11

Changes

The changes that took place in the Snedeker family over the following months were very subtle, but not so subtle as to go unnoticed by Al and Carmen; they were—with the exception of the changes in Stephen's behavior—simply not discussed.

Their lives went on as they always had, with the usual problems and the usual highlights. They went to church every Sunday, attended church functions and school functions on weeknights, occasionally rented a video to watch. If there appeared to be anything different about them on the outside, it was only that they seemed to settle into their new home and were finally feeling comfortable.

The changes were not, however, exterior. They could not be seen by unfamiliar eyes; they were hardly visible to familiar ones. They were taking place under the skin, growing slowly, spreading like the cancer that had afflicted Stephen, but doing so without attention, without treatment of any kind.

Without knowing the other was doing the same, Al and Carmen individually fought to cling to that stable exterior while trying to ignore little things that continued to happen all around them, silly things that, taken one at a time, would be insignificant at best. But together...together, these incidents formed a pattern that Al and Carmen did not want to know about or even be aware of; so they fought to ignore it, and held even tighter to that normal, clean exterior they had built for themselves.

And all the while, Stephen's behavior and personality changed. Later, Al and Carmen would say it had been instantaneous, but that was only because the initial changes were so gradual, so subtle, that when the transformation was complete, it caught them completely off guard.

There were many things that, during the next several months, would catch them off guard.

"Things seem to be going well for you guys," Tanya said to Carmen one day while changing a messy diaper. Carmen was on the sofa drinking a diet cola and enjoying the sound of the baby's coos and burbles.

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, well, you said Stephen's better and—"

"No, no. I said his cancer seems to have gone into remission. That doesn't mean it won't come back, it just means he's okay for now. We're thankful for that, though, and we've put it in God's hands."

"Yeah, but that's better than before, right? So, Stephen's better for now, you seem...oh, I don't know, you seem more at ease, I guess. Like you're not so tense and anxious as you were before. 'Course, I suppose you had a lot to be anxious about, what with the move and Stephen's cancer. You just seem...happier, I guess. That make sense?"

"Yeah, I suppose so," Carmen said, although she was frowning. That was, of course, the effect she'd been trying for, she just hadn't realized she'd succeeded.

"Be right back," Tanya said, taking the baby in her arms. "I'm gonna go put her down for a while."

Carmen nodded absently, then returned to her thoughts.

She certainly hadn't felt happy or at ease. In fact, there were days when, if she allowed herself, she questioned her sanity, wondered if maybe the stress of Stephen's illness and the sudden move had caused some sort of delayed reaction, a nervous breakdown, perhaps.

Sometimes, when she was alone in the house, walking from one room to another, she spotted movement in the corner of her eye, a flash of gray that darted from one piece of furniture to another. At first, she thought it was Willy; they usually kept him locked downstairs, but occasionally he weaseled his way up to the living room and wiggled around, playing hide-and-seek with them. But he was always locked up when she saw this blurred movement to her right or left; when she investigated it, there was never anything there.

Twice, she'd stood in the kitchen with her back to the refrigerator—washing dishes one time, chopping vegetables another—when she'd felt a wave of ice-cold air hit her back, as if the refrigerator door had swung open. But when she turned around, it was closed. The cold faded quickly, until it seemed as if the drop in temperature had never occurred—if, indeed, it had.

Also, twice she'd awakened to find the bed vibrating, almost as if it were one of those tacky motel beds and someone had dropped a quarter in the slot...but without a sound. Beside her, Al had slept soundly. She'd gotten up both times, had a cigarette, gone to the bathroom, and when she'd returned, the vibrating had stopped.

Each time something happened—movements, vibrations, the kitchen floor bleeding, or a voice or two she'd thought she'd heard when she knew no one else was in the house—she thought of Stephen. She thought, of course, of the things he'd said about the house, the things he'd supposedly seen, but she also thought of what had become of him since they'd moved into the house.

First, there had been his fear of going downstairs; that had been very unlike Stephen, who, in spite of the treatment he'd received from his peers at school, had managed to remain an outgoing, even aggressive boy who had shown fear only when fear was sensible, not when there was nothing of which to be afraid.

But lately, something else seemed to be happening. It was nothing physical, not like the result of his cobalt treatments; instead, this was a change in his personality. Her first exposure to it was when he'd snapped at her while lying in his bed that night.

I don't give a shit what you think, he'd said, and his words had cut into her like rusty blades. He'd never said such a thing to her before and it had hurt. The hurt had come out as anger, although she'd wanted to hunker down beside his bed in tears and ask, Why would you talk like that to me, honey? Why?

But that had only been the beginning. He'd become very quiet after that. He seemed anxious to separate himself from the family altogether. He spoke only when words were dragged out of him, and even then he sounded as if he were talking to people he held in the utmost contempt. There had been three occasions on which he'd said rude, horrible things to Carmen that made her hurt just recalling them. And when he said them, he even looked different; his face tightened, became almost reptilian.

She'd often wondered if perhaps this change in Stephen would have taken place had they not ignored what he'd said about the house—or if they had not moved into the house in the first place.

"—dinner tonight, Carmen?"

She jerked upright, eyes wide, and turned to see Tanya standing before her, hands on her hips.

"What?" Carmen said. "I mean, um, I'm sorry?"

"I said, what're you planning for dinner tonight?"

"Um, well, um...I'm not sure, really." She was nervous, fidgety, as if Tanya had been watching her thoughts unnoticed. "How about you?"

"Oh, probably a frozen dinner. Benjamin won't be home from work until late tonight."

Carmen suggested that, instead of eating alone, Tanya and the baby should come over for dinner, providing they didn't mind something simple. Tanya agreed happily.

"You know," she said, "in all this time, I think I've only been in your house once, and then for just a few minutes."

Carmen thought about it; she was right. She wondered how she'd gone so long without having Tanya over. After all, she spent a lot of time in Tanya's house.

Ashamed of your house, maybe? her inner voice asked. Afraid of what she might see or hear? Carmen looked away from Tanya, blinked her eyes rapidly and quickly dismissed the thought.

Carmen had already started dinner when the doorbell rang. Tanya held the baby in her arms as she entered, smiling.

But her smile faltered a bit and she frowned as she looked around her.

"Something smells good," she said, her smile quickly recovering.

Carmen noticed it, though she chose not to ask for an explanation. "Pot roast, potatoes, and vegetables. Like I said, something simple. You want something to drink?"

Tanya had a beer, Carmen a diet soda, and the two of them sat at the dining-room table, Tanya holding the baby—who was cooing contentedly, looking around with wide eyes—in her lap.

"Where're the kids?" Tanya asked.

"Outside. Except for Stephen. He's downstairs."

"I thought he didn't like it downstairs."

"Not anymore. He's been spending a lot of time down there. He even mentioned something about moving back into his own room. I don't know, he seems..." She shrugged, but didn't go on.

Tanya was frowning again, looking off to her left, as if she'd seen someone or something.

"What's wrong?"

Tanya blinked at her. "Um...nothing. I just thought I, uh...I don't know."

"Maybe Al drove up. He should be here any time now."

Looking to the left again, Tanya murmured, "No, I don't think...oh, well." She grinned at Carmen and said with forced cheerfulness, "Can I help with dinner?"

"No, just relax."

They talked. As the conversation progressed, Tanya appeared more and more ill at ease, as if the chair she sat in were uncomfortable. Nervous tics came alive in her face and her eyes darted around warily as she held the baby closer to her.

"Is something wrong, Tanya?" Carmen asked quietly.

"What? Um, no. I mean, um ..." Her eyes darted around again, then she smiled nervously. "I'm sorry." She looked down, sipped her beer, and kissed the baby's head.

"Sorry for what?"

Tanya didn't look up for a long moment, then: "Would you mind terribly if we didn't stay for dinner, Carmen?"

Carmen flinched. "Well, I thought—"

"I'm really not that hungry, and I usually put her down pretty early and, um..." She stood. "Could I have a raincheck? Or how about if you and Al come over next weekend for a barbecue?"

Carmen stood, too. "Wait a minute, Tanya, hold it." She followed Tanya into the hall. The skin at the back of her neck felt prickly and she sensed that something was very wrong here. "There's something wrong. What is it?"

Tanya would not meet Carmen's eyes as she reached for the doorknob. "Um, Carmen, I'm, uh..." She laughed again, a breathy, staccato sound that rattled up from her throat. She opened the door a few inches, turned to Carmen timidly and asked, "Promise you won't laugh at me?"

"Well, of course not, Tanya. What's the matter?"

"It's just that I'm—I'm uncomfortable here."

"What? What do you mean, you're un—"

"It's this house. It's...there's something, um..." She shook her head and started out the door again. Carmen clutched her elbow, a little harder than she intended, and held on tight. Her heart was in a frenzy in her chest, even throbbing in her throat, and she was afraid to ask the question she needed to ask. "What about this house, Tanya?"

Tanya replied after a long pause, whispering half her words. "I'm not sure. But there's something, um, something wrong here. It's not just the house, it's...the air. I feel it no matter what I do. It's like I'm trapped in a tiny room that just keeps getting smaller and smaller, you know? A claustrophobic feeling."

"But you've been here before and you never noticed any—"

"Only for a few minutes, never this long. I don't think I had time to see anything. And I didn't—"

"See anything? What did you see?" Carmen's mouth was dry and chalky and her palms were sweaty. She released Tanya's elbow and rubbed her hands over her hips to dry them. "You didn't say anything about seeing anything."

Another edgy laugh. "It's nothing, Carmen, just—"

"What did you see?”

"I'm not sure. I kept seeing...well, it looked like something was moving around in the hall. Moving fast. Something small. I'm sure it was just me. It is, really, it's just me"—another laugh—"and I'm not gonna be very good company, is all. Tell you what, I'll see you later, okay?" She opened the door. "Call me tonight, we'll make plans for this weekend, okay?" She stepped out onto the porch. "A barbecue. Our place. See you later."

Then she was hurrying across the lawn toward her own house.

Carmen stood in the doorway for some time after Tanya left, then she closed the door hard and leaned back against it, eyes closed.

Thoughts raced through her mind and she tried to slow them down. Maybe it was just all the things I’d told her about Stephen, about what he'd said, about what the kids claimed to have seen and heard, she thought.

She smelled dinner, remembered she had a roast in the oven and hurried into the kitchen to prepare the rest of the meal, trying to ignore the trembling of her hands.

Al had been trying to ignore a lot of things, too.

Like the music and voices coming from downstairs, for example. He'd heard them a number of times. Enough times, in fact, so that he didn't even get out of bed anymore, just lay awake staring into the darkness, listening.

Sometimes the bed vibrated, too, the way it had that first night. Of course, the family had moved in upstairs—Terrence and Linda Vanowen and their son and daughter, nice folks, friendly—so Al was able to use his upstairs-refrigerator theory to dismiss the vibrating; it took some pushing, but he managed to convince himself, and a few extra beers before bed helped him to get to sleep in spite of the disturbing thoughts he tried to bury.

Even when he slept as well as usual, however, Al found himself feeling as though he hadn't been, as if he'd been spending his nights tossing and turning between sweat-soaked sheets. He got through work with the help of a lot of coffee, and he started getting ready for bed as soon as he got home by opening his first bottle of beer.

He lay in bed one night, awake, but with his eyes closed. He wondered if he was drinking too much beer, if maybe it could be behind the things he'd been hearing and feeling and thinking; maybe, just maybe, Stephen had been right about the house. But then he told himself he'd been drinking more because of all those things, and he couldn't imagine himself not drinking, not without going crazy, not without blurting it all out to Carmen and, at the very least, looking crazy.

After a while, with the steady and soothing sound of the alarm clock ticking on the nightstand, Al slept....

He awoke suddenly and harshly to find himself shaking and his first thought was, Oh God, oh my God, it's shaking now, not vibrating, shaking!

It was Carmen. She was clutching his shoulder, shaking him hard and hissing, "Al. Al! Wake up, Al, it's the bed! The bed!"

"Wh-what?" He sat up, squinting in spite of the darkness and blinking furiously, as if his eyes had something in them.

"The bed, Al, the bed!"

Once he'd emerged from the thick fog of sleep, he realized that it was happening again. The bed was vibrating. Its silent thrum moved through Al's body, wrapping around his bones like twine.

He thought fast and came to a decision: If it worked for him, it would work for Carmen, too.

"Whassamatter with it?" he asked, trying not to look like he was in a hurry as he tossed back the covers and got out of bed. He stood there rubbing his eyes and running his fingers roughly through his hair.

"You can't feel that?" Carmen said, speaking louder now. She stood on the other side of the bed in her long nightshirt with a picture of Opus the penguin on the front. "It's vibrating is what's the matter with it. Feel it."

"What?"

"Just feel it!"

Al tried not to flinch as he put his hand on the bed and felt the familiar, somehow malignant sensation ooze up the middle of his arm. After a moment, he pulled his hand away, nodded at Carmen and said, "Yeah, well?"

"Well? Well? The bed is vibrating, Al, what is it? Why is it doing that?"

"It's from upstairs," he said quietly, calmly, his voice even and thick with the indifference of sleepiness.

"From what?"

"From the refrigerator upstairs. That's all. It comes on and vibrates, then comes down here and we feel it in the bed, is all. Go back to sleep. It'll stop after awhile."

She stared at him, lips parted, as he turned and headed for the bathroom.

Once in the bathroom, Al turned on the light and locked the door. He didn't need to use it, but it was the only place he could think of to go in the middle of the night without having to give Carmen some sort of explanation.

He put the toilet lid down and sat on it, elbows on his knees, his face in his palms, and exhaled slowly. He hoped the vibrating had stopped and Carmen had gone back to sleep. He even prayed for it silently. After a while, he crossed himself, stood and then stopped when he heard a loud noise from somewhere outside the house. The noise repeated again and again, stopped for a moment, then continued.

Al frowned as he left the bathroom, muttering, "Now what?"

It was a dog barking. He almost ignored it and went back into the bedroom, but it was so close, he thought he'd check it out.

He went to the front window in the dining room, which seemed closest to the barking, and separated the blinds with two fingers.

A bright moon cast a dull light over the ground like a luminescent bruise. A large dog stood at the edge of the front yard—in the poor light, it was difficult to tell what kind of dog—barking at the corner of the house. It was barking at the house the way a dog might bark to warn its master of an intruder, or the way a dog might bark at its own attacker: vicious and rapid barks punctuated by snarls and growls.

He had never seen the dog before and couldn't tell if it was wearing a collar or not. He didn't move for a while, just watched the dog as it barked persistently. He kept expecting it to stop and leave, but it didn't. If anything, its barks only became angrier and more threatening, more desperately fierce.

Al felt a bead of sweat trickling down over his temple and he moved the back of his free hand across his forehead. He was perspiring. His heart was pounding.

This house, he thought. It's barking at the house because...because the house scares it.

Pulling his hand away from the blinds, Al stepped back and just stood there, staring at the closed blinds awhile as the dog barked...and barked...and barked....

Secrets grew like tumors in the Snedeker household.

Carmen did not tell Al when she heard someone laughing in the kitchen although she was alone in the house.

Al did not tell Carmen when he heard footsteps following him around the house one weekend, although no one was there.

And Stephen only talked to them when he had to. When he was not at school, he spent most of his time in his room, often with Jason, who brought along tapes for them to listen to, the newest from the heaviest of metal bands, with lyrics that spoke only of sex and death, violence and suicide, torture and necrophilia. He didn't spend much time with Michael anymore, mostly because Michael wanted to do things, was interested in things that held no appeal for Stephen. As a result, Stephen was considering moving into the room that had originally been his.

The idea of having a room of his own was, once again, appealing.

There would be nothing to interrupt the voices then....

Late one night, Stephen lay awake in his bed listening to the sound of a dog barking outside. He'd heard it before, but had given it no thought until his dad complained about it one morning over breakfast before going to work. Al had said they needed to find out whose dog it was and call them; it had been sitting outside their house barking for several nights in a row.

Curious, Stephen got out of bed and went upstairs, moving comfortably through the dark. He went to the window in the dining room and saw the dog outside in the moonlight, barking and snarling at the corner of the house. Nothing else—not a squirrel, not a cat—just the house.

Although he didn't realize it, one corner of Stephen's mouth curled up.

So he wasn't entirely alone. The dog somehow knew the house held something unusual. The dog somehow knew it was occupied by something other than a mother and a father and four children.

The dog knew....