Talbert's Plunge [NOOK Book]

Read an Excerpt

The snow draped itself around the garage, making a horseshoe shape between the fences of our backyard. There is something bleak about February, something bleak like a Stephen King Shining or maybe a Koontz, IceBound. I stared at the round thermometer hanging outside on a post in front of the kitchen window, one of those thermometers with pictures of wild birds on it (I hadn't seen a bird all day). It read minus seven degrees Fahrenheit. It was going to be a long weekend.

Writing was becoming increasingly more difficult for me. Writer's block? Maybe. How many different twists could you put to a wildlife article? I suppose many, but I couldn't think of any. Because writing was getting tough, living became even tougher. Ruthie was working down the street at a convenience store called The Street Cupboard. In her seventh month of pregnancy, Ruthie's paychecks were numbered. Things were not good. It was becoming difficult to look at Ruthie and her bulging stomach without feeling a whole shitload of guilt. She didn't seem to mind working, constantly reassuring me that we would survive. Ruthie would see to it. She was a survivor. Her fragile appearance was deceptive.

It was late afternoon and the spiritless sun seemed to be dropping from the sky and with it the temperatures dropped, minus eight degrees. The wind was slowing down and I could once again see the garage door, still no Ruthie. She usually was home by four fifteen on Saturdays. The train-whistle clock I ordered from a novelty catalogue was whistling up a storm at five p.m. It's not unusual for Ruthie to be late, especially on Saturdays. Sometimes the evening person, Staci, gotherself coked up just a little too much and would come in late and higher than a kite in April. I shivered. I heard the back door creak.

She didn't look good. Ruthie was like a ghost with skin. She told me it was time to go to the hospital. "But" I croaked. She told me there was no "But" about it. I grabbed her overnight case in the cloak room off the entrance. She was heading out to the garage before I could get to the door. She was staggering. I scrambled by her side and grabbed her arm and steadied her to the car. Little did I know that night. Little did I know.

Christian was born soon after we arrived at the hospital. He weighed 5 pounds, 12 ounces. Doctor Janoski ("Janny" by everyone) said that given the fact the baby was born almost two months early, he was doing fine. Christian would need assisted breathing for awhile, but all in all, everything was going to be fine.

Everything, that is, except for the rest of my life. You may think I'm cruel when I say this, but I sorely wish Christian Massey was never born. I wish to the Almighty I never laid eyes on him. But, I did. Right there in the hospital on a heartless February night, a night when the world seemed dead-cold, I believe death was born. Something in Ruthie died when giving life to that devil. When he was yanked from her womb Ruthie's soul was yanked right with him.

The doctor ordered Christian to the incubator and Ruthie was wheeled into her room. At the moment, I was excited. I didn't know. I followed like the subservient child as Ruthie was lifted into her bed, rails up, nurse's button placed in her hand. I touched her hand. It was cold and stiff, like death, like the frozen wind whipping through the tree-formed alcoves surrounding the hospital. Ruthie stared at the ceiling with tears in their beginning stages. I touched her again, but she never touched back. She never touched back since that bleak night in February.

Raising her voice, she said, "Tal, don't ever touch me again." I flinched like she had thrown a knife at me. I wish she had thrown a knife at me. I could have ducked and ran to her and held her, but words are hard to dodge.

"You got me pregnant! You made me give birth to a monster!" Ruthie was screaming, nurses were running, and I was frozen in shock. My mouth hung as I was being ushered from the room by a strong person in white. It might have been a man or a woman, I don't know. I just know that I heard Ruthie screaming words that I never heard uttered from her mouth before. I heard them down the hall and in the elevator. "Motherfucker! Beast maker! You cocksucker, don't fuckin' ever come here again! Leave me to raise this...this..." Her words faded as I found myself in a deserted lobby, a big hand was still clamping, vise-like, on my arm. It was still the person in white. It was a man. He was wearing a name-tag I couldn't read.

The big man in white said something; it came out as a mutter. I wasn't hearing. I wasn't thinking. I was only breathing. I walked with what seemed like vertigo steps through the double doors into the frozen night. I needed to puke.

Two in the morning is an uneventful time in Lordes Crossing, Indiana. The rambling lighted time and temperature sign on the First Farmers National Bank emptily displayed "-12 degrees at 2:07 a.m." The empty streets were disguised with snow, but I knew the way home, I've always known the way home. Tonight was no different. Except, of course, my wife had just called me a "cocksucker" and the hospital bouncer bounced me right the hell out of Dodge. My firstborn, Christian (named after my Uncle Christian) was born prematurely and was lying in state in an incubator. Just a typical fucking night in the life of Tal, "leave it to the Beaver," Massey.

Why I never bought an electric garage door opener, I haven't a clue. Tonight's arctic temperament reaffirms the fact that I should've. I kept the engine running and the car door open as I hurriedly ran to the garage door and began pulling. The door was frozen and I was having no luck launching it away from the concrete entrance way. Suddenly, my car stopped running, startling me. My car never stopped running. It was only six months old and ran without error every day. The tank was nearly full. I had filled it up two days ago and, believe me, there isn't enough land to cover in the metropolis of Lordes Crossing to use up a tank of gas in two days.

I stood there staring at my car in the middle of the night wondering what to do next. I didn't notice the cold nor had I noticed right away that the frigid night had become preternaturally silent, except for the quiet shuffling of steps. Steps? Who would be out on a night like this? An uneasiness began to squeeze at my chest. The steps came closer, but I saw nothing. I saw only the orange hue radiating from the street lamps overhead. We were fortunate to have an alley with good lighting; most in Lordes Crossing are not. I squinted. The steps stopped suddenly. I heard only the distant howling of a lonesome animal. The light wind reached me with its frigid tentacles. I shivered and suddenly had the urge to use the bathroom. I heard nothing. Whoever, whatever, walking, or, dragging towards me had stopped, stopped and watched me. I stood still, waiting. I waited for whatever it was to make a move. It never moved. I could wait no longer.

I stiffly walked over to my car and got in. I closed the door, tried the ignition, but nothing happened. I tried the radio, nothing. What a night for the car to stop, fuck. Whatever was out there was still watching me. I could feel it. All at once I heard my doors lock. My heart raced. I felt it. I heard it. That's all I could hear. I felt nothing else, not even the freezing grip of the night which surely would gnaw deeply into my skin before too long. Below zero temperatures have a way of killing you before you know you're being killed. I began to panic even more. I knew that sitting in a metal container with the door closed in 10+ degrees below zero temperatures would soon bring only misfortune. I pulled the door lever, nothing. I pushed on the door violently, nothing. I tried the window and the knob would not budge. I had become a prisoner in a deep-freeze on wheels. My anxiety quickened. I tried the passenger side door and window with the same results. I began kicking at the door and screaming. No one would hear me. My premonition of tomorrow's headlines were not good. My trepidation increased.

Just when I was about to attempt to kick out the windshield of the car, everything came back to life and the ignition warning bell sounded its warning. My hands and feet were numb, dangerously so. I withdrew the ignition key and swiftly got the hell out of the car. Fuck the garage. The car can sit right where it's at. I'll worry about starting it later. My endorphins were in remission and I needed sleep. I looked at my watch under the street light next to our garage, 2:45 a.m. This strange event had lasted no more than fifteen minutes, but I felt I had been exposed to the cold for much longer. I ran rigidly to the back door of the house, fumbling with keys. The house was warm and welcoming. What a night. I would think about the steps, the locks on the car, and my fear of it all, tomorrow.

The house was quiet, no Ruthie, no baby. Just me and the tightness in my stomach. I went to the refrigerator and pulled out a beer. The morning newspaper was still on the kitchen table. I sat down at the table and tried to read the paper. I couldn't concentrate. Those strange events I had just experienced spun tornado-like in my head. I needed to soak in a hot bath and wash away the tenseness that gripped at every muscle I possessed.

I climbed the carpeted stairs to our bedroom, adjacent to our newborn's room. Ruthie always referred to it as Christian's room, even before the sonogram showed clearly a boy's equipment had developed. The door to Christian's room stood open. The room was dark. I was drawn to the dark, gaping threshold not knowing why. Sure Tal, a newborn's room is a scary place. I mean, hell, every parent on earth probably pisses themselves when they walk toward their infant's room, especially when the room is empty. Nevertheless, I was drawn. I can't ignore that fact. I walked silently and I walked with an unaccountable terror swelling in my chest.

I crossed the hallway and into the mouth of hell. What I saw, what I felt, are cauterized in the deepest creases of my mind. I will never forget them.

Christian's room was freezing. In fact, it appeared that ice had formed on every piece of furniture and on the walls. I could feel my lungs stinging sharply from the sudden intake of arctic air. Frosty fear gripped my hands and feet. I could not move. I was stranded in some kind of surreal coma. I tried to turn around, to get the hell out of there. My body wouldn't cooperate. So, there I stood staring at something my mind hadn't fully comprehended. The crib was not empty.

Moonlight cast a muted glow into the room. My eyes adjusted to the darkness unwillingly, unwilling to see this nightmare. The crib stood parallel to the single window in Christian's room. My fear heightened when I saw it. My breath audibly caught in my throat. Horror had somehow thrust itself into my life, into my home. Someone or some thing was in Christian's crib. There was a clawing sound against the side rails or maybe it was on the headboard, I couldn't tell. There was a moan, almost a gurgle, almost a death rattle. I strained to see, but could not. Suddenly the room warmed and the overhead light that I had tried earlier to turn on, came on. I stared horrified and astonished at an empty crib.

I moved prudently toward the crib looking for I-don't-know-what. I found nothing. I looked under the small bed, found nothing. I glanced at the side rails and saw no marks. There were no marks on the headboard. Was I dreaming? Am I really asleep and this is all a segment of some strange dream? As I turned from the crib I saw something out of the corner of my eye. Something that should not have been. Something terrible. No, no this definitely is no dream. There on the edge of the blanket was a piece of what looked like a fingernail. Closer examination revealed something much more terrifying than a fingernail. I mean, after all, a fingernail could be explained, but this was unexplainable. A piece of a claw with a hint of blood attached to it lay there as if in testimony to a gruesome illusion that, in fact, was no illusion at all.

I picked it up. A dog? A cat? I somehow knew that neither of these guesses were right. I somehow knew that this thing I held in my hand had origins much more grisly than domesticated puppies and kittens. The thing that I felt, yes felt, was not nice. In fact, I would say that niceness was not in this thing's lifestyle. Nothing nice would cause a room to freeze. And, nothing nice would writhe and moan (gurgle) in an empty infant's crib. Nothing nice would leave a room so quickly. And, what about the sudden warmth? The lights going on suddenly? Questions with no apparent answers.

You're probably thinking that I should have kept that claw. I couldn't. It terrified me. Looking at it would only remind me that our home had been invaded by something very ugly, something very dangerous. I flushed it down the toilet. As it was swirling with the toilet water I could almost swear that I heard a cry, a cry I imagined that a creature might make when it's hopelessly caught in a steel trap. But, some mechanism in my mind kept reminding me about the room temperature, the lights, and the sudden disappearance. My mind kept telling me this was not an animal to be caught with a steel trap. There was something much, much more to this. This being, perhaps was the steel trap.

No matter how exhausted and worn I had become, sleep would not be an option tonight. I stayed upstairs. Going downstairs might be an invitation to my new found hideous friend to return for a repeat performance, a performance my nerves could ill afford this night. I went to the closet of the master bedroom. I took Ruthie's dressing chair with me. I set the chair below the slide-away attic opening and stood awkwardly on the chair and could just barely slide the trapdoor open. I stood on my toes and reached for my old 12 gauge Mossberg single shot shotgun and a half empty box of shells. I removed the gun from its nylon encasement. Surprisingly, the gun was in pretty good shape. I had oiled it before I hid it about 3 years ago. I loaded it, clicked the safety on, and leaned it by the side of the nightstand.

I removed my shoes, by habit, and pulled my shirt over my head. I tucked a large pillow behind my head so that I was propped from the neck up so that I could view our open doorway. I fully expected company, but none came. And, no matter how frightened I was and no matter how greatly I wanted to watch for our intruder, sleep found me.

Copyright © 2007 Stan Grimes.