|
Arthur
switched off the light and glanced at the clock radio as he
slipped into bed: 11:39 PM. Another late night and the end
of another hard day at the office. His tired mind told him
to slow down and slow down soon; his hectic pace was
catching up to him. Who's gonna remember the guy who killed
himself at the office? Nobody, that's who. Not Philby, his
boss, who hadn't given Arthur a raise in three years, not
the kids, who took old dad for granted except when they
needed a few bucks or the keys to the car. And especially
not his wife Vera, already sound asleep on her side of their
king sized bed.
Arthur spared her huddled
form a worn out glance. Vera was usually asleep by the time
he got home and crawled into bed. She never seemed to
appreciate all his extra efforts, having long ago written
him off as an incurable workaholic. She'd conveniently
forgotten that his dedication and hard work had gotten her
this huge house in the country. And the cars. And entry into
the swank country club. Oh yes, she'd nagged him until he'd
given her everything she'd ever wanted, even after he'd gone
to great lengths to point out to her that things were much
different in the country.
But she always ignored his
warnings.
Nor did she seem to care
that he hated the hour-long commute to and from the city
with its narrow, winding roads. Or the fact that the pollen
in the air played hell with his allergies. His list of
grievances was long. Arthur sighed. What did it matter?
Vera's own expectations and needs had always come first.
Arthur glanced over at his
sleeping wife. How quickly things had changed. Now she hated
country living and most of all the quiet country nights.
Arthur punched his pillow
into a more comfortable shape. Served her right. Maybe she
finally figured out there weren't traffic lights and latte
shops on every corner. As sleep claimed him he wondered if
Vera had properly secured the house for the night and
decided that no matter how many times he reminded her, Vera
would likely never understand that things were different out
here in the country.
Something was prodding his
arm. Arthur groaned and rolled over. It couldn't be morning
yet! But the prodding didn't stop until he realized it was
Vera poking his arm and hissing in his ear.
"Arthur! Get up! There’s
something outside!"
He glanced at the luminous
numbers of the alarm clock and groaned. He'd barely gotten
to sleep. Had the woman no mercy?
He turned over and glowered
at her. "What's the matter with you, Vera? It's barely past
midnight for God's sake!"
Her small frail body was
huddled against the headboard, her eyes round with terror.
"Please, Arthur. You have to go look. There's something
outside. I heard sounds!"
She whimpered the words,
looking ridiculous, pitiful really. Quiet country living had
become her enemy.
With a sigh, Arthur threw
back the covers. Of course he’d have to go look. She
wouldn’t leave him alone until he did as she asked. He’d
wander around the house checking all the doors and windows,
trip over the dog, check in on the kids and then finally
report back to her that all was safe and secure.
Resigned to performing the nightly ritual, he swung his legs
out of bed, found his slippers and then started walking the
well-known route: hallway, back door, patio, dog, children.
He didn't see a thing. The night was still and clear and the
wind calm.
Arthur shook his head.
Vera's imagination again. How many times had he told her
that things were different in the country?
He rounded a corner and
tripped over the dog. The beagle yelped and slunk off to
hide under the coffee table. He glared at the animal. One of
these days he was going to have to take some extra time and
train that dog to be more alert.
Pale light from the full
moon pierced the glass of the solarium and lit a murky path
for Arthur to follow. The wind suddenly quickened and out of
the corner of his eye Arthur thought he saw the drapes move.
He cringed. Oh God no!
He hurried forward, pushed
aside the heavy coverings and confirmed what he already
dreaded. Vera had forgotten to close the patio door. He
widened it enough to poke his head out and surveyed the
clear, cool night. He didn't see a thing, not a single
threat. But that didn't matter, did it?
THEY would know that the
door had been left ajar.
They always knew.
Arthur ducked back inside,
slammed shut the door and locked it, then leaned weak-knead
against the wall. How many times had he told Vera that it
was her responsibility to make sure that all the doors and
windows were locked? How many times! He shouldn't be
expected to carry this additional burden as well. Why
couldn't she get it through her head that things were
different out here in the country?
Something rasped against the
glass. Arthur whirled in time to see one of the Hawthorne
boughs that he'd meticulously tied to the eaves tumble onto
the deck. In the next instant the wind found the dry sprig
and he watched as it fluttered off the deck and was
swallowed up by the night.
His heart thudding in his
chest, Arthur surveyed the grounds, then checked his watch.
Twelve thirty-nine. Perhaps there was still time -- perhaps
THEY wouldn't come. But in the distance he saw the mist
gathering and knew it was too late.
THEY always moved with the
mist.
Taking a great chance he
hurled open the door, then ran out onto the deck and reached
up and checked every sprig of Hawthorne and every bundle of
garlic attached to the eaves. All were dry and brittle.
Useless! Dammit! How many times had he told Vera to keep
them fresh? What did he have to do to make her understand?
Out past the long line of
elms the mist pulsed and moved closer. In seconds it became
a great wall blotting out the moon. Choking back fear Arthur
raced back inside and slammed and locked the sliding door,
desperately wishing the door was made of foot thick steel
and not triple tempered unbreakable glass. The best that
money could buy, the realtor had said. Not that it mattered.
THEY knew. Somehow THEY
always knew.
He saw their hungry red eyes
probing through the rolling mist. Within moments they would
surround the house and begin scratching at the glass,
looking for ways to get in.
Arthur yanked shut the
drapes and stifled a scream when he heard their high-pitched
shrieks of outrage and covered his ears as talons scraped
across the domed glass of the skylight.
The hideous sounds grew
louder and louder and sent him racing back to his bedroom
shouting, "Dammit, Vera, how many times do I have to tell
you to always lock up and always make sure the garlic and
Hawthorne stay fresh! What do I have to do to make you
understand! What!"
Vera lay slumped against the
headboard, her eyes wide and staring, her face a
terror-stricken rictus. Two droplets of blood dotted her
lily-white nightgown. Arthur hadn't even heard her scream.
Poor Vera.
The chill breeze caressed
the lace curtains and he watched with dawning horror as the
last tendrils of mist oozed out through the open bedroom
window and away from the house to coalesce with the main
body. Red eyes gleamed like bleeding diamonds, their hunger
sated for the night as the mist melded with the darkness.
Reborn moonlight cast a
swatch of light across the bed and settled on the wizened
sprig of Hawthorne that lay in Vera's limp white hand.
Tears flooded Arthur’s eyes.
His poor little Vera. She never really understood how
different things were out here in the country.
|
