacking my profession, but me personally as well.” She must have mentioned her husband, but she couldn’t recall doing so. “You’re obviously suffering from some kind of repressed hostility. We’ll have to discuss your childhood some time.”
“Sure,” said Ernestine, almost unnoticed, “Potty training can be very revealing.”
“Doctor,” said Henry, rising angrily and none too steadily, “your condescending smugness is insufferable!”
“And,” said Helen, grasping her wine glass by the stem, “you are a milk toast, butter wouldn’t melt in the mouth, purveyor of guilt, shell of a man who’d know what it really means to live if you’d just once get laid!”
“I have gotten laid!” Henry lied. “Before I joined the ministry! You psychoanalytic fake!”
“Fake? You fire and brimstone boob!”
“Psychobabbler!”
“Hopeless unvirile drone!”
“Babylonian trinket!”
Helen flung what remained of her wine in Henry’s face. Father Pauley promptly seated himself.
“An unholy baptism,” shouted Marvin.
“Blessed are the boors,” said Ernestine.
“Blessed are the piqued,” said Marvin.
No one moved or spoke for a few seconds. Marvin and Ernestine looked at each other and then stood together and applauded. Both Henry and Helen had turned pale and broke out in cold sweats.
“I don’t feel well,” said Helen.
“Neither do I,” said Henry.
“Maybe that’s good,” said Marvin, “because you both looked like you were ready to knock the stuffing out of each other.”
“The mystery stuffing,” added Ernestine.
Six
More Mystery Stuffing
Marvin ushered Henry to the second floor bathroom.
“Go on, Henry, puke your guts out. You’ll feel better. Then we can have a man to man talk.” Marvin had a twinkle in his eye.
Henry knelt by the toilet, with Marvin’s hand on his head. He hadn’t felt this sick since that night in the shed. He managed to keep it down then, but there was no holding back now: the years of indecision and lack of assertiveness, the doubts which spanned all the way back to the seminary and beyond. All of it seemed to come forth now and make him indeed feel like a shell, just as Helen had said.
“You know, Henry,” began Marvin in a fatherly tone, sounding like the Bishop, “there are always alternate ways of looking at things. Give Helen some credit. She’s right about the guilt thing. I can’t think of anything more responsible for guilt than religion.”
“Yes,” Henry managed to rasp out, “when it’s been misapplied. Religion should be identified with love instead.”
“Well, are you serving as the best example?”
“That’s what Bishop Thomas said to me,” he said nodding his head. Right now, he almost hated the Bishop, for treating him like a child.
“Of course he did. Now think a minute. Just because Helen doesn’t have all the answers is no reason to jump down her throat. God is represented by men and men are fallible. In fact, your intolerance borders on the inquisitional.”
Henry stared in disbelief for a moment, and then lowered his head in resignation.
“Give Helen some space to be valid. That’s it. Don’t you see. Your intolerance invalidates her. God doesn’t like intolerance, Henry. He strikes us down for it. There are hidden ways of the mind we can’t fathom. That’s all Helen is trying to do. Your professions aren’t so very different. You’ve got to work together.”
“Together,” Henry repeated as Marvin winked.
As Marvin helped Henry to his feet, he checked his watch.
“Now it’s time to play a game.”
“Game?” asked Henry, fighting back the empty dizziness.
“Time to have some fun,” said Marvin, undeterred.
“Well, all right,” Henry relented, knowing he’d cave in again.
Marvin peeked out from behind the shade of the bathroom window which faced the back of the house. He stared into the formless dark, sensing the presence in the field.
“Soon,” he said. “Soon.”
Off in the center of the field, the right arm of the scarecrow flopped about in the wind, moving steadily back and forth, beckoning all the occupants of Center Lane to join him.
Ernestine shouted from downstairs, “Marvin!”
“We’re coming,” he replied as he stared out the window.
Suddenly he turned and clambered down the stairs, calling to Henry who followed hesitantly, “Come on, I’ll help you violate--I mean validate Helen!”
A few minutes before, Ernestine had been helping Helen from the first floor bathroom. “Come on, honey, don’t cry. It’ll be all right.”
Helen sniffed. “But I’m not supposed to fly off the handle like that. I don’t know what possessed me.”
“Well,” Ernestine began, calmly and deliberately, “and I think you’ll agree, we too often stress the rational and the analytic in modern living and forget we have a spiritual side. It’s a question of respect for other people. We do have a spiritual side, don’t we? There are more things in heaven and earth--”
“Than are dreamt of in your psychology,” concluded Marvin. All four converged in the hallway where Ernestine had tried to “hang” herself. “Come on you kids,” said Marvin, “it’s time to make up. And then we’re going to play a game.”
“What do you mean ‘game’?” asked Ernestine.
“Look,” said Marvin, “you had your fun when the evening started. They’ve just had theirs. When do I get mine?”
Ernestine defiantly placed both hands on her hips, “You’ll get it when you get it.”
“You’re damn right. Anyway,” said Marvin, turning to his guests, “we all have to be neighbors. Let’s bury the hatchet and get off this serious business.”
“I suppose you’re right,” said Helen, pale and weak. “It was very unprofessional to shoot my mouth off like that.”
“No more than me,” said Henry. “I don’t know what came over me.”
Helen and Henry sheepishly moved closer and each extended a limp hand. It was a tepid warm handshake.
“Do you call that making up?” shouted Marvin. “Let’s see some feeling.”
“A nice kiss,” added Ernestine.
They embraced coolly and pecked each other on the cheek. Before they moved away, Marvin again intervened.
“Come on, show that you both mean it. You know--more feeling.”
They stood close and kissed longer and embraced more firmly while Marvin and Ernestine alternately intoned.
“A nice kiss,” said Ernestine.
“A nice sloppy wet kiss,” said Marvin.
“A nice lip-sucking kiss.”
“A nice tongue-probing kiss.”
“A nice all-round panting mouth wide open do me hard kiss,” concluded Ernestine.
“All right,” said Marvin, “that’s enough you horny devils. God, you’re a couple of animals.”
“Yes,” said Ernestine, “let’s not forget who you are.”
Suddenly, Helen and Henry parted as if discovered in some promiscuous tryst.
“Let’s adjourn to the sitting room,” said Marvin with an affected air. “And dear Ernie will put on some coffee.”
“You put on the coffee,” said Ernestine, almost with a snarl.
“Now, gang, it’s time for fun,” said Marvin, rubbing his hands as if trying to release a genie from a magic lamp. “The land on which the Earthly Delights Development is built has an interesting history, you know.” Ernestine rolled her eyes. “Goes all the way back to settlers and Indians. A violent history. Settlers killed a scouting party of Indians, hunters actually. Then the whole tribe came down on the settlers. The remains of those who died here on both sides are buried right beneath us.” Marvin looked at his feet. “Finally, someone built a farm here. Used to be much larger of course. The farmer went mad, killed his family. Around the turn of the century, the farm passed to other relatives who sold off part of the land to cover debts. A nephew or somebody like that committed suicide when the farm went belly up during the Depression. Another relative stepped in and sold off more land to keep the farm going. An orphanage was built on the sold off land and twenty years later a fire destroyed it--and all its occupants.”
Helen, who had been half-listening, snapped to attention. Henry shook his head sorrowfully.
“Forty children and the staff perished in the blaze,” Marvin continued. Ernestine got up and poured herself another drink. “So a cemetery was built here. Actually called Earthly Delights. To add local residents to the Indians, settlers, and orphans. So you see,” he paused for sober reflection, “it’s getting kind of crowded down there! Hah!”
“Really, Marvin,” said Ernestine. “Is that the best you can do?”
“It’s a warm-up exercise, Ern.”
“Then, none of that is true?” asked Helen.
“Actually, most if not all of it is true. The icing on the cake is the developers who came in and bought up the land. Didn’t clear the graves out you understand. Strange history to that, too. The owner of the cemetery fell down some stairs and broke his neck the day the sale of land was signed, sealed, and delivered. Four years later, when the last house was finished, the developer suffered a massive stroke.”
“It’s as if they were punished for their greed and insensitivity,” ventured Henry.
“What’s next?” Ernestine sneered. “Graves will open and yield their dead?”
Helen chuckled uneasily.
“Now look, Ernie pooh, I’ve been good and patient since you nearly scared the living crap out of me before supper.”
“All right,” said Ernestine, “go ahead and get it over with. You’re boring these poor folks to tears.”
“I wouldn’t exactly describe that story as boring,” said Henry.
Helen was still mulling over the forty children. She pictured all their faces, lined up like so many portraits in a gallery.
“O.K.,” said Ernestine. “I warned you folks he’s going to try to get back at me.”
Both Helen and Henry wanted to go home, but neither wanted to offend their obliging if eccentrically menacing host.
Marvin took the floor with his hands behind his back. “I’d like to do the handcuffs.”
“The handcuffs?” Ernestine whined, “That’s as old as the hills.”
“I don’t think I know it,” said Henry, thinking back to the seminary, trying to remember if his tormentors ever did anything with handcuffs.
“No, I don’t know it either,” said Helen, almost breaking into a smile, remembering how her husband used to like--
“Oh, it’s silly,” said Ernestine. “Marvin handcuffs the guests together and tries to scare everyone. Says weird things to make them nervous and think that maybe he’s some kind of nut who’s gone off the deep end. The challenge is supposed to be knowing whether he is or not.”
“I wouldn’t say it’s silly,” said Henry. “It sounds like one of those murder mysteries which are enacted at a weekend resort or something, and the guests participate in the investigation.”
“A vicarious thrill,” added Helen. “There are even psychological benefits from this kind of recreation, but Ernestine has kind of let the cat out of the bag since she told us how it turns out.”
“There can always be an unexpected twist,” said Marvin.
“Oh come on,” said Helen, compelled to side with Marvin, somehow feeling it precautionary to do so.
“Really, Marvin, it’s not very creative,” said Ernestine, somewhat relenting. Marvin stepped into an adjacent room promptly returned with two sets of handcuffs. “What do you need with two sets of those?”
“Like I said, a different twist, Ernie. I’d like you to participate.”
“I will not. It’s for the guests.”
“Hanging yourself was for everyone.”
“He’s got you there,” Helen piped out. “Come on, be a sport.”
“It’ll be more fun,” said Henry.
Marvin handcuffed Helen to Ernestine’s right wrist and Henry to her left wrist. Helen and Henry giggled, but Ernestine sighed impatiently. Marvin again disappeared for a minute. The others shuffled along to a long sofa and sat down, but not before twisting a wrist, stepping on an instep.
“That’s it,” Marvin sang out, “make yourselves comfortable.”
“Suppose he gets in the car and drives off?” asked Henry.
“He’ll be more imaginative than that,” said Helen.
“And if that’s all he comes up with,” said Ernestine, “it’s no problem. He’s done this before at parties. I know where there’s a spare key.”
Marvin entered the room with a small suitcase which he placed on a folding table, right in front of his “prisoners”. He opened the suitcase so the others could not view its contents. Calmly and systematically, even humming, he set out a formidable assortment of hunting knives, hatchets, and a butcher’s knife. Next, he produced a thirty-eight caliber pistol and, finally, three large heavy-duty flashlights.
Ernestine turned to her fellow captives and smiled. “This is the part where he says, ‘how do you know I’m just trying to scare you?’.”
“Those knives look real sharp,” said Henry.
“Is that a real gun?” asked Helen.
Marvin ignored them and looked directly at Ernestine. “You may think this is a dull gag having seen it before but, for the uninitiated, it’ll make the palms sweat. It’s more unsettling than, say, wearing blindfolds and feeling for bananas in the toilet.”
“In fact,” said Henry, now tight-lipped, “if you hadn’t tipped us off, it could be pretty terrifying right about now.”
“So,” said Marvin, “if it’s not for real, why am I still going on with it? Did I mention the name of the family that owned the farm was Peregrine?”
Helen and Henry looked at one another.
“What did I tell you?” said Ernestine.
No one spoke for a few moments.
“What are you gonna do, Marvin? Kill us? What a bore.”
“Right here? Now? That would be a bore.”
“Oh, you’re gonna cut our throats in five minutes, is that it?” said Ernestine, growing less sure of herself.
“Ten from when I start counting.” Marvin removed a kitchen timer from the suitcase.
“That’s rich,” said Ernestine.
“Did Ernestine mention that I’ve been under observation? That I almost beat a man to death over a parking space?”
Helen and Henry turned to Ernestine, their eyes begging for her to dismiss the story, but she looked away, flustered.
“Yes it’s true,” she admitted, “but the medication seemed to be helping.”
“I stopped taking it a month ago.”
“But the knives are always fake and there are never any bullets, so I don’t believe a bit of this bullshit, Marvin.”
Marvin stroked his chin deliberately and then looked up. “Henry, do you like cheese?”
“Cheese,” repeated Henry, confused. “Why, sure,” he nodded.
“Well, here.” Marvin reached into his pocket and tossed a small plastic bag at Henry.
“No thanks,” he said as it landed in his lap.
“O.K. Before you give it back, is it soft and smooth?”
Henry tested it. “No it’s as hard as a rock. It must be aged.”
“Yes, now give it back.” Henry tossed it back with his free hand.
Marvin removed it from the bag and sliced through it with one of the hunting knives as though it were warm butter.
“Shall I show you the bullets in the revolver?”
Helen squirmed, feeling the knots of tension in her stomach turn to ice.
“O.K.,” said Henry, “the fun is going out of this. I give up. Let us out. You win.”
“It is getting a bit tense,” said Helen, hardly able to keep from shivering.
“A bit ugly, I’d say,” said Ernestine. “Get us out of here. I need a drink.”
All started to rise when Marvin grasped one of the hunting knives by the blade and threw it at the wall. It entered firmly and held rigidly.
“All of you sit the fuck down!”
Everyone complied, but Ernestine launched into a tirade. “I’m not convinced, you windbag! You king of sleaze and scum! Tasteless swine--”
“Shut up you fat ugly bitch!” Marvin’s veins stood out on his neck and his face turned pink as he trembled with rage. “You’ll all get a fighting chance.”
Henry tried to clear his throat. “I think the joke’s gone far--”
“I said shut up, preacher,” Marvin said in a low, almost growling tone.
“Why us?” pleaded Helen, lowering her face into her right hand, trying to stifle a sob.
“Why not?” Marvin glared at his guests. “Just who do you people think you are?”
Henry tried to clasp his hands, but Ernestine tugged back when he moved his right arm. “Let’s just stop this,” he said. “Just tell me--us what you want.”
“You’ll be given a fighting chance,” said Marvin, ignoring the appeal. “I’m going to set the timer for ten minutes. You three may take these two flashlights here, since Helen and Henry each have a free hand. You, Ern, will be at the mercy of their guiding light.” Marvin stroked his chin pensively and continued with instructions. “You will then proceed in an orderly fashion to the field. You all know the field, right? Where our nightmares live forever. We’re all going to play in the field. Among the corn stalks.”
Ernestine ventured, “What if we don’t--”
“Then I’ll kill you all right away. I’ll follow when the timer rings, unless I decide to cheat and follow early. If you manage to elude me until dawn, I will spare you.”
Ernestine looked to her right and her left. “I still don’t believe you.”
“All right. Fair enough. I think all of you would be adequately convinced if I were to shed my own blood. After all, only a madman would do that. Right?”
No one answered. Marvin picked up the meat cleaver, moved behind the open suitcase, placed his left hand flat on the table, out of sight, and brought the knife down swiftly. There was a red spray. Marvin winced as though he had nicked himself shaving. With a clenched left fist, blood running down his hand, he moved away from the suitcase, and held aloft something that resembled part of a pinky, all slickly red and pulpy. He then set it down and wrapped a small towel around his left hand. After taking a deep breath, he set the timer.
Simultaneously, Helen and Henry stood and attempted to bolt in opposite directions, yanking Ernestine’s arms. She recoiled, almost pulling the others down with her.
“My God,” she cried out with genuine terror, “he’s never done anything this crazy. I’m sure he means it. Follow me! We’ll hide in the field. It’s big. He’ll never find us!”
They were a jumbled mass of bodies, attempting to coordinate their movements into a unified purpose. They stumbled, hopped, clinked their cuffs, and squeezed through a doorway to the garage.
Henry wheezed, “What are you taking us in here for? We’ve got to get outside.”
Ernestine grabbed a handful of his shirt and hissed in his face. “The spare key is here. We can get loose and get out of here.”
There was a box on top of a small workbench. When they paused, Helen stumbled and skinned her knee. Henry wanted out of the dark confining garage and Helen began to worry about her wrist, her hand, her entire arm, shackled to Ernestine. Ernestine scrambled to the box and flung it open and howled like a cornered animal.
“It’s not here! I always kept it here!”
Directly above the workbench was a window to the kitchen. A light flashed on. They all looked up and saw Marvin, sneering, holding the timer in his right hand and a small key on a chain dangling from his bloodied hand.
All three screamed and began to flee, Ernestine slamming open the garage side door so hard that its glass panes flew out. As their sudden rapid movements caused cuts and scrapes, Helen began to sob. They knocked over a chaise lounge and barbecue grill.
“Turn on the flashlights, you stupid bastards!” cried Ernestine.
They did so, but bright floodlights mounted on the sundeck came on, swiftly followed by the opening from ‘Night on Bald Mountain’. As they neared the perimeter of the corn field, Henry grazed a bug zapper which hung on a tree, sending an array of purple sparks into the damp night. Just as they burst into the field, a stalk slapped Henry in the face and knocked off his glasses.
“I can’t see,” he shouted.
“What’s the difference?” said Ernestine. “Just point the flashlight in front of you. The ten minutes might save us. If we can get deep enough into the corn, we might be safe till morning. Oh God, I hope we can manage until then. I didn’t know how bad off Marvin really was.”
As chilly gusts of wind whistled through the stalks, leaves of corn rustled like paper streamers at an outdoor party.
The trio straddled the wooden fence momentarily before falling over, their limbs tangled and entwined. Ernestine got to her feet first, yanking the cuffed wrists of her fellow captives. She stared straight ahead into a kind of opening where the stalks had been pushed back and the crisp dry leaves underfoot beaten down. Instantly she knew someone had taken this path before them. Could Marvin be in there already?
“Point those goddam flashlights in front of us!” she hissed.
The others whimpered and groaned and struggled to their feet, but they did exactly as they were told. Ernestine jogged as far ahead as she could extend the arms of Helen and Henry and so they all took on the appearance of three strange beasts in a kind of harness, led by one slightly more determined and clear-sighted. As the leaves of the stalks slapped them from head to foot, they managed to better harmonize their movements, becoming a twelve-limbed animal winding and slouching its way through the corn field, fueled only by instinct. Its chains of bondage clinked like porch chimes swaying in the balmy breezes of a midsummer’s eve.
Unaccustomed to such physical exertion, Helen and Henry quickly tired, but Ernestine continued to pull and urge them on.
“Come on, you...or would you rather die? Hold those flashlights up. Come on!”
“How big is this field?” Henry wheezed.
“No one knows,” Ernestine shot back, “and what does it matter anyway? We’ll go as far as we have to.”
“Isn’t there another way?” Helen wept, “why didn’t we head for the street? To another street with houses and people, someone who would have helped us.”
“Shut up you sniveling bitch! Who would have helped? People like you? You would have locked your doors, turned off the lights, and hid in the basement. Now keep moving!”
Henry thought about this accusation and what he might have done if three handcuffed and hysterical people suddenly pounded on his front door, claiming to be hunted by a psychopathic killer.
“We’ll take a rest in a little while,” said Ernestine, easing up. “Then, we’re going to move on. We’ve got to keep moving. That’s the best way. If we stop, he’ll find us.”
They continued on, deeper, somehow with more conviction, through a wide lane, almost a well-traveled path. Helen was the first to notice the green glow-in-the-dark mask lying in a crumpled heap. Panic momentarily seared her insides, but she quickly recalled that it was indeed Halloween. What better place for ghouls and goblins than this field at night? She glanced back at the mask as they passed, thinking it small enough to belong to a child. She then wondered if the missing children had preceded them. Before long there was more. Henry spotted a spilled shopping bag of candy, some of which appeared to have been eaten or picked at. Even in the faint light, Henry couldn’t help but notice the ants and worms and white bloated maggoty things crawling all through the chocolate and marshmallow. Ernestine told them to step over a puddle of green ooze, the kind which could be squeezed from tubes and bottles.
“It’s almost like a trail has been left for us,” said Helen half-aloud.
Helen pulled up hard on her handcuffs when she heard a dog bark, a bark which sounded too familiar for comfort.
“It’s only a dog,” said Ernestine.
“I think I heard laughing,” said Henry, his voice cracking.
“You’re both so tired you’re having delusions,” said Ernestine. “We can take a rest--for a little while.”
Helen looked off to her left. “There’s a little lean-to or part of a storage shed over there.”
Ernestine stopped and drew almost nose to nose with Helen. “You’re not really that stupid are you?” Helen had no idea what she meant. Just as suddenly, she turned on Henry, who hadn’t a clue as to the latest bone of contention.
“Any kind of makeshift shelter like that would be the first place Marvin would look.” Helen and Henry looked at one another, not disagreeing, but hardly knowing what to do instead. “Here’s the deal. Follow me.”
With absolutely no warning, Ernestine plunged into a thick section of corn stalks, but not before sliding down a slight incline and into a muddy irrigation ditch, of course dragging the others with her.
“If we’re going to stop,” she began, wiping a clod of dirt from her brow, “then it must be somewhere which doesn’t stand out. Now, turn off the flashlights and let’s try to be still and listen.”
Helen drew the perverse conclusion that Ernestine approached their dilemma like a seasoned guerilla fighter. Henry groaned, but he put out his light.
“What’s your problem, Rev.?” asked Ernestine.
“It’s just the dark is all. I was never fond of it. An unnatural fear going back to my school days.”
“Not so unnatural,” Ernestine whispered, not totally unsympathetic. “But just where do you think spiritual needs are greatest?” Henry blinked at her without comprehension. “Why, in darkness, of course.” She raised her hands and fanned them out, of course raising one each of Helen and Henry in the process, smiling like some witch-goddess of the night as the chains of the cuffs tinkled in the dead stillness which surrounded them. “Not to mention the darkness of the subconscious,” she added turning to Helen.
Helen felt they were being taunted again like back at the house. “Are you in on this?” she ventured.
“Yes and no,” she teased. “Not this part,” she quickly added. “It would be an elaborate hoax. I almost wish we had thought of it, but no. Marvin is supremely whacked out. I really thought the medication could control the violent streak.” She looked away. “I was wrong. Helen, if we get out of this, would you treat him?”
This caught Helen off guard. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Uh-huh, well, just think about it. We’ve got to try to survive. That’s our first priority.”
Helen looked over at Henry and patted him with her free hand. “It’s O.K. about the dark. It really is. A really common phobia. We all have them.” The dog barked again and she started. “With me it’s pets, dogs specifically. I had a pet dog as a young child and it died in a freak accident.”
Henry took her hand in his. “I suppose everyone has their own special, private pain. How about you, Ernestine?”
“Oh, are we in sharing mode now?” she scoffed.
“Come on,” said Helen. “Tell us.”
“My memories of frightening experiences are unspeakable. Probably the worst was my honeymoon night with Marvin.” She stared, distantly, straight in front of her.
Helen and Henry nodded at the joke, but behind her eyes they could both see the pain of remembrance burning like a cold fire.
When a breeze stirred up, rustling the leaves and bending the stalks, Ernestine peered up over the edge of the ditch.
“There’s lights up that way,” she said. The others tensed. “They’re not moving. Could be the farmhouse. Can’t really tell how far it is.”
“Should we try for it?” asked Henry.
“The farmer, he’ll probably have a gun, a rifle,” said Helen. “We always kept them on the farm growing up.”
“And what good will that do?”
“He can protect us, get help--”
“You think I want to see Marvin splattered with a twelve-gauge?”
“Well, no, of course not,” said Henry.
Helen looked away. She just wanted out of this and she almost hated herself for not considering her professional obligations toward someone so deeply disturbed as Marvin.
They made their way, more slowly now, more or less “together”, without Ernestine pulling them along, their collective gazes fixed on hopeful lights in the distance. The path to the farmhouse was unobstructed, except for a post, maybe ten feet high.
“What’s that?” said Henry.
“A scarecrow pole?” wondered Helen.
“Looks like he got away,” said Ernestine. “Come on now.”
They emerged from the field and saw the house rising up on a long sloping hill: an ordinary white clapboard house with a wide porch complete with swing. There seemed to be a light on in every window of its three stories. They clumped onto the porch, all brightly lit, moths and gnats buzzing about in a frenzy. Ernestine rapped on the screen door.
“Hello in there. We’re in trouble. Could you help us?” Ernestine spoke in an even and untroubled voice.
“I know it’s late,” said Henry, “but we need help.”
“There’s someone trying to kill us!” cried Helen, rattling the screen door in its frame. “From the other side of the field!”
“Will you both pipe down?” said Ernestine, angrily tugging on the handcuffs. “Is there anyone home?”
“This is nuts,” said Helen. “It’s the middle of the night. This makes no sense.”
“Let’s go in,” said Ernestine. She tried the door and found it unlocked.
“We can’t do that,” said Henry.
“And would you rather stay out here?”
“Ernestine’s right,” said Helen. “There must be a phone. We can call for help even if no one’s here.”
The house felt familiar to Helen and Henry. After all, Helen had grown up on a farm and Henry had spent a few summers with an uncle on one. Old fashioned lamps with lace and tassels on side tables, resting on hand-sewn doilies. Coarse woven area rugs. A rocking chair with hand-carvings. A newspaper on a sofa. A pipe rack on a fireplace mantle. A chandelier in the main hall next to a wide staircase. A whiff of baked pies, or biscuits from the kitchen. Piles of magazines, an almanac, a basket of yarn and knitting on a hall table--where the phone should be.
“Is anyone fucking here?!” howled Ernestine, almost beyond desperation. Everyone waited for some response, but all they heard was the wind and the swaying porch lamp which creaked.
“Maybe they keep the phone in the kitchen.”
Helen now took the lead and, as they hunched together and passed through a narrow hallway, she paused ever so slightly to notice all the framed photographs hanging on the wall, many of children, one of a large brick building, some kind of institution, like a small hospital or school. Old, faded photographs. Like the ones in the Peregrines’ house. She tugged on Ernestine’s handcuff and glared at her, but Ernestine shrugged her shoulders. Closer inspection revealed even older pictures. One appeared to be from the Depression era of men standing in a field, two shaking hands, one holding a sign posted in the ground. Still, the oldest, barely recognizable with torn corners and scratches, appeared to be from the late 1800s, with men and women and horses and wagons and, possibly an Indian or two.
“What are you looking at?” said Ernestine. “There’s no time for that.”
“Come on,” said Henry gently. “We’ve got to find a phone.”
“I wouldn’t pass up a shotgun, either,” said Helen in an uneven voice.
Helen felt herself break out in a cold sweat, feeling light-headed now from fatigue, but mostly pure unadulterated fear. She saw scrapbooks stacked on a table and when she bent down and opened some of their covers, she saw many yellowed newspaper clippings. She refused to examine these further, knowing with hardly a doubt they would chronicle many of the horror stories offered by Marvin.
She turned to Henry. “This is where Marvin got all those stories. These people, these Peregrines have something to do with this house, this farm, and all that history.”
“You’re overreacting,” said Ernestine none too certainly.
“Remember?” said Henry. “Marvin said an ancestor had been one of the owners of this land.”
“They’re still setting us up,” said Helen.
“You’ve got to be kidding,”said Ernestine. “You think I’d put myself through this?”
“Where’s the goddam phone?” said Helen through clenched teeth.
“How do I know? I’ve never been here before.”
Helen ignored this. “You’ll go where Henry and I say. Now let’s get to the kitchen.” Her eyes lingered on the scrapbooks, but they continued on, she and Henry now taking the lead.
They stood in the doorway to the kitchen. The appliances were old, but tidy. A mixing bowl with some kind of concoction lay on a table dusted with flour in the center of the room. Helen, shuffling along, led the others to the stove.
“It’s still warm. Someone’s been around.”
“I don’t see a phone in here,” said Henry.
“Then we’ll try upstairs.”
Ernestine spoke up. “Maybe we should forget that. Maybe we should go to the barn. Look for power tools to cut these cuffs. Maybe there’s a gun there.”
Helen and Henry wondered for a moment and then someone knocked on the screen door at far end of the kitchen. They saw a figure standing back from the door just out of the light, a black shadowy form.
“It’s not Marvin?” said Helen haltingly.
“Marvin wouldn’t knock,” said Ernestine. “Mister, is this your place? We’re in trouble.”
“Sorry for trespassing,” Henry added pointlessly, but at the same time wondering why the owner would knock.
“Please help us,” begged Helen. They waited for some reaction, but none was forthcoming. “Perhaps we’ve frightened you, but someone has been chasing us...with a meat cleaver. I know it sounds wild--”
The door swung open and the figure entered and addressed them in a low growling raspy voice.
“You mean like this?” asked the figure, holding up a kitchen knife.
Their senses froze when they realized that not only was it too tall for Marvin, but too tall for any normal human being, even a professional basketball center. And then this elaborate scarecrow costume. Could it be the farmer with a very eccentric sense of humor--on stilts--or could it be a psychopath, perhaps the one who snatched the four children, who liked to wear absurd costumes, ones with a theme of terror, of course. Scarecrows were not generally thought of as frightening--unless you happened to be a crow.
Its mouth was a slit, almost a solid black line which didn’t move when it spoke, like a ventriloquist. Ragged tufts of straw protruded from every joint, and even from under the old hat perched on top of its head, over which was some kind of burlap covering--not exactly a mask.
It spoke again. “I was cooling these off outside. Would you like one?” It held a baking pan in its gloved hand.
“What are they?”
“Corn muffins of course.”
“Who are you?” asked Helen.
“Well, I’m supposed to scare off the crows, but I know who my real enemies are.”
“And who are they?” The macabre humor of psychoanalyzing a walking straw man was not lost on Helen, at least not until she received a deliberate reply.
“People,” it said. “People with fears, people with smug attitudes, people who don’t know how to treat each other. How are you Mrs. Peregrine? Sure you wouldn’t like one?” The scarecrow looked down at the muffin pan and one of his button eyes fell, bouncing off the edge of the pan before it clattered to the floor. “Oh well, time for the main course.” He set the pan down.
“Pleased to meet you, doctor.” He extended a hand and although Helen knew better, she reached for it. Helen shook and the arm separated from the body with a soft, swishing sound. Ernestine stifled a scream and Henry’s mouth hung wide open. The scarecrow calmly took back the arm from Helen, who moved her lips, but could not utter a sound. He stuffed it back in its “socket”. Helen took a step back.
“How do you do, Father?”
Henry almost lifted his hand as a reflex, but the scarecrow did not offer to shake. Instead, he unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it wide open, revealing a chest cavity of straw. When Henry peered a bit closer, he believed the straw was moving, squirming. No, upon closer inspection he saw worm-like things, almost the size of eels, their bodies distended, slithering through the blades of straw, making sticking and oozing sounds. Henry could feel the color drain from his face.
Next, the scarecrow closed his shirt and pulled out a tuft of straw and sliced it cleanly and evenly with a knife from the counter. It was only then that Helen looked down and noticed that its feet were wads of straw held together with twine, like whisk brooms. When it began to shuffle toward them, Ernestine reached for a chair and pushed it over at the creature’s feet, causing it to stumble and fall. At once, they turned and fled, their movements coordinated well enough, having practiced all night.
Out into the night they ran with short rapid steps, turning to see the scarecrow pausing on the front porch, directly under the swaying lamp. Somewhere between the kitchen and the porch the creature had gotten hold of an axe. He stood there, appearing over eight feet tall, the axe resting on his shoulder, a stitched smile fixed on his burlap face.
“That’s no scarecrow,” said Helen. “It’s some psychopath dressed up.”
“Too tall for Marvin,” said Henry.
“Does it matter?” asked Ernestine.
“He’s smiling. He wants us to go back into the field,” said Helen.
“There’s no where else to go,” said Henry.
“Helen,” asked Ernestine, her free hand on Helen’s shoulder, “do you have a lighter? Matches?”
“No, I don’t carry them anymore.”
“What about you?” asked Henry.
“Nice idea, Rev. Back at the house. Real or no, with all that straw, he’d probably burn pretty good.”
The scarecrow began to move forward, awkwardly down the stairs, stiffly, as though he had a limp. When he was about half way between the farm house and the others, everyone got a big surprise. Everyone stopped, including the scarecrow, when a low rumbling began, that of an engine. This was followed by thrashing sounds and a mechanized roar and finally bright headlights. From the side of the farmhouse, coming down a long, winding gravel driveway was a combine harvester. Seated at the controls was Marvin Peregrine.
“Marvin!” all three cried.
“Hi, everybody,” he shouted back, standing up from his seat and waving. “Have you guys been--ahem, stalked?”
“Marvin, what is that thing?” cried Helen.
“What is it? It’s shredded wheat is what it is!”
They stood transfixed as Marvin opened up the throttle. The scarecrow turned to face the churning machine. The harvester bore down on the scarecrow, first flattening him like so many rows of corn and then chopped, cubed, and diced the giant into an unrecognizable tangle of straw and mulch.
Marvin stopped the harvester and turned off the motor. “How ‘bout a little ire, scarecrow?”
When Ernestine laughed uneasily, the others followed suit.
“Marvin,” began Ernestine with a sob, seeming to be the first to realize exactly what Marvin had done. “If that wasn’t a person--God, we must all be going mad. If it’s a person, we just witnessed a murder--”
“Most foul,” interrupted Marvin.
“Or,” she continued, “we’ve all lost our minds.”
“The night’s still young,” said Marvin with renewed vigor.
Henry looked up. “You’re not through with this? With us?”
“You fucking bastard,” said Helen, almost lacking conviction.
Marvin walked to the front of the harvester, bent down and retrieved the axe, hoisting it up to his shoulder. “You think your nightmares are over? They’ve only just begun.” He checked his watch. “Give you all fifteen minutes this time. While you have another head start, I’m going inside for some hot muffins and coffee.”
Helen had an impulse that they should all just rush him. Between the three of them, they could prevail. Henry looked like he was thinking the same thing. But Ernestine turned and began to pull them along, back into the blackness of the corn field. They were halfway to dawn.
Seven
It’s a Good Life...A Real Good Life
Again, they dashed off, driven by a raw unthinking urge to survive. Several minutes later, Ernestine again led them breathlessly tumbling over one another into an irrigation ditch. Exhausted, they silently decided to await either a dawn of salvation, or an endless night of oblivion. The threat of Marvin now extended itself beyond that of a single malevolent being into all pervasive numbing fear. Not only had Marvin threatened to kill them, but had eradicated someone or something who might have done likewise. He had saved them, but from what? Throughout the rest of the long dark night, they trembled, clutching one another, but neither offering or receiving comfort. They dared not sleep for fear of their waking nightmares pursuing them even into their subconscious. Occasionally, as if to pass the time, they took note of distant shrill cries, their source much obscured. Helen believed it to be the cries of children, like when all the children cried in her family after Dandy’s accident. At the same time, she imagined the cries of the children perishing in the orphanage fire.
Henry tried to control his fear of the dark, constantly brushing himself off, imagining ants and spiders and worms crawling on him. Ernestine, nearly catatonic, stared straight ahead, east as it turned out, awaiting the first signs of dawn.
As the sun rimmed over the edge of the horizon, Ernestine shook free of her trance, and even demonstrated a renewed spirit. She raised herself up and calmly proclaimed,
“It’s over now. He’s gone.”
Helen and Henry got up and stared at her as if to say, “how do you know?”
“Let’s go. It’s light now. I can find our way back.”
“Back where?” asked Henry, genuinely confused.
“The house.” She raised a cuffed hand. “I’ll find another key.”
Helen shook her head violently and tugged back on the handcuffs. “He’s a homicidal maniac. He’s--”
“He’s not there.”
“How do you know?”
“It’s over. That’s all.”
“If you’re wrong--”
“I’m wrong. No one lives forever.”
Helen and Henry looked at each other, wondering at this pronouncement. Could Ernestine have been so terrified in the farm house, in the pitch blackness as they had been, and now so stoical and accepting of the still remaining possibilities of mutilation and death? When they got right down to it, they were still lost, a sea of corn stalks all they could see in any direction. What else could they do but follow?
They re-entered uneventfully, the back door having been left unlocked. Once inside, Helen and Henry were conscious of a feeling of new visitation, of human presence in a place that had not been merely vacant for several hours, but untouched in recent memory.
They passed the table with Marvin’s open suitcase which lay like a magician’s discarded satchel. They saw no chopped off pinky, no bloodied towel, no dried red pool. Marvin’s was indeed a conjured performance. There remained an assortment of knives and a pistol with which the guests did not fail to arm themselves. Helen grabbed the handle of a knife without looking while Henry seized the pistol, neither knowing or confident of their use. Helen imagined that the whole episode must be very similar to the psychotic terrors suffered by some of her patients. For Henry, it was a hellish landscape, a true Dante’s Inferno, with no hope of purgatory.
Ernestine led them upstairs to the master bedroom. “There’s another key. It must be in here somewhere.”
“Where do we look?” said Henry falteringly.
“Yes, where?” Helen piped up.
Ernestine studied them both for a moment and then declared she had to pee. She turned to face the bathroom as if confirming some pre-determined appointment. For the guests, it was almost a welcome return: the beckoning of normal bodily functions. Again, Henry faltered. Helen wondered at the strength of her own bladder which she had managed to hold all night.
“Yes, well, I suppose I can look the other way,” said Henry.
“I suppose you can at that,” said Ernestine, regaining some of her challenging tone. “Both of you can just look the other way.”
Henry averted his gaze as Ernestine lowered her slacks and panties. When she sat down, she looked around suspiciously, but Helen and Henry were too fatigued to notice. Henry was in the doorway, facing out into the bedroom. He cast a quick furtive glance at Ernestine whose features contorted into cold, raw alarm.
“Oh my God,” she said softly through clenched teeth. She beheld the cramped space in front of her as if confronted by some hellish apparition. Helen assumed she was in some discomfort, brought on by the ordeal, but she sighed impatiently and regarded the modest Henry with a measure of contempt, as she had done the night before.
“Ernestine,” she said wearily, “we’ve got to get that key so we can get out of here.” And then what, she wondered to herself. Hide in her house? Call the police? What would she tell them? That she saw a deranged man drive a combine harvester over a straw man who had threatened to kill them? “Can you get on with it?” There could be no going back to normal after this night.
From behind the shower curtain, a thunderous voice cried, “By all means! Let’s get on with it!” When the curtain flew back, they beheld Marvin, holding an axe that rested on one shoulder, his features twisted into a delirious sneer. Some reddish gauze dangled from his left hand. No one moved at first. Ernestine began to whimper.
“It’s too late. It’s dawn. You had your chance. You promised.”
The man standing in the tub was not the Marvin of last night: boorish and uncouth, marginally hospitable, and more than remotely menacing. It was more than being muddied, scratched and bruised, assuming that Marvin had been slogging after them through the corn field. It occurred to Ernestine that like they, he had confronted his own tormentor. But who or what could that have been? He had eradicated the eight-foot straw man.
“Hell and damnation!” he cried, condemning everyone present, while at the same time turning his terror inward. His features reflected torturing visions of charnel houses, putrid and fetid sinkholes filled with rotting corpses, encircled by leathery serpentine demons, breathing fire and hissing smoke and emanating an unspeakable stench, all fueled by blind rage, hatred, and fear.
Ernestine stood abruptly and peed all over herself, the bathroom, the guests. They stumbled out of the doorway with Marvin following. Ernestine glanced at the knife and pistol clutched by Helen and Henry, respectively. The psychiatrist struck first, lashing out with her eyes closed shut. The gray rubber blade curled up against Marvin’s belly that was tautly covered with his now soiled red polo shirt. Henry, remembering police detectives on TV, tried to raise and aim his pistol, but Ernestine’s plump arm weighed him down some. He pulled the trigger anyway, and a stick protruded from the barrel with a click, unfurling a little flag with the letters, “BANG”.
Marvin began to slowly stalk his prey all over the bedroom. With all three handcuffed together, they could hardly outmaneuver him. Marvin huffed and puffed and wheezed with the axe poised on his shoulder. He appeared perfectly content to continue shuffling about the bedroom until they dropped. His bandage, stained red, dropped from his hand, but no one could see the pinky, or what remained of it because he kept his fists clenched.
Ernestine finally paused abruptly, drawing her hands up to her head and stopping her fellow prisoners in their tracks.
“Enough!” she screamed. “I don’t care. Go ahead, you fat bastard!” Slaughter us! They’ll fry you for it!”
“Ernestine, no,” whimpered Helen.
“Now, Mr., Mrs. Peregrine,” stammered Henry.
“All of you shut up!” said Marvin contemptuously. His voice was husky and hoarse and strained as if someone had tried to strangle him. Helen noticed a white patch of hair on the side of his head which she had not seen last night. Marvin seemed as worse for wear as the rest of them, if not more so. His face reddened and he trembled with rage. Ernestine began to sob deeply. For a long moment, they looked in each other’s eyes and surprised the guests by uttering in unison, “Why all this?”
Marvin let the axe fall. It hit the floor, just missing Henry’s foot.
“Why? You have no respect for yourself,” Marvin began. “You drink and eat and sleep too much. You spend money like water. You have nothing to show for your existence. And, you have no feeling or concern for my professional and personal interests and problems. Is that reason enough?”
“There are alternatives,” Helen broke in. “I know from personal experience.”
“And ways to resolve differences.”
“Shut up, you psycho-bimbo,” Ernestine shouted at Helen.
“And you, too, you mealy-mouthed preacher,” Marvin shouted at Henry.
Ernestine sobbed and then abruptly stopped. “Maybe I wouldn’t do all those things if you didn’t make me unhappy. You ignore me. You’re always at the office, the club, driving that sports car and picking up those teenage girls. That’s why I drink. I used to want to spend money on you. I bought you things, but you hated everything. Custom silk shirts, monogrammed ties, Swiss watches, rare classical recordings, imported cigars and brandy.”
“I picked up those girls because you drink.” Marvin rubbed his sagging features with his hands, “Those things you got me cost too much.”
“You were so unkind. It hurt. I started drinking because it hurt. I wouldn’t give you the time of day now. I hate all those things--especially your goddam music!”
As Ernestine became more impassioned, she flung her arms about, flinging also the captive wrists of Helen and Henry. They offered no resistance. They were one-armed silent marionettes directed by Ernestine as though she were some master puppeteer.
“You braying cow!” continued Marvin. “I started ignoring you when you started hanging around bars, wearing those sleazy black and gold dresses. There’s no point in telling you to crawl out of the bottle. You’re too bloated with the sauce.”
“Unspeakable swine!” Ernestine raised both cuffed hands and tensed her fingers into claws as if preparing to scratch Marvin with her nails.
“Cheap whore!” Marvin started to bend down and pick up the axe.
“Oversexed scumbag!” She pursed her lips as if making ready to spit in Marvin’s direction.
“Sleazy bitch!” he shouted from his toes so loudly he almost gagged, his face turning beet red, hardly able to catch his breath, drool forming in the corners of his mouth. Helen broke into sobs and Henry fought back the tears, for now they seemed genuinely touched by the pain the Peregrines had inflicted and suffered.
Ernestine drew closer to Marvin, as everyone watched a tear drop perched on the end of her nose. “I knew when we first moved into this house, trying to start fresh. I was so tired that night. You were grumpy to me all day. And when you didn’t take out the garbage, that was the last straw. So, I got drunk that night.”
“You wouldn’t even get me a beer from the kitchen. I was just as tired as you--”
“And I knew, like a revelation, that nothing would change.”
“You said it. An endless cycle.”
“I ignored you more.”
“I spent more time away from the house. From you.”
“We drove our friends away. Drinking in the morning. Reading filthy magazines and watching pornographic movies. Screaming bouts in public.”
“Brawls in shopping malls.”
“The analyst’s office.”
“Parking lots.”
“You almost beat that man to death.”
“You broke into the neighbors’ houses.”
“You followed me and we beat each other with our bare hands and wrecked their furniture. One house almost caught fire.”
“And then they moved.”
“Of course. Everyone moves.”
“You guys,” gestured Marvin with a nod of his head, “want to, don’t you? You wouldn’t stay and face the likes of this, would you? Confront the beast? Huh?”
Helen and Henry looked away. All the layers had been pared away. They felt the Peregrines had looked deep inside and saw the truth: how their fears, anxieties, insecurities occupied the center of their lives, hardly affected by their so-called professional aspirations. To help heal the mind and the spirit: how could they do that for others when they couldn’t do it for themselves?
“Even we won’t be here forever,” said Ernestine.
“In fact, Ernie, it’s come to an end right about now.”
“It couldn’t go on,” she replied in resignation.
All the chaos of their passion had been distilled down to a single note of discord. And now, even that faded. They had brought themselves back, back before the first callous reply, the first disinterested sigh. From this emerged a bizarre sense of harmony. At first, mesmerized by the exchange, as though it had been rehearsed, Helen and Henry were now shaken and alarmed by its note of finality. They beheld their hosts and then each other with tearful supplication, as if seeking a stay of execution.
“Let us go,” they said in unison.
Marvin’s features twisted with disgust. “Innocent--”
“Bystanders,” completed Ernestine.
“Standing by at any rate,” said Marvin. He reached into his pocket and produced a key. Before he unlocked the handcuffs, he asked the guests if they had anything to say. Helen wished she could feel for them, try to help, but her fear stopped any words of solace. Henry experienced a sense of guilt, for not being able to step forward and fill this void brought on by their suffering. They both shook their heads rigidly. Marvin unlocked the handcuffs.
“Then,” began Marvin portentously, “we sentence you to exile.” They stared, dumbfounded. “The party’s over. Get out.”
Stiffly, Helen and Henry exited the bedroom, urged on gently by Marvin, like a loan officer turning away an unqualified couple. Ernestine continued sitting on the bed, near a night table. She looked away as the guests left, her features clouded with disappointment, as Marvin closed the double door. The guests not only found their spirit blunted, but their legs weak and unwilling. They had been breathing in short spastic bursts during their final moments of captivity. Now, they tried to draw more air into their lungs before attempting the stairs. They heard Marvin inside. It sounded as though he were beginning his tirade anew. Would they go on forever?
“You were a cut up all last night, Ern. Now, it’s my turn.”
Helen and Henry could hear the axe scraping the floor as Marvin sighed wearily, bending over to pick it up.
“How about a little off the top, you slut, you--” There was a sound of a drawer opening quickly. “Where’d you get that gun? Put it down. No--”
Almost simultaneously, a shot rang out and a bloody axe blade crashed through the bedroom door, splintering wood and spraying Helen and Henry with red droplets. This was followed by piercing, unnatural screams. Roused from their stupor, the guests fled from the Peregrine residence for the last time. Out on Center Lane, they fumbled with their house keys again momentarily confusing their new homes, rushing past one another as they corrected the error. Their minds raced with images of flashing red lights, squad cars, ambulances--they imagined they heard the sirens. They envisioned a quiet and efficient removal of the bodies, three of them, one in pieces out at the farm house to the local morgue and subsequent probings by the county Medical Examiner. They anticipated the return of Detective Perry at their front doors, eventually linking them to the slain couple and the man in the bizarre scarecrow costume. It had to be a costume. Next, gossip, then scandal. Scurrilous tales of mayhem. Another in the catalog of tales surrounding the Earthly Delights development and the adjacent farm.
Father Henry Pauley bolted all his doors, closed the shades, and turned on all the lights. He quickly ate some stale bread in his kitchen and washed it down with tap water. Next, he checked the locks again, especially the one to the basement, and then went upstairs to his bedroom, stepping around unopened boxes. Methodically, he began picking pieces of straw from his clothes and hair. He then stripped and lay on his mattress with a blanket and reached for his reading copy of the Bible, which he clutched to his heart while he offered a short prayer--for everyone, the Peregrines, Helen, the missing boys, and himself. He opened the Bible, but before he could begin to read he fell into a deep sleep, the Bible open and face down across his chest and he slept all day and into the early evening.
Dr. Helen Fleize slammed the door behind her and, in darkness, she backed slowly into her living room, not remembering her teak bookcase with her favorite volumes and textbooks. When she jumped, she lost her balance, her weight lurching against the bookcase. It tottered and swayed and some books fell. A particularly large textbook struck her on the head. Dazed, she slumped to the floor and succumbed to exhaustion and slept as long as Henry, but without nightmares.
Detective Perry stopped back early that evening and, as before, went to see Henry first. Henry staggered to the front door and as the gaunt Perry eyed him from rumpled head to foot, he asked if he wouldn’t mind coming with him so he could talk to “the both of you so he wouldn’t have to repeat himself.”
“You mean Helen,” Henry said, barely able to clear his throat. He dressed quickly and followed the detective across the cul-de-sac, sneaking a glance at the Peregrine house, which appeared normal and undisturbed. Helen had awakened a little before and managed to get in a quick shower. Clad in her bathrobe, she stood in the kitchen, waiting for the microwave to heat water for instant coffee. She jumped when she heard the doorbell, but refused to believe it could be the Peregrines. When she saw Detective Perry and Henry, she invited them in. She exchanged glances with Henry, sharing the assumption that Perry was now investigating the grisly double murder of the Peregrines. She would tell the truth as she sensed Henry would. What else could they do? Tell the truth to Detective Perry. Tell the truth to themselves. Helen sincerely regretted how the Peregrines were beyond her healing powers as Henry likewise lamented his inability to reach them with his ministry, to make a difference.
“OK, folks, this shouldn’t take long. The children were found--”
“Oh, God,” said Helen.
“Alive, alive,” said Perry, almost enjoying the semi-intentional suspense. “They appear to be all right except for a bad scare. We found them hiding in a barn--in a hay loft actually.” Helen and Henry braced for further questioning about the field, the farm house, the scarecrow, but none was forthcoming. “We are puzzled about one thing, though. We went to the Peregrines’ house a little while ago, and, well this is odd, but they appear to have suddenly taken a long trip.”
Helen and Henry could not contain their surprise. “A trip? How do you know?” asked Helen.
“We looked around the outside of the house.” Helen and Henry waited for the phrase “signs of a struggle”. “We could see in the windows. Most of the furniture was covered with sheets. But the weird part was the note they left pinned to the front door addressed to me. That they knew nothing about the missing boys, but that, and I quote,” he said retrieving a crumpled sheet of paper from his pocket, “‘DOCTOR Fleize and FATHER Pauley might have some answers.’ What do you make of that?”
Helen and Henry each took a deep breath and announced at the same time, “You’re not going to believe this.”
Perry blinked. “How’s that?”
“I’ll get us some coffee,” said Helen, “this is going to take a while.”
“And,” added Henry, “if you don’t cart us away after we’re done, maybe we can go see if those boys or their families need help.” Helen nodded in agreement.
From this All Soul’s Day forward the Peregrines remained away and the house was eventually sold to an elderly couple who seemed perfectly normal. Thanks in part to Helen and Henry, the boys, Scott, Tony, Paul, and little Timmy recovered, but never seemed able or willing to describe exactly what they had seen. The identity of the farmer remained a mystery, but on rare occasions, usually early morning, some residents of Earthly Delights thought they caught a fleeting glimpse of someone moving about the corn fields, but no one investigated. They would just stop and listen, but all they ever heard was the wind rustling countless stalks of corn. The immense man of straw was back at his post on this windy early November day. His thin slit of a mouth turned up at one corner, as if anticipating new visitors, waiting for the proper time.