Lunar Park - Bret Easton Ellis [128]
In my office we closed and locked the door. I put Sarah down on the couch. Both of the kids were crying. I uselessly told them it would be “okay.”
Holding the light saber toward the dial, I unlocked the safe and pulled out the gun.
I scanned my desk with the saber until I located my cell phone.
I asked Robby to hold the light saber while I dialed 911.
Robby was just staring at the gun I was holding. This caused him to close his eyes tightly and cover both ears with his hands.
The thing began slamming itself into the door.
“Jesus Christ,” I shouted out.
The slamming was becoming more frequent. The door was bulging forward in its frame. I looked frantically around the room. I rushed to the window and opened it.
(Note: The paint was peeling off the house so rapidly that it looked as if snow flurries had drifted onto Elsinore Lane.)
But then the door cracked and fell to the side, hanging off the top hinge.
The thing stood in the doorway.
Even with the faint glow of the saber I was swinging at it, I could see the froth wreathing its mouth.
“Shoot it! Shoot it!” Robby was screaming.
I pointed the gun at the thing as it began shambling toward us.
I pulled the trigger.
Nothing.
The gun was not loaded.
(Note: Jayne had removed all the bullets from the gun after the night she thought I “imagined” an intruder had broken into the house.)
We could barely see the thing as it advanced toward us. It was making sucking sounds.
The electricity came on so quickly that we were blinded by the lights. The smoke alarm was beeping incessantly. Everything that had been turned off before bed was now on. Every light in the house was burning. The television was blasting. From the stereo blared a Muzak version of “The Way We Were.” My computer flashed on.
The house was sunstruck with light.
The light kept us from witnessing the thing’s disappearance.
“Daddy, you’re bleeding.” This from Sarah.
I touched my lips. My fingers came back red.
As I stood there I noticed the time on the battery-powered clock on my desk.
The electricity had come on at exactly 2:40 a.m.
25. the thing in the hall
Four minutes after a 911 call was made, the flashing blue lights of a patrol car pulled up to 307 Elsinore Lane.
I had told the 911 operator that there had been a break-in but no one had been injured and the “perpetrator” had escaped.
I was asked if I would like to stay on the line until the officers arrived.
I declined because I had to think things through.
I had to make a few key decisions.
Would the threat I was about to relate entail something that had found its way into our house? Or would I try to push the lie (the more plausible scenario) that it was—what?—your basic home invasion? Would I refrain from using the word “creature” as I gestured toward the woods? Would I make an attempt to describe the thing in the hallway? Would I act “concerned” while downplaying the true extent of my fears since there was nothing anyone could do to help us?
The police would arrive.
Yes . . . and?
The police would inspect the house.
And they would find nothing.
All the police could do was escort us to our rooms, where we would collect our belongings, since there was no way we were spending another night in the house.
But how could I, much less the kids, explain to them what had happened to us?
We were dealing with something so far beyond their realm that it was senseless.
I realized dimly that no police report would be filed.
I had not figured out the Terby yet. All I knew was that somehow I had brought it into the house—and that it had wanted me to—but what had appeared in the flickering hallway was a secret I had to keep to myself. In this, the house and I were in collusion.
I called Marta. I chose my words carefully and explained that “something” had gotten into the house and assured her that everyone was fine and I had called the police and we were going to spend the night at the Four Seasons downtown and would she please make arrangements. I said all this in as calm a voice as I could create and I said it quickly