The chimes sounded to McCarthy like a telephone ringing. He immediately thought of a night long ago, when he was just a boy. The same sound had awoken him in the darkest part of the night; it seemed to go on and on. His father was a sound sleeper and his mom, a nurse, was working the night shift at the hospital. Young McCarthy stumbled out of bed, suddenly afraid. The ringing continued as he made his way toward his parents’ room, his heart beating faster, and suddenly he wanted to cry. Finally he heard his father pick up the phone. He stopped in the hallway, paralyzed with fear, and heard a sound he had never heard before: his father crying.
McCarthy’s mother had been killed in a freak accident. A faulty piece of medical equipment had short-circuited, electrocuting her. She was surrounded by people whose job it was to save lives, in a building full of medicine and machines to do the same, but she died anyway. Somehow, he had sensed it even before he heard his father crying. Most would say that everyone knew a phone call in the middle of the night was bad news, but McCarthy thought it was something more. He had felt it in his heart, and it was a terrible, powerful feeling.
The chimes did indeed sound like the ringing of a phone and McCarthy knew what had been hiding behind the guilt and shame. It was just as powerful as it had been when he was a boy, just as terrible, and again he felt it in his heart: dread. The gentle breeze jingled the chimes again and McCarthy shivered, his heart beating too fast in his chest. What was going to happen? The breeze was no longer a welcome friend; it carried a message that McCarthy did not want. He stood and went shakily into the house, knowing that sleep would not come but choosing the stuffy heat over the ill wind that was blowing on the deck.
(4)
The next day at school was uneventful for Denny. Even the teachers seemed lethargic from another day of unrelenting heat and restless children. The big talk was Dale Crawford’s face and Paul Greymore’s return to Haven. Rumors were flying that Greymore was the one responsible for messing up Crawford. Dale was telling everyone that Greymore attacked him at McCauley’s Gas Station, “catching him off-guard.” The story got pretty vague after that when Dale was asked why his father, the Chief of Police, didn’t have Greymore arrested.
Paul Greymore was known to most Haven residents as “The Butcher.” He had gone berserk years ago, before Denny was even born, and killed a bunch of kids. He’d been in prison ever since. The Butcher had become Haven’s boogeyman. Stories were abundant and a common warning from parents to children was “be home on time or the Butcher will get you.” Which made little sense since the Butcher was locked safely away in Braxton. Or he was, until now. Denny didn’t believe most of the stories; they had taken on the sound of tall tales over the years. Although he knew the ones about Greymore’s looks were true. Greymore had been disfigured as a child and most people had been afraid of him before he started killing kids.
On the bus ride home, Denny stared out the window at Greymore’s house. It looked as creepy as it did every day, but to his relief, it looked as empty too. A frown crossed his face as the bus crawled to a stop in front of his house. The front walkway was empty. Denny and Stubby exchanged their mumbled goodbyes and a feeling of dread settled in the pit of Denny’s stomach as he hurried off the bus.
“Where’s Bear?” Denny asked, barging into the house.
His mother was just coming down the stairs with a basket of laundry, “He’s been in and out all day, trying to find a cool place to lie, I guess.”
“Is he in or out now?” Denny asked, but her eyes had already started to cloud over and Denny knew her mind was far away, thinking of a different little boy. Denny went to the backyard and as the screen door banged closed behind him, his uneasiness grew. After searching the yard, Denny went back inside and after changing out of his school clothes looked around the house, starting upstairs and working his way down. By the time he got back to the kitchen, he was getting very anxious. His mother was now starting dinner and looked like she was back to reality for the moment.
“I had to get some things off the cellar shelf earlier,” she said. “Maybe he scooted down the stairs while the door was open. It’s the only cool spot in the house.”
Denny headed for the hallway leading to the cellar stairs. He opened the door, flipped on the light, and stopped. He hated going down into the cellar. Nothing had ever happened to promote his fear, but it was there nonetheless. A single bare bulb glared from far end of the cellar and barely illuminated the bottom of the stairs. The dim light that did reach was full of odd-shaped shadows and pockets of darkness.
“Bear, come on up Bear,” he called. He held his breath, waiting, hoping, for the jingle of the dog’s collar, but only silence. He exhaled slowly and began his descent. After only a couple of steps, the air changed dramatically. The rank smell came first, then the coolness, almost to the point of being cold. Like a grave, Denny thought, as he continued down the creaky stairs. He jerked his hand back suddenly when it touched a silky substance and he frantically wiped the tattered web on his pants, picturing a gigantic hairy spider on the other end of it. He silently cursed every horror movie he had ever watched.
When he reached the bottom step, Denny glanced around for possible places for a dog to hide. There seemed only three likely spots. First he checked under the workbench. Nothing there but more spiders. For no reason other than to quell his growing fear, he grabbed a rusty hammer from the assortment of unused tools littering the workbench and slowly made his way to the back of the cellar to look on the other side of the furnace. Nothing there but some old boxes. You know what’s in those boxes, Denny. He shook his head to clear that thought and paused. Only one other place to check.
In the back corner of the cellar a doorway led into what appeared to have been some sort of washroom in some long-forgotten time. Denny had only been inside it once and that had been enough for him. The sink was barely recognizable because of the thick coat of mold that covered it. What appeared to be a tub was nothing more than a two-foot high wall of cement in the far corner, half-filled with a scum-coated pool of water. The thoughts of what might be living in that was what kept Denny away, but he had to check. He reached the doorway and leaned inside. Shafts of dirty light from the window at the top of the wall glistened off the wet floor and walls. The dripping and gurgling sounds that came from the rotted pipes echoed loudly in the small room. The rafters above were festooned with webs and one engorged spider dangled threateningly above him.
A sudden rattle and hiss from the pipes made Denny jump and his eyes widened as he watched the stagnant pool of water begin to churn and bubble. He backed up slowly, dropped the hammer, then turned and ran back to the stairs. Picturing some reptilian beast rising from the slimy water, he stumbled madly up the stairs. At the top, he burst through the door, slammed it behind him and put the small hook-and-latch type lock in place. He leaned against the door for a moment straining to hear slippery footsteps on the stairs. His heart was jackhammering in his chest and his whole body trembled. When he finally caught his breath, convinced nothing was following up the stairs, he walked into the kitchen and immediately felt foolish. His mother was standing in front of the sink with the water running. When she turned it off he could hear the pipes rattling as he had a thousand times before. Turning the water on must force air in the pipes to make the water churn in the tub down in the cellar.
Grinning sheepishly to himself he went out the back door to continue searching for his dog. The picture in his mind of a ferocious monster being held at bay by the old hook-and-latch lock made him giggle.