Holes Like Eyes (first draft work in progress)

  • 1 -

    Through the darkness he walked, like some devilish demon of the night. His breath issued from his mouth, billowing like smoke from cannon fire. Why he was walking he did not know, nor did he care. For the time being, he was more concerned with what he was about to do. He felt helpless, his only company being the voices of good and evil. They were engaged in a battle, one that only he could witness. He wasn’t nuts, he didn’t hear the voices, they were manifested as his own thoughts, yet he was aside from them, sort of a third party, if you will.
    The voice of Good was reasonable:
    This is wrong, Ian. You’ve been building trust for so long. Your tired, it’s past midnight, and you have school in the morning. . . this morning, in fact.
    The voice of Evil was equally as reasonable:
    What the hell, you’re still young. You have only one life to live.
    “That I do.” Ian answered, “That I do.” Ian reached into his jacket pocket and produced a pack of Marlboros. He put a cigarette in his mouth and lit it, never breaking his stride. He watched his feet as they carried him along the sidewalk. He was listening intently to the debate within.
    These two personalities were his Yin and his Yang. Two opposing halves. Together they made who he was. Unlike the traditional Yin Yang, they did not compliment each other. No, they only waged war in his head, and like a frightened child watching a pair of vicious dogs fight, he stood aside, not wanting to intervene.
    His feet were getting cold, his shoes were wet from the slush and snow he had been walking through, he wished that he had worn boots.
    Too late, buddy.
    And it always was, Ian had never had a great deal of luck in life, and tonight was no exception. He was headed out, and that was all that he knew for sure. He had sat in his bedroom, reading, for three hours before carefully ascending the creaky stairs that led to the front hall, where he’d donned his winter gear. His day had been just as boring as the one before, and the one before that. Up at six, off to school, off to work, then back on home again, only to do it all over again. Always the same faces, always the same city bus driver, the same routine over and over. The monotony of everyday life ate at his resolve to focus, it had destroyed what little concentration he had maintained. And so he’d gone out, searching for something new, something that would fulfill him, make his day satisfying.
    Ian watched his nearly frozen shoes, intrigued by the way the water laden snow separated from under the weight of each step, spreading into exaggerated outlines of his soles. He could hear the slushiness of it, and it was beautiful to him, in a way he could not understand himself. He was imagining that he was some kind of gigantic mechanical beast, creating havoc by stomping the earth into torrents of chaos, when the voice of evil offered its advice.
    Get out of the snow you idiot! Don’t leave tracks when you’re up to no good.
    Ian wondered if he was ‘up to no good’. He had snuck out of the house, being overly careful not to be noticed, especially by his mother, who would have insisted on his going to bed. He hadn’t any thoughts of creating mischief when he left. He told himself that he was just going for a midnight stroll. Just a perfectly harmless walk. Yet, once he had gotten out of site of the house, thoughts, ones that were both disturbing and exciting, had born themselves into his mind, and like seeds, had grown to a level of contemplation that sent a chill down his spine.
    (evil) You know what you desire
    (good) You know what the consequences are
    (evil) You only have to face them if you get caught, but you’re to smart to get caught
    Ian knew he was intelligent, but he also knew that all the brains in the world couldn’t stop his mothers prying questions. He wanted to be out and he was, but he still did not feel complete, not for all the steps he had taken.
    (evil) That’s right; an honest man only walks when he has someplace to go
    (good) She’ll find out, and then the only place you’ll be walking to is your room
    (evil) Be true to yourself, you know what you desire, go and find it
    Ian paused for a moment, thinking. What was his desire? God only knew, and God wasn’t sharing. Ian had an inkling, but it wasn’t the sort of thing that lessened his burning desire to venture into the unknown. As far as he was concerned, he would remain in the dark until he found what it was he was looking for. What? He had no idea. One thing he was certain of, that some strange force was carrying him along, like a dry leaf upon a refreshing wave.
    Ian trudged on. This was his adventure, and nothing would come between him and it.

  • 2 -

    It was perhaps an hour later when Ian rounded the last bend of the bike path, which he had taken from the top of the hill. The wind had picked up, and big wet flakes began to pierce the cold December sky. One of these fell and stuck to the tip of his nose, tickling it before it melted. Ian stuck out his tongue and caught one, this one larger. The flakes had begun to clump together, making large fuzzy bundles that piled up quickly on his shoulders and hair.
    The voices that had haunted him ended their debate when he reached the top of the hill, which had been a good twenty minutes ago, and now he felt a deep, consoling, peace come over him.
    Off to his right, Ian could see the street lights illuminating Lincoln Drive about five-hundred feet away. The snow glowed under them in bright, yellow-orange, cones. He was nearing the end of the bike path, and the tree limbs that cast their boney arch overhead were thinning. He could now see the Essex Country Club golf course to his left, all laced with paths and dotted with sand traps. Off in the distance, a red barn-board maintenance shed sat aside one of the paths.
    A truck, evident by the faint but distinct rattle of a diesel engine, was pulling out of the bush-lined entrance to The Lincoln Inn. Its headlights illuminating the crests of snow, and the beams swung in an arc across the frozen stalks of cat’s-tail, witch crowded the drainage ditch alongside the bike path. Ian imagined the driver was headed home after a long night of drinking at the bar. He halted and stood there long enough for the arcs of light to sweep away from him, and when the truck’s taillights finally faded off into the falling snow, he continued his journey.
    As he left the path and turned onto the sidewalk he began to sing under his breath.
    “If you put one foot in front of the other. . .” he paused, trying to think of what he ought to sing next.
    He continued, “. . . if you put one foot in front of the other. You best be sure the ground will hold you. You best be sure the miles aren’t long, or you’ll run out of breath before you sing your song.”
    Ian smiled. His little tune was starting to work.
    “I hear the call of the night, and against the cold I make my flight. . .” he stopped, the inspiration to sing had passed. He couldn’t think of anything to keep it going. His voice sounded uncomfortably loud against the silence. The awkwardness was not lost on him, so he turned his mind towards daydreaming, as he so often did when he was alone.
    By the time he reached the overpass that brought Lincoln Drive across the circumferential highway, he had sunk deep into his dreamworld. He was meeting a beautiful young girl, was, actually, flirting with her. And, as always, she wanted him. He could feel a stiffness begin to grow in his pants. . . . the girl is a mental imprint of one he often sees at school. Her name he can not quite remember, but that is not necessary, her name is what ever he wants it to be, and for now it is Stephanie. Stephanie has straight, strawberry-blond hair, which is pulled back into a ponytail. Her white teeth gleam as she smiles. She is laughing at his joke. Her beautiful green eyes are shot through with prismatic shards of silver. He can see every detail of her sweet fifteen-year-old lips, and he leans toward her to kiss her. She is receptive, and he can feel the double ridge of her lower back, which is arched, as he pulls her willing body close.
    Ian is immersed, completely and utterly in his fantasy, and he does not notice the dark shadow that moves across the bridge, coming to rest above him. He does not notice that it is sinking into him, like black ink spilled over a cotton towel. His skin turns an oily black for a brief moment, and then his pupils dilate until his irises disappear entirely, leaving only the utter and complete blackness of his pupils.

  • 3 -

    Two hours later, a large orange plow-truck rumbled down Route 15, headed towards the town line that Turns Essex into Essex Junction. The driver, Rick Hanlon, was sipping coffee from his ancient red Thermos as he spotted a dark-grey shape against the haze of snow.
    The shape grew darker as his plow closed the distance. He let his foot off the gas a little, his curiosity aroused. The stereo clock showed 3:27 am, the digits flickered as he depressed the clutch and down shifted.
    Now he was close enough to see that the grey shape was wearing a hood and a pair of snow crusted sneakers.
    “What the hell’s he doin’?” was all he could muster before the street lights started to stutter, then go out completely, starting with the one directly over the strange early morning pedestrian and spreading out in both directions. Rick had seen a lot of things over the eleven years he’d been push’n the plow, but this registered instantly as the sort of thing he’d be telling his buddies about for a long time to come.
    He downshifted as quickly as the slippery asphalt would allow, applying the brakes when he could. The truck came to a shuddering, shimmying, stop just twenty feet from the still pedestrian.
    “Holy shit! What-the-fuck!” It had been a long time since he’d last come so close to sliding his way across the median, and even longer since he’d uttered such profanity.
    He pulled the Maglite from behind the seat, clicked the rubber button to make sure it worked, and opened the door.
    The wind hit him like a wall of liquid ice, a chill moved up and down his spine, sending him into a deep, convulsive, shiver; he’d left his jacket in the cab and was wearing only his long-johns and an old ratty t-shirt with the Cabot Cheese logo printed on it. His Jeans grew stiff as the sweat in them froze.
    “Hey . . . you alright?” he took a few steps forward, then paused, his teeth now chattering away and the snow collecting on his shoulders and graying beard. He had a bad feeling, something wasn’t quite right, it was the same feeling he had when heading into the dentist’s office for a much needed root canal. He briefly wondered if the shit was just starting to hit the fan, but, being the good natured citizen he was, he disregarded his gut and began trudging through the quickly accumulating snow. The stranger continued to stand still, the hood shielding the back of its head from sight.
    “Hey! I said, ‘are you alright’?” he was getting downright cold, and his teeth had started to click together.
    He glanced over his shoulder to check the streetlights behind the truck. They were still out, just like the rest. The stranger did not move, nor did he respond. Rick clicked the button on the maglite and trained the bright beam on the strangers back. He was relieved, however slightly, when a puff of steam drifted from the far side of the black hood and was carried off by the wind.
    Oh god, thank you for not croaking. Jus’ couldn’t take that. Not tonight. Not when I’ve already got so much to figure out. he thought.
    “Hey . . . Hello . . . can you hear me bud?” he kept a comfortable distance between himself and the small framed pedestrian in front of him.
    Time seemed to have taken a quick break, perhaps it had gotten a little nervous itself and had decided to split untill the street lights came back on.
    Rick was fifty-two years old. He’d once gone fishing on Kezar Lake in Maine with his fifteen-year-old son, and when he got to the face of the strange pedestrian with the yellow-orange circle of his maglite’s beam, it was his son’s dead and lifeless face that he saw. It was the summer of 1983 all over again, Jesse’s lifeless body lay on the wooden dock at his knees, his lips agape and purple, a thin green stalk of some underwater plant stuck to his chin. Eyes that accused, that asked, ‘Why? Why, dad . . . why’d you let me drown?” gazing back at him.
    Dead; his son was dead ‘cause pops had skipped CPR class as a junior in High School. Dead, ‘cause Pops had slipped a twelve pack in the trunk of the Ford LTD while his wife was busy with the garden out back. Dead ‘cause he’d been sure to slam a few before waking his son to get in one last, early-morning, father-son bonding experience before loading the LTD with their camping gear and heading back home. Dead ‘cause he’d failed to notice that his son had smashed his skull against an old concrete block that was hiding only feet below the surface, all green and slimy with growth, but nonetheless ruthless and unyielding in its solidity. Dead ‘cause, somehow, he’d failed to interpret the lack of splashing at the end of the dock as a sign of trouble. Maybe, if he’d waited a minute longer to crack open his beer and guzzle it, he’d have heard the dull thunk his son’s head made when it slammed into the hidden block of concrete with enough force to knock his son unconscious and to leave him floating with his face submerged and his navy blue swimming trunks bulging with trapped pockets of air. Maybe, he would have heard the faint bubbling of his son’s last unconscious breath before his lungs flooded with water, if he hadn’t been telling his son about his plans for hiking Baldface Mountain on the way back to Vermont (which he had intended to do with a hefty buzz).
    Rick quit drinking, cold turkey, the moment he realized his son wasn’t responding to his chit chat, had quit the very moment he’d let go of the nearly empty can of Budweiser he’d been talking to his son through. He hadn’t needed the support of AA, hadn’t needed to introduce himself to anyone as an alcoholic. His son’s open and blank eyes, and the blood that had oozed heavily from the lacerated lump on his scalp, had been plenty of support for him.
    Now, nearly two decades later, he found himself wanting, hell, needing, a cold one. The irony overwhelmed him, and he let out a nervous giggle, hoping that the stranger would interpret it as nothing more than an anxious reaction to the bizarre events unfolding.
    The face was young, was, in fact, the face of a teenage boy, but it was not the face of his son.
    The boy’s eyes were eerily void, as if he were immersed deep in thought, oblivious to the world, like an absent-minded professor lost in a fugue of contemplation. He almost seemed to be listening to someone, his head slightly cocked to one side, but it was the wrong look, it just simply didn’t suggest that he’d been listening to the old snowplow driver, who was now shining the beam of a maglite into his eyes.
    “What’s your name kid?” Rick stepped closer, his guard let down momentarily.
    “Name? What’s in a name?” the boy murmured, barely loud enough to hear. His head stayed cocked. He looked as though he was still listening to someone.
    “What? You look a little out of it, kid. Where you headed?”
    “Headed?”
    The boy’s eyelids fluttered a little, and then his head tilted the other way.
    “Headed . . . where you goin’ this time of night?”
    Rick glanced over the boy’s shoulder, back towards the idling truck. The streetlights were still out as far as the eye could see.
    He reached forward and laid a cold, unsteady, hand on one of the boy’s shoulders. The boy was thin, even for a teenager, almost fragile.
    A pang of searing melancholy worked it’s way up through memory and wet his eyes as he remembered his son.
    Kid can’t be any older than Jesse, he thought.
    Was . . . you mean older than Jesse was, it was the voice of his Aunt, cutting trough all the years since his childhood to correct him as she often had during the summer of ’55, which he’d spent under her roof. That had been the summer his mother had given birth to his little brother, the summer she’d gone to jail for shaking little brother because the baby just wouldn’t stop crying.
    “If your mother ’d given a cent’s worth ‘o thought, she’d a known better,” was all his aunt had to say when the SRS caseworker had dropped him off with his mother’s leather suitcase clutched in both of his pudgy hands. He remembered how little he’d had to say, how long it had taken him to forgive his Aunt for what she’d said.
    Rick was pulled from thought by the return of light to Route 15. The streetlights flickered, then popped back full blast, as if someone had simply flicked a switch. A few years would pass before a plowing buddy, listening to Rick’s story, would ask why they hadn’t come back slowly, the way they do at sundown. Rick would have wondered himself, if he hadn’t been so caught up with the flooding memories of his son and the oppressive guilt and sadness they brought with them.
    The streetlight overhead was the last to light up, and when it did, Rick noticed something momentarily that would haunt his sleep, and a good portion of his waking hours, for the rest of his life.
    The boys eyes had simply seemed glassy in the beam of his flashlight, but in the bright light of the streetlamp, Rick could suddenly see that there were no iris’, there were just whites and . . . and . . . nothing.
    He dropped his flashlight, turned heals, and ran like he’d never run before. The whole time he thought the boy was chasing him, like a beast in the worst of his childhood nightmares, he thought that any moment he would feel a hand settle on his shoulder, or worse, something sharp sink into his back. The sound of his son’s skull hitting the concrete block at the bottom of Kezar Lake suddenly began to echo from all around as the boy spoke, now in a voice that sounded both close and faraway at the same time.
    “TO BE . . . OR NOT TO BE. THAT. . . IS . . . THE . . . QUESTION.”
    Rick threw the truck in gear and managed to spin the wheels for several seconds before the tires finally grabbed the asphalt, catapulting the truck haphazardly towards Five Corners. He thanked his lucky stars he’d had the presence of mind to pull the plow from the pavement before exiting the cab earlier, if he hadn’t, he’d still be painting Route 15 with his tires while the boy-thing climbed in and did something unimaginable to him.
    The boy-thing’s empty eyes had burned their image into his mind the way a bright August sun burns its green circle onto unprotected retinas. No matter where he tried to turn his mind, he found himself looking into the deep oily abyss of those eyes. But, instead of being set in the face of the boy-thing, they glared from the pallid face of his son as he lay at his knees on a dock in Maine, reflecting the bright morning sun from their bloodshot whites.
    A few hundred feet down the road he glanced at the side-mounted rearview mirror, checking to make sure he’d left the boy-thing behind. The snow was still falling heavily, and he couldn’t see far enough through the haze to determine much of anything.
    Rick was, for the first time since his son’s death, absolutely unable to speak, and when he picked up the mike on the CB he said nothing, instead he dropped it and grabbed the stick, ready to shift instantly, if need be.

  • 4 -

    Ian’s foot struck a root that had gotten buried by eight inches of fluffy snow. He was walking along the path that wound it’s way through the wooded ravine surrounding Indian Brook, a small stream which fed from the Indian Brook Reservoir nearly three miles away. He didn’t feel his ankle twist sharply before it settled back to the snow strewn hard-pack of the frozen path. A small fox stopped to stare as it was crossing several yards ahead, it’s ears pointing straight at Ian and its tail standing at attention on its rear like a furry flagpole. It let out a subtle whine and then hurried on. This too did not register in Ian’s mind, and neither did the fact that he was walking through the woods in a pair of snow clogged sneakers that had frozen over, pinching his toes at the creases.
    He was aware that some one suddenly spoke, it was what brought him back to the here and now.
    “Wake.”
    Ian came too, unable to remember precisely what had woken him. He kept walking a few more paces before he stopped, confused and disoriented. He scanned about and soon recognized were he was. He had spent plenty of warm summer afternoons wandering these very woods with his Daisy pellet rifle, looking for game and smoking cigarettes in between shots. He’d fired more rounds into tree limbs and trunks than into birds or squirrels, but he’d none the less enjoyed the experiences. On some occasions his bliss would be interrupted by passersby, who were on afternoon walks with either their dogs or children, and sometimes both. He had hated that, it robbed him of his sense of ownership. The ravine had been his place, and he’d spent long hours exploring it with the company of his creative imagination, and on occasion with the imaginary persons who resided within.
    The sky had cleared and now the moon cast patches of bluish-white light on the snow clumped on the tree branches that intertwined around him. The fox had moved on, leaving only it’s small tracks behind. Ian paused to inspect these, noting how fresh they appeared. He peered into the moonlit depths of the woods, following the tracks with his eyes until they rested on the fox, which was staring back at him from its place by the frozen brook.
    Ian was suddenly struck with disorientation. He’d left the house nearly four hours earlier, but it had seemed like days, and what he remembered was only a dream. A fantasy.
    He glanced at his watch, pushing the small button on its side to illuminate the dial. Indiglo was stamped into the plastic ring that circled the dial. 4:23am.
    He quickened his pace, hoping to hell his mother was sound asleep, that the door was still unlocked as he’d left it.

  • 5 -

    Rick drove the large orange truck behind shed B at the municipal lot in Essex Junction. The railroad tracks lay silent, two depressed lines in the snow the only sign of their existence. After lowering the plow he reached under the seat to retrieve his Thermos. Pain shot up the right side of his lower back, letting him know just how old he was becoming.
    “Aw Jesus,” he massaged his back as he sat up, “God, what happened?”
    Rick’s aunt glared disapprovingly from his imagination, ‘how DARE you take th’Lord’s name in vain!’
    Rick opened the door, letting in the cold, and as he stepped out the tears suddenly began to spill. He couldn’t stop them, but how he tried. He was overcome with searing sadness, his vision blurred, and the force of his sadness brought him to his knees. His life had amounted to nothing, his dreams shattered by a can of beer and the loss of his son. His son, who had aspired to play the guitar, just like his dad.
    A memory flooded him, his eight-year-old son struggling to reach over the top of his dreadnaught guitar, his arm barely long enough to reach the strings with the pick he held, his face filled with intense concentration and glee.
    Rick shook violently, his tears dripping from the tip of his nose and falling into the fresh white snow.

  • 6 -

    Ian rounded the bend that was the east end of Hawthorn Circle. His home was now visible and to his relief, the windows were dark. He still couldn’t help feeling anxious, his mother was very perceptive. An image of her sitting in the living room, waiting for him to return, flashed through his head.
    When Ian reached the front door he found it unlocked. He slowly opened it, being careful not to make any noise. The house was a modern colonial. It was flimsy enough to permit the transfer of even the slightest sound directly to his lightly sleeping mother.
    Ian removed his shoes and brought them slowly down the hall and through the kitchen to the door that exited to the garage. He’d purposely avoided going out that way when he’d left earlier because his parents’s room was directly overhead. Once his mother had shown up in the kitchen with her suspicious anger when he’d snuck out for a smoke. The slightest noise could wake her. Ian wondered if she even slept.
    The hardest part was turning the deadbolt without making a sound. He carefully gripped the diamond shape handle. It was cold. He slowly turned it, feeling for the moment of resistance that signaled it was about to pop open. When he felt the resistance he tensed. Silence was deafening and his quick, short, breathing seemed to echo throughout the kitchen. The bolt pulled free from the jamb with a dull thwack. He froze, listening for any telltale creaks coming from the bedroom overhead. After being certain there were none he began the task of turning the knob. This too he did tensely and slowly, being sure to make the least noise possible.
    Once Ian had managed to open the door without a sound he stepped out onto the wooden step outside the door. His father had assembled it when they moved in. It was really no more than a box. The bottom didn’t sit evenly on the smooth concrete floor, and it rocked as his wait fell on it, bumping the baseboard below the door and sending a thump up through the wall. Ian froze, holding his breath. His pulse reverberating throughout his body, frustration and anger now beginning to fill his mind. He scolded himself for being so careless.
    He carefully climbed off the step, in slow-motion, and deposited his sneakers under the rack of coat hooks by the door.
    Ian turned to step back onto the wooden step and managed to hit a patch of salt laden snowmelt that had oozed over from the Mazda that was parked near the door.
    “Sonofabitch!” he whispered.
    He slowly traversed the wooden step, this time being careful not to step near the corner were it would rock. He closed the door slowly, turning the knob so the latch wouldn’t click when it hit the jamb. He took his time turning the bolt.
    A creak emanated from somewhere in the house. Ian froze, his pulse beating hard and pushing at the sides of his neck and temples. He could hear each beat in his ears, a sort of pulsing rush. He expected the hallway light to turn on.
    He could already see the look on his mother’s face. Her eyes would be wide open, seeming as if they might pop from their sockets. Her nostrils would be flared, and her eyebrows raised menacingly. Ian frantically searched his mind for excuses. They came quickly, but none brought solace from the anxiety that was flooding him. How was he going to explain to his mother the layers of clothing, the jacket, and the snow-frozen cuffs of his pants.
    Ian moved across the dark kitchen. Moonlight shone in from the window above the sink and the large sliding glass door by the kitchen table. A small swath of pale-green light shown from a smoke alarm on the ceiling overhead.
    His pants and jacket made subtle rustling sounds as he walked. They seemed loud in the eerie silence of the hall. Ian slowed when he got to the front hall. He unzipped his jacket as slowly as he could, holding his thumb against the zipper as he did to deaden the noise. He pulled the jacket off slowly and was about to hang it on the brass coat tree when he had a vision of his mother asking him why his jacket was wet. He thought better of it and decided to take the jacket up to his room.
    Climbing the stairs was equally as slow as opening the door to the garage had been. He took slow steps, pausing whenever a subtle creak was heard. Hoping to God his mother was sound asleep.
    Ian made it to his bedroom door without incident. He opened the door the same way he had opened the door to the garage earlier, closing it behind him, holding the knob in the open position.
    Relief came. He was back in his bedroom, he turned on the lamp that sat on the small wooden school-desk next to his bed. He placed the jacket over the back of the metal folding chair that was tucked into the space below the desk and undressed.
    Ian climbed into the queen sized bed and lay back. After a moment he turned over to face the headboard. The GE alarm clock that sat on the cutout shelf read 5:01am. He set the alarm to 7:00am.
    Ian was asleep in only a few minutes.
    He dreamed about streetlights going out in a snowstorm, he dreamed about someone taking over his body and quoting Shakespeare with his mouth, and he dreamed about an old man shining a flashlight into his eyes while a snowplow idled from behind.
    The man’s eyes were set wide, and Ian saw himself reflected back. He screamed in his dream, horrified at what he saw.