Providence, he thought. It was almost funny now. Was it providence that he die here, in their hands? Why am I even doing this? he asked himself. And what am I really doing?
He wasn’t sure how to answer himself, for it was true. He really didn’t know what he was doing, did he? If all his suspicions were real? What would he do? What could he do?
It was well past midnight now. Eventually, the woods broke at a quiet residential street. The street was dark, but several windows were lit. Erik followed close to the shadows.
Headlights flashed around the bend. Erik dove for cover. A car seemed to be slowing. He unshouldered the shotgun and lay still. A spotlight roved the top of the hedges he hid behind. Cops, he realized. The spot moved along the trees, head-level. He could hear a radio squawking. Had they seen him? Was providence so cruel to let him come all this way only to die by the same police who’d sent him away years ago? No, no, he thought. The shotgun grew slick in his hands. I’m going to die right here.
The car idled past. Erik noted the crest and letters on the door: Lockwood Police. The moonlight unveiled the driver’s face. It was Byron, the kid who’d arrested him.
Soon the headlights disappeared around the next bend.
He resumed his advance through the town. He struggled to recall exactly where everything was. Here was Meade Street, and here was Lockhaven. He would have to approach from behind the town square, to avoid the police station. In jest, he pictured himself strolling openly down Pickman Avenue, whistling, waving to Chief Bard.
A block down, through high trees, the white steeple spired.
Home again, Erik thought.
The moonlight painted the church’s white walls pink. He crept around very slowly, eyes peeled. And there they were: the little stone steps which led to the access beneath the church. At the end of the steps, he could see the door.
Erik stood still a moment. Memory flashed in and out of his head like a grueling nightmare. Was this really providence? Or his own horror? It was more than just a door that stood waiting for him. It was his past.
And it was waiting, he knew, with open arms.
«« — »»
Martin awoke in bed, dizzy, nauseous. The darkness was like mud in his face. He’d been dreaming, but all he could recall were streams of repugnant blurs and streaks like images of vivid muck. He felt gritty and he stank. He reached over for Ann, but her side of the bed lay empty, unruffled. Where could she be at this hour? The clock read 1:30 a.m.
Jesus, the thought muttered. He lay back, straining against the force of memory. Where had he been all day? He remembered stopping in at the Crossroads, having a few beers with Andre and some of the other guys. Then…
What?
He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t even remember coming home. All that remained were wisps of what could only be nightmare. He remembered odd tastes and smells. Heat. Sweat. Waves of moans and—
Jesus, he thought again. One of the dream’s images surfaced to completion: being straddled, a hot body pinning him to the ground. Sweat dripped onto his face and chest, breasts were joggling as bizarre words seemed to ooze like sooty smoke around his head. And then he remembered the face that looked down at him, between the breasts. Not Maedeen.
It was Ann’s mother’s face.
What the hell is wrong with me? he asked himself in disgust. Not only was he dreaming of infidelities… I dreamed I was fucking Ann’s mother, for God’s sake.
The realization made him feel even dirtier. Part of it he could figure now. He’d come home late, drunk. Ann was pissed, so that’s why she wasn’t here. She was probably downstairs sleeping on the couch.
Can’t say I don’t deserve it. He’d had a problem with alcohol in the past, but he was sure he’d defeated it. He’d never be anything if he let his life’s old demons come back to him. He was a poet, an artist, and he had responsibilities now, to Ann and Melanie. I better get my shit together, he told himself.
He turned on the night-light and got up, grabbed his robe. He couldn’t stand the smell of himself. He padded down the hall but stopped before the bathroom door. He heard water running. Jesus, who could be taking a shower at this hour? He peeked into Melanie’s room and found it empty, the bed unslept in.
She must’ve been out late too. Of course, Martin could not justifiably scold her, given his own state. He sat on the bed to wait for her to finish. The room was plush, full of antiques. He looked around, waiting, but felt distracted. Next, he found himself standing at the window.
Low in twilight, the moon looked back at him. It was nearly full. Its odd, bright-pink light seeped into his eyes, lulling him. The light seemed to show him things—indeterminate, yet absolutely awful things—beyond its fixed glow.
Blood. Flesh. Evil faces.
Words.
Hüsl, hüsl, hüsl.
Give lof…
And: You are wreccan now.
Martin felt lost, staring into the light. His consciousness felt wavering. What am I doing? he heard himself. He heard a distant hissing. The shower? Yes. Something was luring him away, yet the light remained like a ghost in his eyes.
Inexplicably, he turned away from the window and walked into Melanie’s closet. But why? The closet was dark, but toward the back he detected a point of light.
A hole in the wall. A hole of light.
He put his eye to the hole.
Melanie, standing in a suit of white lather. Eyes closed, she turned her face up to the torrent of cool water. Martin’s eye remained open over the hole. Something forced him to watch. Now Melanie was washing the suds off her body, the water sluicing. She shut the water off and stepped out.
What am I…
She towel-dried her fine, light brown hair. Martin stared at her perfectly formed rump as she bent to dry her legs. Then she straightened, patting the towel around her breasts and under her arms. She hadn’t shaved her armpits in several days; Martin found the sparse covering of hair, like fine fur, to be densely erotic. Even more erotic was the contrast of her large, dark brown nipples against the flawless whiteness of her breasts.
What…am…I—
Martin was masturbating as he continued to spy on his lover’s young daughter. It felt obscene, like incest, but he couldn’t refrain. Melanie’s skin was so bright in the bathroom light, so lustrous. Somehow, looking at it was like being on some drug. Her face, too, was beautiful, and her dark brown eyes, the mussed wet hair. Martin felt helpless against the urge to continue to stroke himself. It was this vision that spurred him, the sharp white clarity of Melanie’s beauty, of her flesh. Beads of water nestled in her pubic hair glittered like jewels. Martin considered what his lust had reduced him to at that moment: I’m a pervert, a peeper. I’m a thirty-eight-year-old published author masturbating in a closet.
The images he peeked at began to meld with his imagination; he imagined sliding his penis slowly in and out of Melanie’s fresh sex. He imagined that virginal tightness, and then flooding it with his sperm. The sperm would rush out of her when he withdrew and run down her pretty leg. Next, she’d be sucking him hard again, the hot friction so deft that his knees would wobble. She would suck him off like a practiced whore and at the last moment jerk him off all over those pert, perfect breasts…