Desolation Read online

  “Stefanianna North was not a witch,” Kelly said.

  “You didn’t see her!” Warrick responded. “You don’t know!”

  “Neither do you. You were unconscious the whole time.”

  Warrick sniffed. “It wasn’t my fault I was drugged.”

  “You weren’t drugged,” said Ronnie, “you were high. And that was your fault because it was your own weed you were smoking.”

  “Aha,” said Warrick, leaning forward, “but why was I smoking it?”

  “To get high.”

  “No,” Warrick said triumphantly. “Well, yes, but also because of the socio-economic turmoil this world has been going through since before I was even born. My mother had anxiety issues when I was still in the womb, man. That affects a dude, forces him to seek out alternative methods of coping later in life.”

  “So that’s what you were doing?” Kelly asked. “You were coping?”

  “I was trying to,” Warrick said. “And that’s when Stefanianna came to kill me. I don’t remember much—”

  “Because you were high.”

  “—but I do remember her saying something like, ‘First I’ll kill you, then I’ll kill your friends.’ And I was all, like, hey, don’t you touch my friends, because I’m very protective of you guys, you know?”

  Kelly nodded. “We bask in your protection.”

  “But then Two woke up,” said Warrick, “and, as we all know, witches are terrified of dogs, especially pit bulls.”

  “That’s not a thing,” said Linda.

  “Well, maybe not particularly pit bulls, but we all know that witches are terrified of dogs, right?”

  “That’s not a thing, either,” said Linda.

  Warrick frowned. “So what are witches terrified of?”

  “Fire,” said Ronnie.

  “But then why did she run away? The moment she saw Two she screamed and ran.”

  “That’s because Stefanianna is terrified of dogs,” Kelly said.

  “Yes!” said Warrick. “Exactly! See?”

  “But that doesn’t mean she’s a witch.”

  “Why doesn’t it?”

  “Because why would it?”

  Warrick frowned again. “I don’t … I don’t see what you’re saying here.”

  “Take a right, Ronnie,” Linda said. “Should be a hill up ahead.”

  Ronnie took the right. “I see it. That where we’re going?”

  “Yep.” Linda sat up. Her dark hair was a mess.

  “How was your nap?” Kelly asked.

  “Terrible,” Linda answered. “I feel like a hamster in a ball that’s been kicked down a hill for three hours. And Two kept farting.”

  Two whined in protest.

  “That wasn’t Two,” Warrick said meekly.

  “Oh, you’re so gross,” Linda said, crawling forward. She left the cushioned rear of the van and joined Warrick on the long seat behind Kelly.

  They got to the top of the hill and Kelly read the sign.

  “The Dowall Motel,” she said, and frowned up at the building. “You know, for a pretty town, this is a creepy motel.”

  “They better allow pets,” Warrick said.

  “I don’t care,” said Linda. “All I want is a real bed tonight. I’m sick of sleeping in the van.”

  “Swear allegiance,” Warrick whispered.

  They parked, and got out, and Kelly immediately reached back in to grab her jacket. Two hopped out as well, started to hump a small tree, but Warrick shook his head.

  “Sorry, buddy, you’re gonna have to stay in the van until we find out if they allow pets.”

  “He doesn’t understand you, Warrick,” said Linda, rubbing her arms against the cold.

  “Well, no, but he understands basic English, though.”

  Linda looked at the dog. “Two. Stop having sex with the tree. Sit. Sit. Two, sit.” She raised her eyes to Warrick. “He’s not sitting.”

  “You know he doesn’t like to be told what to do. It’s conversational English he responds to, not orders. We’re not living in Nazi Germany, Linda, okay? We have something here in America that I like to call freedom. Freedom to choose, freedom to worship, freedom to congregate in groups of like-minded individuals, freedom of the press and free speech and freedom to do other stuff … Land of the free, home of the brave. That’s where we live, that’s how we live, and that’s why Two won’t sit when you order him to sit.”

  “Fine,” said Linda. “Then you tell him to do something.”

  “I’m not gonna tell,” said Warrick. “I’m gonna ask.” He cleared his throat, and looked down at Two. “Hey, buddy,” he said, “mind leaving the tree alone and waiting in the van for a minute?”

  Two barked, and jumped into the van.

  Linda picked up her bag and slung it over her shoulder. “Coincidence.”

  “Two’s a smart puppy dog.”

  “Of course he jumped into the van. It’s freezing out here.”

  “Come on, Linda,” Warrick said, shutting the van door. “Swear allegiance to the doggy.”

  Kelly walked on ahead, into the motel, where the first thing that registered was a moose head on the wall behind the front desk.

  The woman at the desk looked up. She was tall, skinny, with a mole beneath her right eye and a blouse buttoned all the way up to her throat. Dear God, she was wearing a brooch.

  Kelly smiled. “Hi.”

  The woman, whose nametag identified her as Belinda, frowned back at her. The others walked in, and Belinda’s eyes widened and she stepped back.

  “You,” she said in a surprisingly husky voice. “We do not allow your kind in here.”

  Ronnie and Linda froze.

  “Me?” said Ronnie, a black man.

  “Or me?” said Linda, a Chinese girl.

  “Him,” said Belinda, pointing a trembling finger at Warrick.

  “Me?” Warrick said. “What’d I do?”

  “You’re a … you’re a beatnik,” Belinda said, the word exploding out of her mouth like a chunk of meat after a Heimlich.

  “I am not!” said Warrick.

  “We do not allow beatniks in this motel!”

  “I’m not a beatnik! Stop calling me a beatnik!”

  “Excuse me,” Kelly said, still smiling as she neared the desk, “but what seems to be the issue with beatniks?”

  “My mother never approved,” Belinda said, practically livid with disgust. “She said never shall a beatnik sleep under this roof, and I say a beatnik never shall!”

  Kelly nodded. “That’s very understandable. Beatniks are terrible people. Although Warrick isn’t actually a beatnik.”

  “My mother said they will come in various guises.”

  “Uh-huh. Yes, but the thing is Warrick isn’t one of them.”

  “I hate jazz music,” said Warrick.

  “He does,” said Kelly. “He hates jazz music.”

  “He’s got a beatnik beard, though,” said Belinda.

  Warrick frowned. “My soul patch? I just don’t like shaving under my lip. My skin is sensitive, man.”

  “I assure you,” Ronnie said, giving Belinda a smile, “my friend isn’t a beatnik. He just shaves like one. He listens to regular music and I don’t think I’ve ever heard him talk about bettering his inner self.”

  “I leave my inner self alone and it leaves me alone,” said Warrick. “We’re happier that way.”

  Belinda hesitated.

  “The moment he starts wearing berets and playing the bongos,” Kelly said, “we’ll kick him out ourselves.”

  “Very well,” Belinda said dubiously. “In which case, welcome to the Dowall Motel. This is a family business. How may I help you?”

  “We don’t have any reservations,” said Ronnie, “but we were wondering if you had any rooms available? Two twin rooms, ideally. We don’t mind bunking up.”

  “How long will you be staying?”

  “We’re not sure,” said Ronnie. “A week, maybe?”

  Belinda shook he
r head. “Sorry, no. Out of the question.”

  “I’m, uh, not sure I understand …”

  “There is a town festival,” Belinda said, “for townsfolk only. You can stay until Wednesday morning, but will then have to leave.”

  “We can do that,” said Linda. “What does the festival celebrate?”

  “The town.”

  Linda smiled and nodded. “And it is surely a town worth celebrating.”

  “A question, if you please,” said Warrick, squeezing between them. Belinda recoiled slightly. “This motel. Is it pet friendly?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Is it friendly to pets? For instance, my dog. Is it friendly to my dog?”

  Belinda looked horrified. “Are you asking if your dog is allowed inside the hotel?”

  “That is what I’m asking, yes.”

  “No.”

  “Is that a ‘No, my dog is allowed,’ or a ‘No, my dog isn’t allowed’?”

  “No pets are allowed on the premises,” said Belinda. “My brother is extremely allergic. Having an animal under this roof could kill him.”

  “What if I told you he was house-trained?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “What if I told you he would not try to have sex with any potted plants you may possess, or any of your favourite stuffed animals? Still no? Then I will be forced to sleep with him in our van. Is that what you want? Me sleeping in a van? This isn’t California, let me remind you. This is Alaska. It gets cold here. You’re really okay with me spending the night in a van, freezing to death while my oversexed dog humps my head?”

  “Animals are not allowed.”

  “What if we sneak him in without you noticing?”

  “We’re not going to do that,” Ronnie said quickly.

  Warrick nodded, and did the air quotes thing. “Yeah, we’re ‘not’.”

  “We’re actually not,” said Linda. “If Warrick won’t go anywhere without that dog, he can sleep in the van and take the consequences. The rest of us would like beds, please – until Wednesday.”

  “When you will depart,” said Belinda.

  “When we will depart,” echoed Linda.

  They were shown to their rooms and Kelly dumped her bag on her bed and went to the bathroom while Linda showered quickly. Then they switched, and got changed, and met the guys outside.

  They drove through town, familiarising themselves with the layout before focusing on the quieter streets. They followed the few small scrawls of graffiti like it was a trail of breadcrumbs, losing it sometimes and having to double back to pick up the trail again. It took them the rest of the afternoon, but finally the trail led them all the way to a park, at the bottom of the hill that led to the motel.

  “Well, that was a waste of time,” said Kelly.

  They got out, went walking. Kelly zipped up her jacket while Two ran in excited circles. On the east side of the park there was a small building that housed the public restrooms. Facing the park, it was a pristine example of a public utility that was kept up to snuff. But the interesting stuff was all across the back in layers of names and promises and oaths and declarations.

  Kelly was a quick study, but even so her ability to decipher the messages hidden in graffiti could only take her so far. Ronnie was better at it, and Linda was better still, but Warrick was the master. He was the one who’d told them all about it, after all. Graffiti was the cave painting of the modern world, he’d told Kelly after she’d taken her first trip in the van.

  That had been her recruitment, she supposed. Once she was part of the group, one of the gang, he felt comfortable telling her his secrets. A town’s history, its true history, he said, could be found in the scrawls and crude pictures hidden from the prying eyes of the disapproving authorities, those to whom whitewashing a wall was the same as whitewashing a mind. They could paint over the truth as many times as they wanted, but the truth could always be scrawled anew.

  Kelly found declarations of love and accusations of infidelity, she found boasts of conquests, of prowess and of physical exploits, and she found pictures of genitalia that were suspect in their accuracy.

  “Look at this,” said Linda, pointing to a drawing of a thin man with a wide, smiling mouth, too big for his head. There was an artistry to it, some genuine talent, but there was something else – something about that smile that unnerved Kelly. Linda took a picture of it with her phone.

  “Got something else,” Ronnie said. “A name – Donnie Welker. Says here the Narrow Man got him in 2003.”

  Linda hurried over, documenting the message.

  They found five more references to the Narrow Man, and then Warrick said, “Found it.”

  They crowded round him. On the wall, almost at the corner and faded, yet isolated from the other scrawls, almost as if nobody dared paint over it, was a short rhyme.

  The Narrow Man, the Narrow Man,

  He’ll sniff you out, you know he can.

  Counting, counting, one, two, three,

  Your name he’ll call, his face you’ll see.

  Tap at your window, tap at your door,

  You can hide no longer, run no more.

  The Narrow Man, the Narrow Man,

  He’ll drag you to hell, fast as he can.

  “He’s here, all right,” said Ronnie.

  “Look at this,” said Kelly, waving to a group of kids hanging out in the trees behind them. “We have an audience.”

  Two bounded over. A few of the kids backed away, but most of them made a fuss over the dumb dog as he licked their hands and rolled on to his back so they’d scratch his belly.

  Kelly and the others walked over.

  “Hi there,” she said. The kids regarded her warily. “Could you do us a favour? Me and my friends were wondering what that Narrow Man thing is all about. We’ve heard of him, we’re kind of geeks for this sort of crap, but we’ve never seen anything so concentrated as this.”

  Some of the kids, the ones who were wary of the dog, glanced at each other and walked away.

  One of the other kids who stayed gave a shrug. “So what’s the favour?”

  “Actually, less of a favour, more of a … job, really.” Kelly took out a crumpled ten-dollar bill. “What can you tell us about him?”

  “He’s a story,” said the kid.

  “What kind of story?” Ronnie asked.

  “Creepy bedtime story.”

  “He’s the boogeyman,” said a girl.

  “Yeah, that’s it,” the boy said. “The boogeyman. Comes out and snatches away naughty boys and girls.”

  “What about the rhyme?” asked Linda.

  “Just something we used to say. Something fun.”

  Warrick took a treat from his pocket, tossed it to Two. “He ever snatch away anyone you know?”

  “Are you stupid or something?” the boy asked. “He’s a story. He’s not real.”

  Warrick jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “I think whoever drew that picture thought he was real.”

  “My cousin drew that,” said a smaller kid at the back, “and you don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s a nursery rhyme. Just something kids used to say.”

  “What about the counting, counting, one, two, three thing?” Ronnie asked. “What’s that mean?”

  The kids looked at each other uneasily, until Ronnie produced another ten.

  The first kid tracked it like a heat-seeker. “Everyone in town votes,” he said. “If you misbehave, parents and teachers and whatever will write your name on a piece of paper and put it into the box in the square. They do it to scare the younger kids into doing what they’re told.”

  Kelly frowned. “And what are they voting for?”

  Not to be outdone, the girl spoke up. “The Narrow Man comes for whoever gets the most votes. Or he’s supposed to, anyway. But everyone knows the votes are never counted.”

  “That’s pretty messed up,” said Warrick.

  “It’s a crock of shit,” the girl said, shrugging. “Like
everything else people do here.”

  “What’s the festival that’s happening on Wednesday?” Kelly asked.

  The kids clammed up. Warrick sighed, and gave each of them a ten.

  “We don’t talk about it,” said the first kid.

  “So what is it?”

  “We don’t talk about it.”

  “But … dude, I gave you another ten.”

  “So?”

  They turned to go.

  “Wait,” said Ronnie. “What’s your cousin’s name, the one who drew the picture? Maybe we can talk to him.”

  “Doubt it,” said the small kid, “but whatever. Give me a twenty, stop your dog from humping my leg, and I’ll tell you.”

  AMBER SPENT MONDAY MORNING in Fast Danny’s. Brenda served her breakfast, then juice, then coffee, and then two hot chocolates, and Amber sat at her corner table with her earphones plugged into the iPad, using the cafe’s Wi-Fi to watch all of the In The Dark Places episodes she’d missed while on the run.

  She’d hesitated before pressing play on the first one. Her life in the last five weeks had become stranger and much more fantastical than anything she’d ever seen on a TV screen. She’d witnessed true horror. She’d been subjected to true violence. She herself had killed. She herself had eaten human flesh. She had interacted with beings who existed beyond death, who traded in souls and powers beyond imagining, and she was pretty sure she was being stalked by a vampire. What effect could a dumb TV show have on her now?

  As it turned out, an astonishing one.

  Watching Dark Places was like going home – but instead of the home she’d always known, that cold place of silence and secrets, it was her other home, the home she had made for herself inside the world of the stories she loved. She knew everything about the actors, knew their birth dates and their pets’ names, but as each episode began the actors vanished and their characters appeared, and Amber forgot about the horrors biting at her heels and lost herself in the stories unfolding before her. She interacted with Brenda when she had to, ignored the curious looks of the people who frequented the cafe, and sipped her hot chocolate. The only part of her, the only part, that she did not relax was the part that was keeping her body from shifting into its demon form. That remained vigilant.