That Night on Interstate 90

That Night on Interstate 90

by Miguel Rodriguez



So far. We could see for so, so far. And nothing was different. Interstate 90 continued until both sides converged in the center with endless flat, greenish brown land everywhere in any direction. The sun was setting directly ahead, but I wasn't blinded by its rays; the hugeness of the sky seemed to diffuse it. I took a deep breath and eased up on the gas pedal to focus on the land more. Ninety-five down to 80. The wind streaming in through our cracked windows went from thunder to roar. Things would turn out OK. They had to. The sky was telling me that with it's rosy fingers grabbing every cloud and setting them on fire.

“Shit, Flint, speed up.” Shelley didn't share my willingness to take it slow.

“Sorry, my mind was starting to wander.”

“Well pay attention. I do not want to get stuck out here.”

“Shelley, we are on a major highway. There's gotta be a gas station coming up.”

“You said that an hour ago! I told you we needed more than one can. I told you!”

“I know! We didn't have the money for it.”

“Yes, we did.”

“No. We didn't. Not without using any money we might need for food or a place to crash.”

We drove one a while more. The sunset's fingers were slipping away, leaving only a grayish purple. Some of the bigger clouds were a darker purple than I cared for. I cranked my window up a little more. The loud wind was getting to me and a smell like mildew started making its way into the car. I tapped the cardboard pine tree hanging from the rear-view mirror. Worthless.

“Well it's gonna get dark real soon and I don't wanna get eaten by coyotes or whatever.”

“We'll find something. Besides, I think there are only mule deer out here anyway.” I have been playing the optimist ever since we had to leave Wisconsin. Not that I could blame Shelley for being cautious. Things have been going south for her for a while now.

“Can we turn the radio on?” she asked.

“Sure, hon, turn it to whatever you want.”

Shelley twisted the knob from static to different kinds of static. A man's voice would pop up for a split second occasionally, but only a few words could be heard before the shhhhhh of static would pop up again. I braced myself as we went up and down a small hill—the first break in flat land I could remember for hours. It was getting darker, but still light enough that I could make out a mailbox coming toward us. I could see the the rust on it as we zoomed passed. The road it guarded led to a clearing in the grasses where a house must've stood. I watched that clearing recede in the rear-view mirror. Shelley clicked the radio off.

“Damn. Nothing. It's like the stone ages out here. It's the seventies, you backward—Flint look out!”

I slammed the breaks and we lurched forward. The screech of tires was deafening. We skidded 180 before slamming a stop. What the hell was that? The reek of burned rubber joined whatever that mildew smell was. It made my eyes water while I squinted to see whatever it was in the road. Smoke glowed in the headlights, but I could make out a black pile in the street. I could also see our tire tracks arced around it, missing it by inches.

“Should I go see it?” I asked. I got a moan in answer. Shelly hadn't been wearing her shoulder strap. “Shelley? Shit, Shelley, are you ok?”

She put her hand to her forehead; blood dripped between her fingers. “Fuck Flint. Fuck”

“Ok, don't worry, baby, I have first aid in the trunk.” I put my hazard lights on and got out of the car. Whistling wind seemed to come from everywhere, pushing smoke from my tires left and right. I put the key in the trunk keyhole. That's when I looked ahead and noticed the lump in the street was gone. Something grabbed my elbow and I spun around. My heart was punching me in the ribs.

A small boy stood in the road, glowing red in the rear lights. He was wearing a hooded sweatshirt and ripped jeans. Couldn't have been more than ten years old.

“Shit, kid! You gave me a heart attack!”

“Please, mister. I need a ride.”

“Hold on,” I turned toward the trunk, “I have to . . .dammit! You have got to be kidding me.”

There was a sliver of metal sticking out of the keyhole and my keyring was laying on the floor. I broke the key in the lock when I spun around. I picked my keys up, feeling my punching heart come back full force.

“Flint?” Shelley's voice sounded faint from the car. She had reclined the passenger seat and was laying with both hands covering her head. “Flint, what's going on?”

“Be right there, baby,” I called, then turned to the kid. “Wait right here, ok?” I ran to the passenger side door and looked in the window, which was still rolled down halfway. The blood didn't seem to be flowing anymore. “Shelley, how are you feeling, baby?”

“Uhg, I think it's fine. Hurts like hell, though—you have that bandage?”

“Well . . .”

“Please mister, I need a ride!” The kid was shouting now and looking all around. The burning rubber smell and smoke were burning my lungs.

“Flint, who the hell was that?” Shelley turned to look and winced from the effort.

“You're not gonna believe this. The lump in the road. Some kid—scared me near to death, too. So much I, uh, broke the key in the trunk.”

“What?”

“I can't get to the first aid.”

“Please mister!” The kid was suddenly right next to me. “We need to get outta here.”

I looked around. I couldn't see much now besides the few feet of highway lit by my headlights. There wasn't as much smoke, but the wind was really starting to howl. Shelley sat up and looked at the kid through her hand. “What's your name?”

“Anton. Please, lady, please tell your boyfriend I can have a ride.”

Shelley lay back down. “My head hurts like hell. Flint, we need to get back on the road.”

Her words were competing with the wind to get to my ears. The Interstate, the dark, the smell. Mildew. I couldn't think straight. I circled the car and opened the driver's side door. “Get in, kid--”

“Anton.”

“Get in, Anton.” He crawled into the back seat and I sat down and slammed the door. Stringy wisps of smoke still fluttered in front of the windshield. I could see the arc of tire treads in the street.

“Mister. Can you start the car, please?”

I couldn't say anything. It was a reasonable request. I put the key in the ignition and turned. It coughed, then roared. I turned back west and started driving. I rolled up the window the rest of the way. The wind was deafening. “Shelley? Baby, are you ok? I don't know if you should go to sleep.”

“Why the hell not?” She turned to me. The bleeding had definitely stopped, but her forehead was covered with thick, black crust.

I couldn't think of a good answer. The small piece of highway I could see flowed passed, and I got the feeling we were on a huge treadmill, going nowhere. It was so black out. I saw the kid in the rear view mirror. He was squinting out the windows. Back, to the side, everywhere. “Where do you need to go, kid?”

“Oh, God, are you running away from home?”

“What?” Shelley sprung to life and turned around. “Anton, we can't help you if you are running away from home!”

“I'm not running away from home! I was with my sister.”

“Well, where is she?”

“I . . .I can't say. . .that is, I can't remember.” Anton started trembling. A line of saliva connected his lips.

“Well, do you know if we're about to come to any town or anything?” I asked. I needed to see something come soon or I was going to lose my mind. I tried to think of something else and Wisconsin came back. Good Ole Bud sitting on his porch steps with their peeling whitewash, his arm resting on the half of the green porch swing that was still hanging, pivoting it back and forth on the side that fell. There was a small crater dug into the wood there. He did that a lot. I walked up to him and let him have it. No break in my voice, no slump in my shoulders. I just had to tell him we were leaving. What could he do, anyway. He laughed, and I felt myself relax. He kept laughing and took his arm off the swing. It was holding a gun, pointed at me.

The car gave a cough and I shook my head to remember where I was. The gas meter needle was quivering at empty. Shitshitshit . . Where were the gas stations? How could we not have seen any gas stations? I pounded the steering wheel. I could see Anton jump in his seat.

“What the hell, Flint?” Shelley asked.

“We are about to stall on the road. No gas. No fucking gas.” I braced myself for whatever she was going to say. She simply slumped back in her seat.

“Told you.”

“Anton, if you know about any gas stations, tell us now.”

“I just told you—I don't know this place.”

“You told me?”

“Jesus, Flint, you really never listen.”

“Ok, ok, fine.” I clutched the steering wheel until my knuckles cracked. “It's going to happen. Our miracle gas. It's up ahead, we just don't see it yet.”

“I'm freaking out. Didn't you hear anything that kid said? He and his sister were staying at a house. I think it was the one we passed. The one that wasn't there anymore?”

I turned to look at her. I looked into the rear-view and saw Anton sit like a grimy porcelain doll. “What? That's crazy!”

“It's what he said. He ran from the house on foot. It's the only place we saw all day that wasn't grass.”

The car lurched. This was it—it was going to stall. No miracle gas station, just more darkness, more blanched, headlight-whitened highway, more sickly grass and rancid smell and whirring winds and . . . a mailbox. Rushing toward us, slowing. Sputters from the car. A house?

“Flint, it's a house. Slow down!”

“No! No no! Keep going!” Anton was alive again.

“Sorry kid, it's the house or the side of the road. Maybe someone can help us out.”

I turned left onto a gravel road. Peterkin was the name on the mailbox. There was no fence, no garden that I could see. Just more flat grasses. The house silhouette was barely discernible in what little moonlight there was. It lay about 100 feet from the highway, and as we approached a porch light went on. “Looks like someone's home, after all,” I said. “We'll get all fixed up, babe. Pipe down back there!”

Anton was holding his knees to his chest and beginning to hyperventilate. A stream of snot slowly ran down the side of his mouth. What were we thinking picking a kid up anyway? Shelley seemed to relax a bit. I pulled the car to a stop next to the house. We could see a woman standing on the screened-in wooden porch, stretching her neck to get a better look at us. The porch light flickered on and off, revealing a colony of moths crawling over it.

I turned off the motor and turned to Shelley. “Stay here a second. You, too, Anton. I'm just going to say hi and come right back.”

“Be careful.”

“She looks harmless enough.” I got out of the car and let the door close. The woman was still standing on her porch. I almost expected her to have a shotgun in her hands, but she wasn't holding anything. I walked closer and called out to her. “I'm really sorry to bother you ma'am,” I said. “We're having a bit of trouble.

“Who you got with you?” It was a strange question for her to ask. I took some more steps toward the porch. “Don't come closer. Stay right there and let me know how many you got.”

“It's just me, my girlfriend, and, uh, her kid brother.” I don't know why, but I didn't feel comfortable letting this woman know we picked some kid up off the side of the highway. “We had an accident and ran out of gas. My girlfriend is hurt. We just want to use your phone.”

The woman opened the screen door to the porch and took a step down. She looked at the car, then back toward me. “I don't have a working phone right now. Hasn't worked in days and getting service is impossible out here.”

“Do you have any gas cans that could get us to the next town? We'd really--”

“I don't have nothing like that, but my nephew will be here early in the morning. You'd better come in, I guess.” She stepped back into the porch and sat on a chair. I walked back to the car, opened the door, and looked inside.

“I don't think we have much choice but to crash here till morning. At least we can wash your cut and maybe grab a bite to eat.”

Shelley sighed and unclicked her seat belt. “He's been like that this whole time,” she said. I looked in the back seat. Anton was curled and laying on his side on the back seat. “Up and at em, kid,” I said. “I'm not reaching in there to grab you.”

“I'm scared.” At least he could talk. Shelley got out of the car and looked back in at him.

“Hey, whatever your scared of. I think we'll be safer in the house than in the car.”

“Don't know about that,” was all he said, but he did sit up and climb out of the car on Shelley's side. We all walked up and climbed the porch stairs. I got my first good look at the woman, who was still sitting, wearing a brown dress and slippers, looking at us. She looked like she could be as young as forty, and as old as 800. It was very strange. I let Shelley and Anton go in first, then followed.

“Thank you for this, ma'am,” I said. “My name is Flint Walker. This is my girlfriend Shelley and Anton.” Her eyes were on Anton.

“You say this is your kid brother?”

“Shelley's, yes,” I said, feeling my stomach knot up. Neither Shelley, nor Anton made any noise to contradict me, which made me breathe a little easier.

“Hmph,” she said, standing up and heading toward the door. “My name is Tanya Peterkin. That cut looks nasty; have yourselves a seat in the parlor and I'll bring you some clean bandages. Afraid all I've got to offer is water and bread.”

“That sounds perfect,” I said as we entered the house. “I guess you don't get much company out here, do you?”

She turned abruptly toward me. “What do I look like, a hermit? Sit down over there. I'll be right back.” She clicked on the light and headed toward the next room. The parlor was open, with bookshelves lining the far wall and dusty pictures on the opposite wall. Some velvety chairs sat in a crescent shape in the middle of the room with a small table in the center. The ceilings were very high. I couldn't tell from the outside but the house must have been huge. Shelley slumped into a chair and put her feet up on a matching ottoman. Anton stood in a far corner and stared at nothing. I started to walk over to Shelley, stopped, headed for the wall with the pictures. Black and white in ovular wooden frames. People stood in the grass in each of them. A man in a dark suit looking out over the land with his hand shading his eyes. Two women standing by the porch. An elderly woman staring into the camera—she was holding a shotgun. I forgot all about what we were doing on Interstate 90 or what happened that morning to make us take off with just a few dollars in our pockets. The caws of crows snapped me out of it and I turned my head toward an open window. I couldn't see much out there, but the crowspeak could be heard from every direction outside and I wondered why I didn't notice it before.

“Think she'd mind if I closed the window?” I asked, starting to close it without waiting for an answer.

“Wait, Flint, leave it,” Shelley spoke softly from her chair,” I like the air.”

“Ok, whatever you say. Those crows are just, I don't know,” glancing outside I could make out black on black shapes drifting through the air, “eerie, I guess.”

“They're not eerie, they're beautiful.”

“They're dead,” Anton finally spoke up and moved behind Shelley's chair as the woman—Ms. Peterkin—came into the parlor with some glasses stacked within one another in one hand and a pitcher of water in the other. A roll of bandages hung from the pinky of the hand holding the glasses.

“What a thing to say,” she said as she set everything down on the center table and began dabbing a piece of bandage in the water and onto Shelley's wound. “Those birds are more than alive. They love nothing more than to sing and dance just like they're doing now. Beautiful, yes, that's the word for it, I think.”

I walked over and sat down in an empty chair next to Shelley and held her hand. Anton suddenly seemed full of energy.

“I don't mean they're dead now. I mean they're going to be. I saw a bunch of them at the last house I was in. They weren't singing or dancing.” He looked down to the floor and his words got quieter. “Not at all.”

Ms. Peterkin began unrolling bandage and wrapping it around Shelley's head. I wanted to put my hand on Anton's mouth to shut him up, but I couldn't get my mind off of the last few days back home. Shelley and I were sitting in a McDonald's talking about our big escape. The classic move west, where freedom resides. We were sitting in a booth, munching on french fries. Shelley liked to share the same bench and put her head on my shoulder. Partly because we were smaller that way—at least that's what I thought. I need you to promise we'll go through with it, she had said. Don't worry, I said, I want the adventure. Besides, whatever happens it couldn't be worse than here. I realized that Ms. Peterkin was staring at me.

“I'm sorry, what?” I said.

“I said, where were you? What house?”

“Wha—oh uh, just some inn a few miles back.” I wasn't sure what she was talking about.

“It's not true!” Anton suddenly spoke very loudly. “I don't know these people. They don't know what happened and they don't know we have to get out of here!”

“Anton!” Shelley said.

Ms. Peterkin shot me with a wide-eyed stare. “What's he talking about?”

I dropped Shelley's hand and clasped my fingers together. Then, I stood up. “I'm sorry I lied to you,” I said, walking back to the pictures on the wall and then turning to face everybody in the room. “I don't know why I did, other than I was afraid of what you might think. If I told you we had just picked some kid off the side of the road, I mean.”

“Hm, you're not wrong. What happened.”

“Well, we were driving—low on gas—and we almost hit . . .” I stopped for a second. It didn't occur to me that I didn't know the whole story. I guess it didn't occur to Shelley, either, because we both looked at each other before turning toward Anton, who retreated a couple of steps from behind Shelley's chair. “We almost hit a lump in the road. The lump turned out to be Anton here.” I looked at Shelley again. “Can you believe we didn't think to ask him why he was laying in the road?”

“I guess everything was just too crazy,” she said.

“Why the hell were you laying in the middle of the highway?” I asked Anton. “You don't seem hurt.

Anton's eyes wandered from to meet those of each of us. He looked like he was deciding which one of us to eat for dinner, his breathing getting heavier. Then he burst. “I told you I needed a ride! I saw a car coming and I lay down to stop it.”

“Are you crazy? I could've killed you! I just barely didn't hit you.”

Anton shook his head. “I needed a ride real bad.” He looked up at me. “Besides, it works in the movies.”

We all jumped as Ms. Peterkin slapper her knees and quickly stood up. “Well, this is just well and fine! Doesn't change that you are all still stuck here till morning.”

“We are . . .” Anton looked around, slowly, seeping back into outer space. “stuck.” The crows' chorus flew through the room. He walked to the bookshelves and sat cross-legged on the floor facing them. Shelley and I looked back at the woman of the house.

“We don't have much, but I need to get a couple of things from my car.”

“You do that. Your girlfriend should lay down. I'll show her to your room.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I really appreciate all of this.”

She said nothing, and bent to help Shelley up. Shelley took her hand to stand before saying, “That's ok, I can walk myself.” I left them all and walked out onto the porch. The light was still flickering. Moth shadows, huge and gray, swirled around the floorboards. I opened the screen door to step down and was hit by that mildewy smell. Much stronger than before. I wondered why I didn't notice it when looking out the parlor window. I felt my stomach lurch, but rushed to the trunk of the car before remembering that I couldn't get into it. Great. Turning around, I noticed a row of crows sitting on either side of the porch. They just sat, staring in different directions, streaked yellow by the flickering porch light. They weren't singing or dancing. I hugged my shoulders and ran up the porch stairs and into the house.

Mr. Peterkin was in the parlor drinking a full glass of something brown. Bourbon.

The smell joined the remnants of mildew in my nostrils. “The kid hasn't moved from there,” she pointed to Anton, who still sat cross-legged in front of the bookshelves. “I tried to get him to a room, but . . . “ she shrugged and took a gulp. I thought about checking on Shelley, but decided to let her rest for a bit, so instead I sat in a chair and faced our new friend.

“How long have you lived here.”

“All my life.” Another gulp. Not a sip—a gulp.

“No, really? I guess that's not too surprising. I was born and raised in West Salem, in Wisconsin. We didn't have no family house like this, though. I've lived in a few different places.” I stole a glance at the elliptical photographs on the wall behind me. “I guess that makes this house part of the family, huh?”

No answer. She was nodding away, her head falling toward the glass that lay clasped in both hands before her. She snorted, lifted her head and said without looking at me, “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry you had to be here. I just didn't know what else to do.”

She was out then, her head resting on her chest. I reached out and caught her glass as it rolled out of her hands, nearly crashing to the floor. I looked over at Anton. He was hugging his knees in a sitting fetal position. “That was weird, huh,” I tried asking him. He just sat there, staring and waiting. I could feel my spine quiver. “C'mon kid, what the hell are you so afraid of? What happened back there?”

“My name is Anton.” He didn't look up at me when he said it. “That's what my name is. My sister is Stephanie. Steph.” He looked at me then. “Steph is my sister.” His eyes, so lifeless before, suddenly glistened with tears. He sniffled and wiped some snot away with the sleeve of his hoodie. “I lost her back there. Back in that old house.”

I didn't know what to do. I just sat where I was, watching Peterkin's slumped form with one eye and Anton with the other. I felt like either one could suddenly jump at me. I remembered what Shelley said in the car. “Back in the car,” I said, “Shelley said you were talking about the house. We saw no houses for at least three hours.”

Anton's voice was muffled in his sleeve, but I could make out, “it wasn't far from where you found me. Right off the road.”

“There was a mailbox we saw, but behind it—there was only rubble. No house, probably for years.”

Anton gave a slight nod. “That's what Shelley said. Steph must be like that house now. Nothing left but rubble.”

“And you brought it here.” Ms. Peterkin slurred her words, but was suddenly awake again. She reached over and set her glass on the table. She looked directly at me. “I figured what that boy had been through when you decided to tell the truth about how you found him. What happened to him will happen to all of us.”

I suddenly stood up. “Alright enough! Neither of you are making sense at all and it's starting to get on my nerves. I'm going to check on Shelley. Anton, why don't you come with me?” Anton made no move. Ms. Peterkin got up and sauntered over to me as I stood by the doorway. She moved very close and looked up into my eyes. The bourbon was hot and rank on my face.

“You need to leave and leave now. Leave your car.” She looked toward the window. “Do you hear them? Not as many are there?”

I looked passed her at Anton on the floor. He was laying on his side, in fetal position. It wasn't the same boy who risked his life to stop my car. “Anton, you all right. C'mon, man, let's get you in a bed.”

“No!” Ms. Peterkin's breath stung my eyes. Take him with you. Please. Take him and run down the road.” Tiny red tributaries lined her wide eyes. She had me pinned against the door jamb and grabbed my shirt sleeves, shaking them.

“Hey, lady, get off me.” I pushed my way passed, and left the parlor to stand on the staircase leading up. “I'll find Shelley's room myself.” I started to walk up the stairs, paused, and turned around. “Y'know, Ms. Peterkin? If we do decide to hotfoot it hundreds of miles outta here, it'll be to get away from you. Thanks again for your hospitality.” I climbed the rest of the way up the stairs, leaving Ms. Peterkin standing, shaking at the entrance to the parlor. I felt some remorse at leaving Anton alone with her, but I needed to see if Shelley was ok. The idea of leaving on foot was insane, but it started to sound attractive to me. I could hear scores of crows, even upstairs. The faded pink carpeting disappeared into darkness. The dark gray of a window on the far end of the hallway could faintly be seen against the black. The walls of either side were lined with doors; one in the middle right was slightly ajar. I approached it, checking my pockets for a lighter that I knew wasn't there. I pushed the door open and whispered Shelley's name. There was a window on the far wall that cast some light in the room, but not enough to see much, even with my eyes adjusting to the darkness. The crowing got louder and I called Shelley's name even louder, searching the wall with my hand for a light switch. I heard a dull thumping like a tightly-strung skin drum. Regular beats. My fingers found the light switch—the kind with two buttons—and turned on the light. The room was . . .



Bright white light stung my eyes. I squinted and held my hand to shade them. The sun was directly ahead in a cloudless sky. I was seeing it through a window, painted beige with some words scratched into the paint of one corner. It was my room when I was a younger boy. It faced west; the sun must be setting soon. I walked over to the window and smiled at the audience of crows that covered the lawn, just standing there and looking up at me. The words on the window frame—I knew what they would say before looking: “Teach me to fly, God. F.W.” Then, down on the sill, added at a later date, “S.T.”Shelley Thompson.

The birds on the lawn looked up to me, standing in the room I had with no posters on the walls. Then they looked to their left and I followed their little heads to the trail leading away from our house. A large man was hauling a little girl away by her elbow, which had to twist painfully above her head. She had to run to keep up with his walk, her little body twisting side to side in the effort. I felt a sting and noticed that my hands were fists, my nails cutting into the flesh of my palms. The crows turned to look back at me and all started crowing and crowing. The little girl—so far down the road now—looked back and shouted my name. The deep thumping drum sounded and she shouted.



“Flint! Where are you?”

I looked around. The room was made up with floral bedspread and upholstered furniture. No Shelley. She called my name again. It was across the hall, so I turned to leave the room and found her in another bedroom. A bedside lamp was on and she was standing by the window. The bandage was laying bloodstained on the pillow. When she saw me she ran over and threw her arms around my neck. “There you are. I thought it was a nightmare, but look. Look outside!”

That's when I noticed the drum sound again—coming from outside the window. I looked outside, into the darkness. Light fell on the lawn from our room and from the parlor downstairs. The ground was littered with dark lumps. It was raining dark lumps. Crows. Crows were falling from the sky, thumping the lawn. The singing and dancing was over. The screaming downstairs started. I looked at Shelley. “It's the kid,” she said.

“I should go check it out.”

“I'm coming with you.”

“Are you sure? Your head . . .”

“It's fine! I want to get out of here!”

“The car--”

“Fuck the car!”

I didn't argue. Shelley grabbed her shoes and we both left the room to head downstairs. Ms. Peterkin was half on the floor with her arms wrapped around Anton's waist and arms. He was flailing and jerking her around. Her head was thrashing back and forth so much I was afraid she'd get whiplash. I jumped the last few steps and helped her hold the screaming boy. “We need to go! It's here! It's here!” The front door flew open and I felt wind whip my hair my eyes. The smell—that mildewy smell—became overwhelming. I struggled to hold back vomit, falling to my knees. Anton fell limp and slumped the the ground. Shelley closed the door to stop the wind. I could suddenly hear how loud I was panting.

There were dried flowers in frames on the walls that made the smell worse. I could hear flash floods of blood in my ears. Ms. Peterkin was on the floor, hoisting herself up and looking at me, then looking away from my gaze. Her eyes were red, desperate to shed tears that wouldn't come. There was no reason I should be angry with her or hate her, but I wanted to knock her teeth out. My own teeth were grinding against one another until I could feel my jaw ache in my ears. My nails scratched the floorboards, picking up splinters.

I felt Shelley's hands rub my shoulders before hugging me from behind and my momentary violent thought drained out of me. I wiped a line of saliva from my mouth that had dripped all the way to the floor.

“You need to get up,” she said into my ear. Her breath helped slow my panting. “Whatever's coming, it's just one more thing we have to fly from. No different than before.”

She was right. I lifted myself up and looked down at the old lady of the house. “What's coming?” I said.

Looking up at me, she started picking herself off the ground and said, “I don't know exactly. I just know that it's been here before. Long time ago.”

“Not so long.” Anton was coming around. “This is what happened just yesterday. To me and my sister. Down the road.”

Peterkin nodded. “At the Jansen's place. I'm guessing they're gone now. Let's go back into the parlor.”

I stopped her as she turned to walk away, “No, I think we'll stay right here by the door. I just want to know what to expect before we take off.”

“Oh, my poor boy. I'm afraid it's too late for that.”

There was a crash from upstairs. Then another. Howling wind could be heard upstairs, and that stench got more intense. The light in the parlor suddenly went out, making Anton whimper.

“We can run,” he said. “I ran before. When it had my sister, and I, and I ran and left her.”

Shelley grabbed my arm, “I think that's a good idea.”

Suddenly I had to grab my hears as the screech of wood scraping against wood rang around the entire house. Lamp shades bounced around on lamps before the light in the hallway went out leaving us in complete darkness. We heard the door fly open again and I could tell that Anton was gone. Shelley ran out after him, calling his name. I couldn't move even though the floorboards were shaking under my feet. I jumped as I felt a gaunt hand grab my elbow. “You want to leave, but it's keeping you still, isn't it?” Ms. Peterkin sounded more lucid than she had all night. “I remember that feeling. Last time I remember this I was a much younger woman. It's come to finish the job.”

I could feel her stale breath on my ear, the mist of saliva that accompanied it. I had to go. Had to get to Shelley. All thoughts of Anton completely left my brain. The floor gave another shake, enough to make my feet leave it for an instant. I barely kept standing. Ms. Peterkin clasped me to stay steady. “I'm scared,” she said. And her trembling told me that it was absolutely true. I pleaded with my feet to get moving. To run out after Shelley, but they wouldn't. “I wanted to say, you all didn't bring this on me.” I strained to hear her above the creaking house, which was becoming thunderous. “My family brought it on you. For that, I'm very sorry, but you are unlucky.”

“Your family--” My words were cut off by a sudden stillness in the house. Darkness remained, but the creaking and crashing stopped. I could hear breathing, but it wasn't me or Peterkin. Then a crash, right next to me. Louder than anything with wind rushing up from below filling me with that stink. My arm was wrenched downward, dropping me to one knee. Pain in my arm mixed with nausea. The floor next to me was no longer there, I could feel the wind erupting from a hole with stabbing shards of floorboard protruding upward like wooden pikes. Ms. Peterkin was gone. The stinging in my arm grew and I groped at it, feeling something dug into the flesh. Something small. I pulled it out and realized, even without the ability to see it, that it was a whole fingernail. I couldn't hold my vomit this time.

I burst out of the front door, smashing a pane of glass on the way and slicing my hand open. I could feel blood gushing from my wound. The wind outside was flying by in one direction, carrying that stench and crow carcasses with it. I shouted Shelley's name, but couldn't even hear myself over the din. All sense of direction was gone—I didn't know where the house was, or the drive way, or the highway. I needed to reach the car, get the headlights on so I could see where I was. I stumbled around in the darkness, crawling and feeling the ground with my hands to move around. My eardrums were throbbing with the wind, and in the dark I couldn't even tell whether or not my eyes were open. Then something hit me on the side of the head. Something long, wrapped in fabric, one end wet and sticky, with a small hand on the other end. I screamed and buried my head in the ground before everything stopped.

I could see again. Daytime. Crows pecked at my hands and I could tell that I was crying. The sky was huge and blue with bulbous clouds flowing across it. The smell of fresh green grass was like heaven after the rotten stench of moments before.

“What are you doing on the ground, Flint?”

Shelley's voice came from behind me. I turned and faced the house. Shelley, Anton, and Ms. Peterkin sat inside the porch, sipping lemonade and giggling at the sight of me.

“You look like you've been wallowing in mud with some pigs, Mr. Walker!” Anton giggled louder. Ms. Peterkin just sat and rocked in her chair.

“Don't you worry,” she said, leaning her head back and closing her eyes. “My nephew will be here to fill your car up any minute.”

I looked around. I could see Interstate 90 down the road, with the mailbox guarding the entrance. The air was warm with a cool breeze caressing my ears and I lay back down, looking up at the sky. I wondered what happened, but felt completely calm, barely breathing. “Did I fall asleep?” I asked the sky.

“Flint, get off that ground and come have some lemonade with us.” Shelley's voice sounded so beautiful. Almost like it did when we were younger, finding our hiding places from the rest of the world. My love for hear growing with each escape. My resolve to be her rescuer. I could see her eyes looking up at me with her head lowered just a bit—the way she always looked at me when we ran to the clearing by my parents' old house, to the dumpster behind Merv's Bar, to McDonald's, anywhere that wasn't her house. Her eyes remained the same as the rest of her grew a little older. Older before her time. Until the last straw when her brother Bud found us sitting in front of a 7-11. When he actually pointed a gun at her to get her back home. We had to leave. And I did it. I got her out. I smiled and sat up, dusted myself off, and stood to walk to the porch. “That's my boy,” Shelley teased, “C'mon and join us.” The screen rippled a bit in the breeze as I walked up the steps.

I opened the door and stepped inside the porch, happy to see Shelley. She sat in her chair with bright red eyes. Bloody scratches lined her face and blood was dripping from her head wound. “Be careful!” she said, “They are delicate!” Startled by the sight of her, I let the door slam closed. Anton started screaming as his arm fell to the floor, dripping blood. Ms. Peterkin opened her mouth wider and wider until her face melted away starting at her throat. I screamed, trapped, losing control of my bodily functions. “No!” I shouted--” NoNoNoNoNoNoNo!” Everything went black. I was on my knees in the porch. Streams of ripped screening were whipping me in the face. I heard intense breathing and rumbling as floorboards burst upwards all around me. Then the floor beneath me erupted, sending me flying backward and through the screen onto the lawn.

Lights blinded me—headlights. I looked up and saw Shelley sitting in the front seat of my car. The beams from the headlights showed the house, which was twisting in on itself, a vortex of rank wind sending debris in orbit around it. The rumbling was louder, growling, snarling. Creaking wood became snapping wood, as if trees were being wrenched from the ground. The roof caved in and the foundation burst upward. Slithering forms were writhing from broken areas. It was hard to really see in the headlight beams, but it was enough make my voice leave me. My eyes stung because they lost the ability to blink. Finally, I found my footing and ran to Shelley in the car.

The car was empty. I twisted round and round shouting her name. Crying, screaming her name. I pounded on the car to try and make a noise that she could maybe hear over the wind and destruction of the house. Over the roaring of whatever had come. The ground was starting to burst around me as plumbing and electrical lines were ripped from where they lay. Dirt stung me and a roar came from the house that was so alien from anything I had ever heard that I ran. I just ran. I ran and left everyone behind.



I arrived on foot in a small town after the sun had risen and was beginning to sink again. I asked anybody I saw if they'd seen Shelley. I had no picture to show, just my words to describe her. While walking on the highway, I never stopped calling her name until my throat was too hoarse to utter much sound. If I don't find her by the next town, I will head back the way I came. Back to the house. I was her rescuer, after all. And I can't escape without her.