JMariotte - Boogeyman Read online

  Yanking it away.

  The scream, stuck in Tim’s craw for so long, finally erupted.

  “What’re you doing?”

  Dad. Not a shadow being, not some malevolent entity after all. Or, if malevolent, then only in the human way, not in the supernatural way he had feared. Tim instantly felt ashamed for being so scared, for screaming like that.

  But hehad been here, was no doubt still hiding in the shadows, just waiting for Dad to leave. “He’s here!”

  “Who’s here?”

  “He came out of the closet.” Tim knew he was blubbering, almost hysterical, but he couldn’t contain his terror. He didn’t know if his father had come in because he had heard Tim scream, or for some other reason…some briefly delayed punishment for the baseball incident, perhaps. Didn’t really matter, anyway. The old man hated signs of weakness in his son, and a nighttime scream could earn its own punishment.

  Dad tried to sound calm, reasonable. “Nobody’s here, Tim,” he said. “What’re you talking about?”

  Tim didn’t understand why his dad was playing dumb. Heknew who it was—the only person the shadow man could possibly be. Tim didn’t want to say the name out loud, though; he was certain that if he did that, it would be the last sound he ever uttered. The shadow man wouldn’t sit still and let Tim name him.

  Finally he beckoned his dad closer and whispered the word in his ear.

  Dad’s grin was not as soothing as he probably intended for it to be. Instead, it looked phony, like the smile of one of those salesmen on TV, pushing some goofy kitchen tool no one would ever really use. That grin was almost as scary as the darkness itself. “Oh,” Dad said. “That was just a story. He’s not real.”

  Tim nodded, like he was believing the line his dad was handing out. Dads tried to calm their kids down when they got scared, everyone knew that. And the way to calm kids down was to tell them their fears weren’t real. How many times had Tim heard that one?

  Butthat was the story. The truth was already out.

  Dad could tell Tim wasn’t buying it. “Let’s have a look,” he said. He went to the bedroom door, standing open since he had come in, and pulled it away from the wall. “Not behind the door.”

  He knelt on the floor—Tim moved to the edge of his bed, to look down without getting off it—and lifted the dust ruffle, peering underneath. “Not under the bed.”

  But all this was just stalling, killing time. Tim knew where the shadow man was. He raised a quaking arm and pointed toward the closet. He didn’t trust his own voice to speak.

  “Right,” Dad said. He moved to the closet with all the confidence in the world.It must be great to be a grown-up , Tim thought.Fearless. Believing so absolutely in the nonexistence of the world’s terrors. I can’t wait till I’m there .

  His dad stepped into the closet and pushed around Tim’s clothes. “No, not here either,” he said. Hesounded sure.

  But I saw him in there, Tim wanted to say.I know he was there .

  His dad wouldn’t believe him, though. Having looked with his own eyes, he would be more convinced by that than by Tim’s equally positive knowledge that since hewas in there, hehad to be in there still.

  Dad turned away from the closet, his mind already made up, so he wasn’t looking when the shape emerged from the pitch-black shadows behind him. A tall shape, darkness wrapped in night.

  But Tim saw it, and he felt terror clamp his heart. “Dad!” he screamed.

  Darkness lanced out toward Tim’s father, an arm of pure black, a shadow tentacle. It looped around Dad and yanked him off his feet, backward.

  Into the closet.

  “DAD!” Tim shrieked. He couldn’t yell any louder—Where’s Mom?he wondered briefly.Why hasn’t she come running?

  But she was probably down in the laundry room. Or else she was just used to Tim being afraid of things in the dark.

  Almost as if in response to his scream, Dad flew out of the closet, as if some inhuman force had fired him from a cannon. He slammed into the floor, hard. Tim felt his bed jump from the impact. Dad groaned and clawed at the wooden floor. But whatever was in there still had him by his feet, his ankles. As his father’s hands scratched uselessly at the wooden floor, that something drew him back inside, inch by inch.

  At the last moment, Dad’s outflung hands grasped the doorjamb, halting his disappearance into the closet’s depths. Tim could see his father’s face, eyes popping with the effort, skin flushed, veins bulging. His dad was scared, really truly scared in a way that Tim hadn’t realized grown-ups could ever be. But still, he fought.

  Tim realized maybe that was the difference between kids and grown-ups, or between the fearful and the courageous. He was safe on the bed, and yet he was petrified, rooted to the spot. His dad was being hauled into a dark closet by a monster, and he struggled to save himself.

  But Dad’s efforts were for nothing. The closet door, seemingly of its own accord, began slamming into him, over and over and over. With each slam, Tim heard sickening noises—the tearing of flesh, the splintering of bone. Still, his dad held fast. As if wearying of this effort, whatever held Dad suddenly hurled him upward, driving him into the top of the door frame, and then dropped him back to the floor. Tim’s dad cried out in agony and lost his grip.

  And then, as quickly as a feather being sucked into a vacuum hose, he was yanked into the closet. A quick scream, a flurry of motion. He was there, he was gone. That fast.

  The closet door stood open like a laughing mouth, mocking Tim, for a second longer. A distant noise trickled out. It sounded miles away, seeping into Tim’s room from across some incredible distance—a kind of rushing sound, like a roaring waterfall.

  And then the door slammed shut and the room was absolutely silent. As still as if none of it had ever happened. Moonlight on the wall, mechanical bird motionless in the air, water pooling on the floor where Tim had knocked over his glass.

  Tim, alone on his bed, whimpering like a wounded puppy.

  Fatherless.

  Two

  The offices ofEnd Magazine were decorated in a curious mix of styles. High-tech, modern furnishings and state-of-the-art hardware—especially for the graphics people—were thrown together with discount office furniture and cut-rate cubicles, all surrounded by walls and floors that would have benefited from a coat of paint or a carpet shampoo, or even just some cleanser and a rag. But the magazine life was a high-pressure one, deadline driven and bare bones. Paying a crew to do more than the most basic maintenance—emptying wastebaskets, sweeping the floors—wasn’t in the budget, and no one on staff had time to worry about such things.

  Even today, the day before the Thanksgiving holiday, Jessica Brittan could barely pry herself free from her workload to make it to Pam Cartwright’s good-bye party. Magazine deadlines didn’t care about holidays or staff changes, and Jessica had to design three articles before the end of the month. Two of the three needed photos. Jessica’s old Mac had been a faithful friend, but lately it was giving her fits, especially when she called upon it to work with really large files. It crawled. Sometimes it froze up completely, and if she hadn’t been saving her work regularly she lost time and trouble. She had already put in a request for a new computer, but ad sales had been a little flat lately and she had been told that she would have to wait for another few months.

  By the time she got out of her office, the party was going strong. Jessica bumped into a little knot of coworkers standing on the fringes of it all, drinks in hand—some emptier than others. On Jason Bates, at least, a flushness of face and a strange dipping of one shoulder toward the wall—as if he was leaning on it when, in fact, it was at least eight inches away—indicated that several drinks had already come and gone.

  Across the room, a makeshift bar had been put together on an empty desk that had once belonged to another casualty of the ad rate situation. Not everyone who left the magazine was replaced, and as a result there were a few empty spots around the bullpen. Pam had an office, not a cubicle, an
d her resignation had prompted a massive controversy among the cubicle dwellers over who got to inherit her space.

  Jessica’s boyfriend. Tim Jensen—handsome, midtwenties, clean-shaven, longish brown hair that she loved to curl and tease with her fingertips hanging over his ears—stood in front of the bar with a couple of friends, glaring at a vodka bottle. His empty glass stood on the desk before him. “This is going to turn ugly,” he warned. He upended the bottle over the glass and poured a few drops (less than a shot, for sure) into it. “That’s the last of the vodka.”

  “What are you doing for Thanksgiving?” Tanya asked, distracting Jessica from Tim’s vodka woes for the moment.

  “You know,” Jessica said. “Family, turkey, gaining ten pounds. Tim’s coming over.”

  Tanya grabbed Jessica’s arm and leaned close. Her booze breath reminded Jessica of a medicine bottle. “Holiday with the ’rents? That’s a big step.”

  “He feels like he’s ready for it,” Jessica replied. She’d maybe had to push a little, but not too much; she didn’t think she was forcing him into anything, at least. And she hated to think about him spending the holiday alone.

  Tanya started to say something else, but Jessica tuned her out. Pam Cartwright, guest of honor at this shindig, was working her way though the crowd toward Tim and the other guys holding court at the bar. Pam was pretty, if a little too much in the make-sure-everyone-notices kind of way, and even though she’d had a few, she wasn’t too far gone to forget to use her slinky, attention-grabbing walk as she pushed to the front. As if the walk wouldn’t do the trick by itself, her lavender blouse was tight and her skirt showed plenty of long leg. “Tim, let me have one of those green things?” she asked.

  “Sour apple martini?” Tim said. There were a few already mixed on the desk, and he handed one over to her. Pam smiled broadly and took a sip of the concoction.

  “Tastes like candy,” she said happily.

  Jason Bates had left Jessica’s little clutch as soon as the conversation had turned toward Thanksgiving plans, and he wove his way unsteadily toward the bar. As Pam was turning away, he lurched past her and bumped into her arm. Some of her sour apple martini sloshed out of her glass and onto the floor. “Careful,” Jason said. Too little, too late.

  “Oops!” The collision launched Pam into a loud giggling fit.

  “That’s it,” Jason said, trying to snatch her glass out of her hand. “No more for Pam!”

  She dodged his grab, almost spilling more but managing to keep it contained.She’s not quite as drunk as she acts , Jessica thought. Most of the time, she liked Pam, but the girl had a definite center-of-attention thing going. “Hey, it’s my party!” she declared, defending her drink from Jason’s attempts.

  Jason shrugged and turned to Tim. “Tim, you going to be around this weekend?”

  Finally, Tim’s brown eyes caught Jessica’s gaze. He smiled and held out a hand to her, and she started toward him. She had always been drawn to his eyes, and she couldn’t resist them now even if she had wanted to. “I thought I’d see if I could wrangle a dinner invitation from one of those art department girls,” he said. “Like this one right here.”

  Reaching him, Jessica breathed in his scent—even mixed with the alcohol, she loved his musky aroma—and kissed him on the mouth. “Did Tim tell you about meeting my parents tomorrow?” she asked Jason.

  “Whoa, meeting the folks,” Jason said. “This is serious.”

  Pam Cartwright rested a hand lightly on Jessica’s shoulder. “If he can survive the weekend with Jessica’s father,” she added. Jessica stiffened at the sound of Pam’s voice. She figured Pam just hadn’t wanted to lose the spotlight, so she was trying to become the focus of a conversation that wasn’t about her in the least. But Jessica didn’t want her father to become topic A among a bunch of coworkers letting off steam.

  “Dad’s not that bad,” she countered.

  “Except for the time he tried to drown you,” Pam shot back.

  Leave it to Pam. Her ploy had worked. Now, once again, all eyes were on her. But Jessica’s family was, really, none of Pam’s business.

  Tim shook his head sympathetically. “You never should have told her that story.”

  Obviously. But she had to explain, now that Pam had tossed it out there. These were journalists—given a hint of a juicy story, they would pursue it, refusing to let go. “I was seven,” she explained. “He was trying to teach me to swim.”

  “By throwing her into the middle of a lake,” Pam elaborated. “She sank straight to the bottom.”

  “Your dad sounds like fun,” Jason said, dripping sarcasm. He gave Tim a brotherly poke in the arm. “Been nice knowing you, Tim.” He wandered away, but even with her audience reduced by one, Pam refused to let up. “Then there’s Jessica’s sister,” she went on.

  “I think that’s enough about my family.” Jessica was only half a drink away from substituting something like,Drop it, bitch.

  “Come on, Jess,” Pam pushed. “Just one Chelsea story.”

  Apparently Jessica should never have told Pam any of her family tales, because the woman seemed to have a steel-trap memory for them. There were, in fact, plenty of Chelsea stories Jessica could have told, most of which were time-tested laugh getters. But they were often embarrassing to Jessica at the same time. The one about Chelsea getting caught with her bridesmaid’s dress hiked up around her waist, bent over the table that was meant for the gifts, giving an early wedding present to her best friend’s groom, wasn’t a bad one—the only reflection on Jessica was that the groom was an ex-boyfriend of hers, who had dumped her for the woman he was about to marry. And the one where Chelsea started dating the state trooper who had pulled Jessica over for speeding was okay too. Most of them were even more obnoxious, like the time in high school when Chelsea had changed the lock on her gym locker, forcing Jessica to attend a geometry test in smelly gym clothes while the janitor cut the lock off.

  Rather than tell any of them, however, Jessica was considering the social implications of dumping her drink down Pam’s blouse instead of finishing it. But that would only give Pam the wet T-shirt look, and glue even more eyes to her. Before Jessica could make her mind up, Tim came to the rescue, tapping on a beer bottle with a handy letter opener to call for attention. “This might be a good time for a toast,” he announced. “Everyone.”

  The chatter in the room came to a lull, and all eyes turned toward Tim.Which is no doubt fine with Pam, Jessica thought,because she’s still the main event . She had probably timed her last day to be this one so that she could take over the party, make it be about her instead of Thanksgiving. Jessica could tell by Tim’s pause that he’d called the toast just to cover her, and hadn’t actually planned anything to say. His eyes had a little bit of a deer-in-the-headlights look to them. But after a couple of seconds’ reflection, he smiled. “When we get back from Thanksgiving on Monday, this place will be very different,” he began. “For starters, it’ll be quieter.” This drew a laugh from the assembly, and Tim continued. “But it certainly won’t be as much fun. All of us atEnd, and particularly in editing, are going to miss Pam and her fat red pen—”

  “And her dirty e-mails!” Jason shouted out.

  A bigger laugh. Tim smiled and kept talking, glossing over it. “And her willingness to help others, even when she’s on deadline.” He raised his glass high, in Pam’s direction. “TheDaily News is lucky to get you.”

  A roar of approval came from the group, with even Jessica joining in. People clinked their glasses together, and then conversation resumed, maybe louder than before. Pam dabbed at her eye with a knuckle, misty all of a sudden. “Tim, you’re the nicest person here,” she said. She moved in close, enveloped Tim in her arms, pulling him against her body. She held on for just a little too long, and Jessica stepped in, pretending to be a fight referee.

  “Okay,” she said, with a mock snarl, “break it up.” She playfully separated them, and the two came apart. Pam turned to Jessica and held on
to her arms, looking into her eyes with sudden intensity.

  “Be good to him, Jess,” she said. “He deserves it.” Then she let go of Jessica with one hand, and used it to grab Tim again. “I’m going to miss you.” She raised her voice. “All of you.”

  Pam moved away from them, into the crowd where everyone could assure her, one-on-one, how empty their lives would be without her. Jessica didn’t want to say “good riddance,” but if Pam had pushed any more of her buttons, she might have anyway. She knew Tim wouldn’t understand her feelings, and didn’t want to let on how much Pam had gotten to her. “Yeah, I’ll miss her too,” she lied.

  Guessing that it was getting late, she glanced at her watch. She had to get out of here, should have been on the road an hour ago. “I told my parents I’d be there by eleven.”