33

Six nights later, Sarah’s car died a noisy and inconvenient death just outside of Wilton. The night was at its strongest, so I left the automobile carcass where it lay and began to walk.

The night was moonless and still; there was no traffic on the little two-lane road into town. I had become quite adept at depending on my cane for stability; the rhythm of my footsteps was regular and pleasing, slow and deliberate, thoughtful and restrained. It was good to walk the highway again.

I watched the night deepen, felt the cold crinkle of the stars in the clear sky, listened to the sounds of the night animals in the fields.

I walked past the little green sign with its pebbly, light-­reflecting letters that said, “Wilton, Pa., Pop. 4780,” and I held my head a little higher, my back a little more erect. Home. The place to which I vowed I would never return, for it held ties—emotional ties—and I cared little for all the burdens of human life.

Yet here I was, and it wasn’t an emotional cord that tugged me back into this place; it was something else, something stronger, darker, more substantial than the petty stuff of human emotions, yet its nature eluded me. I knew only that this was where I was meant to be.

The night was on the wane as I walked past the first service station, then the barn-sized tavern that exuded country western music of a weekend night. I walked on into town, beyond the feed store, past the laundromat, the bank, and the real estate office. I stood on the corner by the one theater, which played only family features, and I looked to the north.

The neighborhood was up there, on the knoll. The house where Rolf took Alice and me to live, the place where Alice eventually died, was there somewhere, dark, filled with sleeping strangers. An occasional light showing through a square pane was all that signified that a neighborhood was there, and not just an empty field full of Pennsylvania January.

I turned and looked south. The train tracks ran along the back side of the main street, and it was four blocks beyond this that Alice and I had lived before Rolf. The house I was born in, the house that my father laughed in, died in, the house that held memories of childhood ostracism—the house I swore I would never see again—stood just four blocks away.

Like a magnet, it drew me.

There was a third of the night left, at the very most, when I viewed the house from the outside. It seemed unchanged. It remained untended, unpainted—unkempt. The tree in the front was winter-bare and spindly. Dirty mounds of snow built up in the corners and under the bare hedges, while patches of yellow grass showed through, looking forlorn and spooky in the dark. The memories of this house were clear to me but oddly devoid of emotion.

The emotions of too many others swirled about inside of me; I had no room for my own.

The lock on the cellar door was probably still broken. My footsteps crunched delicately on the snow of the driveway as I walked to the side of the house, then around the rear. The steps down to the cellar door were covered with undisturbed snow; I stepped through it without hesitation, descended the steps, and lay my hand on the frigid, tarnished knob. The sound it made as it turned was as familiar to my ears as the sound of my own heartbeat. It was never locked; it was always stuck, but I knew the right combination of movements: Push on the top corner, pull on the knob, jiggle once, and lift up.

The door opened inward, scraping softly on the concrete floor. I slipped in and closed it gently behind me.

The smell was the same—sweet and moldy, as if centuries of drying apples had permeated the damp concrete and wood with their scent. This was my favorite smell of all time. I breathed deeply, closing my eyes, tuning my senses, feeling—home. Relieved. Tired. Back—after a long, long journey.

I would sleep later. First, I had to discover the occupants.

Carefully, I discerned the litter in the cellar: bicycles, boxes marked “Xmas,” fishing equipment, a basketball hoop, a huge, ripped archery target. One corner of the cellar had been built up with shelves, and the shelves were filled with home-preserved fruit, vegetables, jellies, and sauces; the lower shelves were stacked deep and high with canned goods.

A spiderweb caught across my eyelashes as I walked under the stairs where the old round washing machine was still stored. This was the pink, metal washing machine I remembered from my childhood. It had an electric wringer on the top. I trailed my finger in its dust. An old red hobbyhorse sat in the other corner, along with a dismantled crib and a child’s white play kitchen that had been left mid-tea party, with dolls still in their seats.

Two children in this family, I thought, and went to the stairs. I remembered which creaked and which did not, and with the help of my cane slowly mounted them, and at the top opened the door to the kitchen.

Four humans slept in the house. I could smell them.

The kitchen was the same as the last time I’d seen it—the black-and-white linoleum tile, the chipped countertop, the stained sink; the rude yellow walls were maybe a little dirtier, a little sicklier.

The living room was completely different. The furniture here was cheaper, shabbier, than any we had ever had. Evidence of rowdy children was everywhere: marks on the walls, toys left to be stepped on and tripped over, broken vases poorly glued together, teeth marks on all the chair legs. There were burn marks in the tables, in the upholstery; the whole house was worn, too worn, depressing.

But on the mantel, above the fireplace, the woman here had arranged two candles and pictures of the children, one little ceramic frog, and a dried flower. I knew this to be sentiment, and for a moment wished that I had a mantelpiece of my own to set things of sentiment on. I gently blew the dust from them and as I did, I felt someone stir. My heart pounded in reaction. Someone’s depth of sleep had altered. The boy. I walked quickly and silently to the hallway to wait, to watch.

Within moments, the vibrations of sleep were resumed. I walked quietly down the hallway and pushed open the first bedroom door.

Blonde strands of hair, curled at the ends, scattered over a pillow. A girl child of four, maybe five, years, slept with mouth open, her lips like little moist pink petals, her breath sweet on the pillow. I touched her silken cheek with my finger. It was so warm. She was so soft and secure, worryless and safe, happy and oblivious, and suddenly my knees went weak. I was exhausted. I longed to sleep the restful sleep of the child. I leaned closer to her, to fill my nostrils with the scent of youth, just to smell her purity, and she moved her little doll-sized legs under the covers, rubbed her face with one hand, and opened her eyes.

She reacted in surprise at my face so close to hers, then she smiled, the smile of an angel, sleep still clouding her brain. I sent to her a lullaby—a sweeter one I’ve never heard—and watched as her eyelids drooped and finally sank, and the smile faded and her breathing resumed the deep regularity of child sleep. I fingered her hair for a moment, fine golden threads, then turned away. I had more to explore and little time.

The next room had been my bedroom; the door was closed tightly. I turned the knob gently and pushed it open. The floor was littered with toys and clothes; bookshelves lined all the walls. A set of iron bunkbeds lay directly ahead, the bottom bunk covered with debris, the top bunk holding a boy.

I picked my way among the scatterings toward the child. He was much older than his sister: twelve, maybe thirteen. His dingy, stained sheets were pulled down to his waist, the smooth winter-white skin of his back exposed, waiting to be touched, stroked. A lock of light-brown hair fell rakishly across his forehead, his thick eyelashes lay quietly on cheeks just making the transition from childhood chubby to adolescent soft.

I played the music softly for him. No sooner had I started than he relaxed, sinking deeper into his mattress. He had been on the verge of awakening. I ran a finger down his back, ever so softly, tickling, feeling the cool smooth skin. I brushed the hair from his face and traced an eyebrow, a cheekbone. He reminded me of someone. I touched the bridge of his nose, ran my finger across his lips, back again, parting them, feeling his front teeth with the tip of my finger. I increased the music. Who does he remind me of? I opened the lips and looked at the teeth. The front two crossed, just barely, and I took in the curve of the cheek and the fullness of the lips and then I knew. I pulled back, the music changed, and I regained control quickly before I woke him up; before I woke everyone up. He reminded me of Boyd—reminded me so severely of Boyd that I almost knew for sure that if this boy opened his eyes right now, there would be a dark-brown spot over the pupil of one eye.

Silliness, Angelina, I scolded myself, and gentling the boy again with my music, I stepped up on the lower bunk, cringing as it squeaked, and I kissed his neck and smelled his maturing manhood. It was a delicious smell, and I kept my nose in the hollow between shoulder and neck for a long while, not quite daring to taste.

I felt the night wane. I would survive the night without feeding; I would not survive without shelter from the day. Reluctantly I left the boy, deeply pleased that two perfect children slept in my new home.

I closed his door and stepped across the hall. The master bedroom. The parents’ room. I stooped to examine the wallpaper. My blood spot was still there, faded to no more than a little dirty smear, but there it was. I remembered that night as clearly as if it had been this very evening. Had that smear of blood called me back to this house?

Their door was closed. Slowly I opened it and stepped in.

The woman slept naked, the sheet and blanket wrapped tightly around her husband, leaving her barely enough to cover one leg and one arm. Her body was slim and conditioned, the hair on her head an auburn shade, much lighter than the semen-encrusted hair between her legs. The stench of sex hung thickly in the air. The husband, with dark greasy hair curled around his head and black beard stubble gracing his ample jowls, slept noisily in striped pajamas.

She was beautiful, the woman, just as beautiful as her children. I walked to her side of the bed and played the music for her as I gently touched her, touched the portions of a woman that I had never touched before, never even seen before. I saw her through the eyes of eternity; I stroked her flesh, absorbing the warmth, as I watched her body mature and grow old right before my eyes. I gently tickled, pinched, and probed, and in spite of myself, the music changed and she began to respond.

I knew I was treading dangerous ground, but I felt I had teased my nature beyond any reasonable amount of restraint this night, and I urged her responses, and swallowed as saliva threatened to overflow.

And then I heard the voice. It was my own voice this time, clear and sweet. “Angelina, the dawn is upon us,” and it was true, I could see my own shadow over her as the sky began to lighten.

Reluctantly I pulled back, kissed her lightly on the breast, and vowed to return. I made my way with weakening steps back downstairs, consciousness falling away, willing myself one more minute and one more, cursing myself for being so foolish, and I crawled under the stairs with the dirt and dust and crispy insect carcasses, and I stretched out and slept.

SONJA HARDESTY: “It’s all my fault. Oh God, I knew it was down there in the basement, I knew it. I felt it. I—I almost saw it.

“Okay. From the beginning. Right about when all those murders started happening, I started having these erotic dreams. So did my husband, but not quite as much as I.

“I thought it was some kind of sexual-identity stage I was going through. Al least I hoped it was . . . and yet I thought maybe it was something else too, something real, a physical force that was doing something to me late at night while I slept. I was so scared . . . I would sit at Amy’s bedside for hours and wonder if it was real enough to affect her and Will, and still I hoped it was just me, a stage I was going through, a mid-life crisis or something.

“But all the while, I was kidding myself because I knew about that—that feeling in the basement.

“And I wasn’t surprised when those sexual things kept going on with me, night after night, and all the time those terrible things were happening in Wilton, all the doors were locked and everybody was so afraid . . . I began to wonder about myself I thought maybe I was just discovering that I was, you know, one of those kinds of people who get turned on by grisly neighborhood murders . . .

“Anyway, I was so scared that I pretended it wasn’t true. I wanted to believe I imagined it—I would rather believe I was perverted than to really think that the murderer was in my basement, so I never said anything to anybody.

“Some mother, huh?

“Oh God, the worst is that I thought if I said something to somebody, it would be over, and somewhere deep inside myself, I didn’t want it to stop. I thought, being middle-aged and having two kids, that sex was kind of over, well, not really over, but not what it used to be, and this was so . . . tender, almost. Loving. I was afraid and reassured at the same time. Sounds weird when I say it.

“So you see, I barely gave a thought to what could possibly happen to Will, or . . . or Amy . . . God, I can’t believe I’m saying this.”