Twisted Creek Page 3

  But for once, Nana was paying attention and yelled, “Bingo!”

  I backed up and turned into the drive. Forty feet down the gravel road, the left front tire hit a hole, almost knocking us out of our seats, but I managed to keep the van from tipping as we rattled toward the largest of several buildings scattered on the property. My property. At least until Garrison D. Walker figured out he’d made a mistake and found the wrong Allie Daniels.

  A hundred feet behind the buildings the lake lapped against dingy sand. Barbed-wire fencing framed the boundaries on the other three sides of the wide lot. The land to the left looked wooded and unclaimed from nature. The acreage to my right appeared too hilly to even get a road through, making my property seem lonely on the space between the road and the water. Cluttered driftwood scattered like bones along the shore and beneath the dock.

  Nana leaned forward and stared at the building twinkling in the morning sun. “It’s a store, I think.”

  Tin signs advertising everything from Camel cigarettes to Coors beer looked like they held together the front wall. The steep tin roof had two windows, and with the long wooden porch running the length of the front, the building seemed to smile at us. The downstairs windows were boarded up. Broken wicker furniture littered one end of the porch while metal lawn chairs lined up on the other end as if at attention-old and rusty, but too tough to die.

  I let the van roll into the shade of the shack and noticed a long, covered walk out back that led to a dock on the water. It looked in better shape than the building so I guessed it must have been added.

  “This is it, Nana.” I fought to swallow. “Our new home.” We’d lived in some pretty rough houses on land hardly worth plowing, but none looked as bad as this.

  Nana smiled and was out of the van before I could throw it into park. She might be in her eighties, but my grandmother was a ball of energy. By the time I caught up with her, she’d already tried the front door.

  I pulled out the keys Walker gave me and on the third attempt we were in. Cold, stale air rushed passed us, fighting for freedom and leaving my skin chilled. My body parts were voting on whether to run or stay when Nana flipped on the lights. Bare bulbs above us flickered, then came on along with ceiling fans.

  “Would you look at this,” Nana whispered as hundreds of tiny lights along one wall blinked to life. “It’s like a party in here.”

  I wondered how much I could get for Christmas lights at a garage sale as I studied a room divided in half by wide stairs.

  Fifteen feet of bare shelves lined the north wall, with a high glassed-in counter in front. The oldest cash register I’d ever seen sat on a long table along with several empty wire racks. River rocks the size of footballs formed the wall facing the road. The back wall had two huge bay windows that looked out over the lake. Dark wood framed each view like a homemade picture frame.

  The south side of the room must have been a café at one time. There were tiny round tables and a pass-through with a drink chest beneath it. A low counter ran parallel to the pass-through with half a dozen stools anchored in front. The vinyl was so worn the seats looked silver in spots. Any wall space not claimed by shelving had a dead animal head or a mounted fish on it.

  In the center of the room, separating the store from the café, stood a staircase that appeared more solid than the entire building. The air smelled damp, but dust wasn’t as thick as I’d expected.

  I pointed with my head, silently asking Nana to choose either the swinging door in the back or the stairs.

  Nana smiled and raised her eyes.

  Without a word, we climbed the stairs. With each step I thought of all the horrible things I might find on the second floor. Wild animals, spiders, Uncle Jefferson’s body.

  I glanced over at Nana and, to my surprise, she laughed. For her, this was Christmas morning. For me, it was more like Halloween night.

  The second-floor door stood open at the top of the stairs. We walked into an apartment that was about half the size of the downstairs and twice as dusty. Old papers cluttered the main room’s floor, and two of the three lightbulbs above us were burned out. A doorless bathroom seemed wedged in the corner across from the door. Medicine bottles filled the counter and the back of the commode as if they’d been poured there instead of set. A few of the bottles were even floating in the toilet water.

  I didn’t want to think about when the porcelain had last been cleaned.

  Concentrating on the main area, I ventured forward, noticing a few pieces of furniture that looked solid beneath the layers of dust.

  From the center I took inventory. Two rooms with an open bathroom in between. No kitchen. I guessed that would be downstairs on the other side of the pass-through. First room contained one desk by the window and a pair of wingback chairs. One wrought-iron bed, unmade. In the smaller room I counted one twin bed covered with clothes, a dresser decorated with more medicine bottles, and a recliner surrounded by fishing magazines.

  I lifted one of the bottles of pills, then another, both full.

  When I tried the old phone by the bed, it was dead. “No nine-one-one to call if Jefferson ran into trouble.”

  “Maybe he had no one to call?” Nana reminded me of a bloodhound on a hunt as she circled the rooms. She was cleaning, rearranging, organizing in her mind just like she did everywhere we lived. No place was ever bad to her; some just needed more work than others.

  “True,” I agreed. “If he’d known anyone, he wouldn’t have left the place to me.” Looking for loose boards, I watched my step as I moved around the bed.

  Nana flushed the toilet. “We got lights and water,” she cheered. “Life is good.”

  I caught a glimpse of a dirty hand sliding slowly beneath the bed and realized that wasn’t all we had.

  We had company.

  Chapter 5

  Backing toward the door, I tried to keep my voice calm. “Nana, maybe we should bring in the food we got at the store.”

  Nana looked over from the window she’d pried open. “You can handle it, dear. I’ll start airing this place out.”

  I’d made it to the top of the stairs without taking my gaze off the space between the bed’s mattress and the floor. If someone crawled out now, I could make a run for it.

  “No,” I managed to say without sounding panicked. “I really need your help,” I mumbled, knowing I could never leave my grandmother to fight off the under-the-bed monster.

  It flashed in my mind that I’d always known he existed even though this was the first sighting of him I’d ever had. When I’d been three or four I’d wet the bed once because I just knew someone would jump from beneath my tiny twin bed and get me if I ran for the bathroom. When I’d been twice as old, I’d refuse to put my hand over the side. I’d known he’d pull me under if I did.

  And now I had proof. I’d seen his big, dirty hand. “Nana, I could use your help.” He might be a thief or an escaped convict, but I knew for a fact whoever lay beneath that bed was no less than my nightmare come to life.

  “Oh, all right, dear,” Nana joined me at the door. “I guess we’d better bring everything in and have a look at the kitchen. Looks like we’re home.”

  I followed her down the stairs, trying to decide what to do. “Scream” had been my first plan of action but no one would hear me. We could drive off, but the intruder would just be waiting when we returned, and I had no one to run to for help.

  As we walked to the side of the house, I started looking for weapons. A rake, several old fishing poles, a broken paddle propped beside a holey canoe. Not much of an arsenal.

  When we reached the van, I whispered, “Nana, get in and lock the doors. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  She raised her eyebrow as she always did when questioning my sanity. I didn’t give her time to argue. “Spiders.” I mumbled the first thing I could think of that my grandmother hated. “I’ll take care of them.” I pushed her into the seat and closed the door.

  Lock it, I mouthed and ran for the b
roken paddle. I didn’t bother looking back at her. I knew she was giving me the eyebrow again.

  The canoe paddle felt solid in my hand, even if half the flat part was missing. I might not be able to kill the monster with one hit, but I could do some brain damage.

  I gripped it above my head like a mighty batter preparing to swing and stepped back into the store. Slowly, I moved up the stairs, expecting to see the intruder jump from the top any moment. On the Coward Scale, I’d always been a two. Brave enough to plan, but petrified to act. But this time, with Nana’s and my life at stake, I intended to move up the scale.

  At the landing, I kicked off my open-backed sandals and let them tumble down the stairs. If a fight came, I wanted to be able to move fast without having to worry about falling out of my shoes.

  When the sandals settled, the house fell silent. I took the last few steps, a white-knuckled grip on the handle of the paddle. With a yelp that sounded more pitiful than powerful, I jumped into the room and pointed my weapon as if it were a rifle.

  Nothing moved.

  I swung the paddle at gut level, from side to side.

  Silence.

  “You might as well come out,” I ordered. “I know you’re there.”

  I took a deep breath, preparing for the worst. This might be my Alamo, but I wasn’t going down without a fight. Moving to the center of the room, I widened my stance. If he crawled out from under the bed, I figured I could get two, maybe three good whacks before he stood.

  Circling to the other side of the bed, I leaned over for a closer examination, but found only clutter. I poked the paddle beneath the bedsprings, but encountered nothing solid. I tried again and again, then straightened, my weapon gripped tightly.

  One of the medicine bottles by the open window tumbled off the desk and rolled across the floor. It took a minute for my heart to settle back into my chest. If I’d had a gun, I would have blasted the prescription just for the hell of it.

  In the damp, dusty silence I wilted from warrior to wimp. I’d been running on coffee and no sleep since opening Uncle Jefferson’s letter; I must have started to imagine things. Maybe all I’d seen was a scrap of faded newspaper moving slightly after Nana opened the window. No hand. No monster under the bed.

  I knelt, lifted the bedspread, and checked. Only dust and trash.

  Dragging the paddle, I moved through the two upstairs rooms of my new home, checking out closets and looking behind doors. Part of me wished for the monster, for being frightened would have been far more heroic than being crazy.

  I sat down on the desk chair and stared out the window. Dried weeds and muddy water. Winter hadn’t yet arrived, but any green of summer had already browned. It felt like my insides had also faded to match the land I now owned. I loved color. Sometimes my eyes ached to see bright greens and reds and yellows, but it seemed I’d been imprisoned in a brown world since birth. Like a swimmer trapped in the desert, my whole body longed for something I’d never had.

  I rolled the handle of the paddle across my lap and wondered if I’d imagined the intruder under the bed because making up even a monster is better than having no dreams. Lately I’d caught myself forgetting to hope, much less dream. I was twenty-six, too young to give up. I should be partying, running around with friends, running up my credit cards.

  But I knew of no parties. I had no friends to run around with. No credit cards to abuse.

  This was it, I thought. I’d finally drifted down until I could go no lower. At least when we were traveling I had hopes the next place would be better, brighter. But now I was tied to this ugly lake. Anchored. I felt like I’d accidentally stepped through a time door and gone from being young to old age without ever living. The starting point and the finish line were in the same place for me.

  Nana would tell me to make the best of it. Or, she’d raise that gray eyebrow and tell me I was swimming in thoughts so deep I’d get a cramp and drown.

  “Nana.” I jumped up, letting the paddle tumble to the floor. I’d left Nana in the van.

  Running down the stairs and out the front door, I was halfway across the dirt to the Dodge when it dawned on me I’d forgotten to put my shoes back on. Stickers were everywhere, attaching themselves to my feet with painful little stings.

  I danced, picking at them as I continued toward the van. Most of the stickers were out by the time I reached the passenger door, but Nana had disappeared.

  I hopped my way back to the porch, pulling out stickers with each step. From the top of the porch, I shielded my eyes and tried to see my grandmother.

  No sign of her, but a man passing by in a motorboat waved.

  I waved back.

  He slowed. “You Allie?” he yelled when he was almost to the dock.

  I nodded.

  He bobbed his head and revved the little outboard engine. “I’ll tell Mrs. Deals you’re here,” he called and motored on down the lake as a tiny wave rippled from his boat and flapped against the shore.

  “You do that,” I mumbled wondering who Mrs. Deals was and how this old-man-in-the-lake knew my name.

  Of course, I decided, Uncle Jefferson must have talked about me. The uncle I didn’t have had told his friends I didn’t know that I was coming.

  I limped back into the store and followed the sound of Nana’s voice. I should have guessed she’d head straight to the kitchen, her favorite room in every house.

  When I opened the swinging door, she was standing in a neat little kitchen with a MoonPie in each hand. The under-the-bed monster sat less than two feet from her, reaching his big, dirty hand for one of the pies.

  The noise I made sounded more like the squeak of an untied balloon than a scream, but it was enough to make the intruder twist around to face me.

  The bluest eyes in Texas stared at me. For a moment, all I saw was their color. They were the twilight sky during a storm. Dark, rich, and sparked with lightning.

  “There’s Allie,” Nana said as she handed him the MoonPie. “I told you she was around. She’s an artist, you know. Does strange things now and then, like tells me to lock the door against spiders, but I love her anyway.”

  My grandmother had been introducing me like that for as long as I could remember. Telling everyone I was talented, but strange. To my knowledge no teacher from the first grade through college had ever agreed with her, about the talent, anyway. I might love art and try from time to time to paint or draw, but I seemed to be missing one small necessity: skill. I seemed destined to only show at refrigerator-sized galleries.

  My grandmother continued, “Luke, I’d like you to meet Allie Daniels.”

  Grateful the dirty man with the bluest eyes didn’t offer his hand, I stared at him for a moment before he turned back to Nana. He could have been anywhere from thirty to forty. His face was too square to be handsome; his dark brown hair needed cutting. His body rounded in the chair as if he tried to take up less space than his big frame required. I thought of asking him why he’d been under the bed but I wasn’t sure I was ready for the answer.

  “Luke was just telling me he lives next door.” Nana pointed toward the wooded area. “He says he can help out around the place if we need anything done.”

  “We don’t need help.” More honestly, I couldn’t afford to pay anyone. I didn’t realize my words might seem unkind until they’d already exited my mouth.

  The big man stood to go. His clothes hung around him. He was more tall than thick.

  “I’ll be going then,” he said without looking at me as he slipped out the open back door and vanished.

  “We don’t need help, Nana,” I repeated.

  She nodded, understanding more what I hadn’t said than what I had. Without a word, she began cleaning the kitchen. The counters were worn, the sink had a chip the size of a quarter out of one side, the refrigerator light blinked on and off while the door was open, but other than that, the place looked better than most where we’d cooked. There was no food, but all the pots, pans, and knives seemed to be there alon
g with a working double oven.

  By late afternoon, we had both the kitchen and the two rooms upstairs at least livable. I tossed out all of Uncle Jefferson’s medicine bottles along with the fishing magazines. Guessing from the full bottles, it looked like he quit taking his pills about six months ago. My detective brain cells reasoned that a man not taking his medicine wouldn’t drive into town to pick up new prescriptions, so someone must have been bringing them to him. Someone who didn’t bother to make sure he took them.

  Another fact nagged at the back of my mind while I worked. Why would a man who’d stopped taking medicine leave the bottles around?

  Nana’s take on Uncle Jefferson was slightly different. She noticed that it appeared he didn’t leave a clean stitch of clothing. According to her, he hung on to life until everything was dirty, then he kicked the bucket rather than do laundry.

  I suggested maybe Blue-Eyed Luke stole the clean clothes, but after a quick inventory we discovered my uncle Jefferson was a small man. His clothes would almost fit me so he couldn’t have stood over five-feet-five and, judging from the piles of dirty things, he owned no underwear or socks.

  Once we found an old ringer-washer in a shed out back, Nana wanted to wash his clothes, but I convinced her to burn most of them. The fabric was too worn to even make good rags. I saved back the few flannel shirts in good condition for myself and dropped the rest out the window. We carried them down to a campfire pit close to the water and poured enough gasoline over the pile to get a good fire going.

  An hour before sunset, Nana went to the kitchen to fix our supper. She’d had me move the two old wingback chairs down from the apartment. We shoved them into what must have been built as a breakfast nook in the kitchen. She added a table big enough for two and a little black-and-white TV. Then she pulled out her sewing basket that she hadn’t unpacked from the van for two moves and placed it in front of one of the chairs as a stool.

  I hadn’t liked the idea, but once she’d spread a cloth over the table the little space seemed to welcome us, a private little parlor in the corner of the kitchen.