It was one of Mr. Swayze’s books. BOTTOM OF THE WELL — the back cover, the part that contained a little summary of the story and what the Philadelphia Enquirer had said about THE HAND — “First-class chills! Hookerman writes like he’s lived it!” — and what Publisher’s Weekly had said about THE CLOUD — “Richly detailed and un-put-downable!”
Janie giggled. It was like the wind inside was showing it to her — like it’d hit the glass once to get her attention, then put this here for her to read it.
The glass shook a bit under the pressure, and Janie could hear it moan as the cracks spread further. Janie read the summary, out loud: “When… they dug for… water, they didn’t expect… to find a more…” she struggled, turning her head as the book slid and shifted along the glass “…an-ci-ent… ancient!” She clapped her hands together and smiled. Ancient. That meant old. “Ancient hunger,” she finished. “Now… it’s…” She frowned. Lost? No. “Loose! An’… And… they’ll… never be… the same!”
And that was as far as she got, because the book flipped over and she was looking in the eye of that snake-head coming out of the pump-spout. Then she wasn’t looking at anything, because the wind-pressure finally got too great, and the glass exploded outward.
The wind must’ve knocked Janie off her feet, and knocked her out for awhile too. She woke up in the lodge’s main bedroom, where she and Ernie had been sleeping — all warm and covered up in a big quilted blanket. She looked under the covers and saw that she didn’t have clothes on underneath.
That wasn’t the only thing that changed. She felt her rib, and her elbow, then the little crescent-cut over her ear. They all felt better; like they’d been mending a few days, not just a couple more hours. Her hair was tied back, like she liked it, and she smelled all clean and pretty, like she had a bath.
The only thing that didn’t change was how hungry she was. It was like a wound in her middle, all the more nagging, because of the smell that was coming in through the doorway. It was the smell of cooking — the salty-greasy smell of frying meat, with some spices maybe.
Janie got up out of bed. She didn’t see clothes, but that didn’t matter — she just wanted some of that food. She threw the comforter over her shoulders and opened the door to the living room.
It was like nothing had happened. The books were all up on their shelf, and the pages of the story magazine were nowhere to be seen… And there was no blood on the floor either, although she didn’t remember cleaning up any of it. She’d almost say that the whole thing was just one of her dream-things, but the room was still freezing cold, on account of the broken front window. Some of the glass from it was sitting in a little garbage can by the fireplace.
“Janie!”
She almost jumped out of her skin. Mr. Swayze was standing in the doorway to the kitchen. He was wearing a dirty apron, and held a spatula in one hand, and a screwdriver in the other. He was smiling, but he looked a bit worried too.
“H-hello, Mr. Swayze.” Janie clutched the blanket around her shoulders.
“It’s good to see you up and around,” he said. “You look like you’ve been through a lot.”
Janie looked down at her feet, which were thick and bare, and her toes were pointing together. She straightened them. “E-Ernie, he took—”
Mr. Swayze put up his hand, and his face went all serious. “I know about Ernie,” he said. “Don’t worry, Janie. I found him before he got far. Ernie’s in hand. Everything’s taken care of. See?” He held up the screwdriver. “I even fixed the shelf.”
Janie felt drool ridging over her lips.
“Hungry,” she said, and looked over Mr. Swayze’s shoulder into the kitchen.
At that, Mr. Swayze grinned again — a big toothy grin — and he laughed. “I bet you are, Janie,” he said, and laughed again.
“Lichen doesn’t take you very far, does it?”
Janie’s stomach twisted like a hand-wrung facecloth — oh, it wanted that food bad — but Janie stood her ground for a minute.
“Lichen,” she said, frowning. “How’d you know about lichen?”
“Why Janie,” he said, and his grin widened some more. “If it weren’t for the lichen, you and I wouldn’t be here, having this conversation now. That’s how he gets in, Janie.” And then Mr. Swayze shut his eyes, and opened his mouth real wide. “Yum-tum,” he said, and his tongue flicked out and back, like it was a frog’s or something. He opened his eyes again, and as he did Janie had to look away. They were too bright.
“You’re a quick study, Janie — a lot quicker than Ernie, which I wouldn’t have expected.” Mr. Swayze stepped over to her, but she still wouldn’t look at him. He put his hand under the blanket and rested it on the bare flesh of her shoulder. It was hot.
“I wouldn’t have expected it,” said Mr. Swayze, “but I have to say, I’m glad.”
Janie took hold of Mr. Swayze’s hand on her shoulder, tried to lift it away. “Don’t go touching me,” she said. But he wouldn’t move.
Her stomach bent around behind itself, it felt like. Hungry! Food! And Mr. Swayze let out a breath of hot, stinking air. “The spirit’s fed me,” he said. His voice trembled, like from hunger. “It’s the wind and the sky and the cold, but oh Janie, it’s fed me. Done me well. Do you know what I’m talking about?”
“Let me go,” she said.
“You know — you just can’t say yet. It’s the spirit of the land here. It’s the wind-walker — and it’s the spirit of you too, Janie. You were always close to it — but you’ve never been closer than today.” He squeezed hard on her shoulder. “This is like the property at Fenlan — another special place, Janie. You saw the drawings on the rocks, didn’t you?”
“Like your book covers,” said Janie. She thought about the twisted horn, and the hand and the snake, and the wings of the DEAD BIRD, all there on the rock face where she’d licked the lichen away.
“Right,” he said. “Very good. And all that, my Janie…” His tongue came out, and caressed the sharp tips of his front teeth. “All that’s just a yum-tum lick and a bite away.” His smile went broader, and his nose twitched, like it was catching the smell of the cooking in the other room.
“Food,” said Janie. “You take the food from here and stomp on that blueberry patch, Mr. Swayze?”
“Wendigo.” He whispered it like a dirty word in church. “That’s what they call me, Janie. And that old food was no good for you. It wasn’t what you needed, any more than that butter and that mustard’d do the trick. And forget about blueberries! You’re not a blueberry girl anymore, Janie. Now you come on with me to the kitchen — and eat some meat.” His eyes went all yellow with the heat in him.
“You may be Wen-digo, but you ain’t Ernie,” she said flatly. “I don’t got to do nothing.”
It was true, Janie thought. Because although the smell of cooked meat was all over her, although Mr. Swayze wouldn’t let go even though she told him to, although she was so Goddamned hungry she could just about gnaw off her own arm for it and would have just loved to go into the kitchen for some meat now, none of those things could compel her. Ernie was the only one who ever really could, and he was gone.
Janie reached up and grabbed Mr. Swayze by the ear, which his big old grin had nearly reached. He stopped grinning when she twisted it and his face went like that wasp nest that time, all angry and twisted and ready to bite. She twisted it some more, and then there was some blood, and then Mr. Swayze’s hand came away from her shoulder and took hold of her arm.