Lunar Park Part 27

"Funny. That's really funny. In front of my kids. Great, guys. Really nice."

"Why should Daddy call a doctor?" Sarah was asking Marta.

"Mr. Ellis, all I'm suggesting is that if this thing comes back, you should call your doctor-"

"I did not hallucinate anything tonight. Something-and it was not our dog-in fact it was something very un undoglike-was in this house."

"Mr. Ellis, calm down-"

"Listen, um, thank you, Officer O'Nan and Officer Boyle and Officer Clarke and"-I gestured at the fourth-"whoever you are and you've all been a fabulous help and I'm-"

"Mr. Ellis-"

"Look, something invaded my home tonight and attacked me and my kids and scared the living s.h.i.+t out of us and you think I hallucinated this thing? You've been a big help. You can all go now."

(This was all for show, I realized. This was me playing the concerned parent. This was acting for the kids and for Marta, who would relay my performance as the concerned parent to Jayne. The cops were not to blame. Considering what was actually happening there was nothing they could do. I should have never called 911. It had been a tactical error. I should have bundled the kids up and just driven to a hotel myself.) But you needed an alibi to get out of the house, the writer was reminding me. the writer was reminding me. How else were you going to explain your "escape" from 307 Elsinore Lane? The thing in the hall gave you a very convenient reason. How else were you going to explain your "escape" from 307 Elsinore Lane? The thing in the hall gave you a very convenient reason.

"We think it was probably your dog, Mr. Ellis."

"We're checking into a hotel," I said curtly. I turned to Marta. "Right?"

She nodded her head, staring at me wide-eyed.

So this was their theory: Drunk out of my mind on a combination of vodka and Klonopin, I had woken up my children because I believed we were being attacked by our pet. That was so lame-a.s.s I could not even dignify it with a response.

But even the writer thought this was plausible.

The writer told me that the policemen thought I was taking advantage of them.

The writer told me that one of the officers had laughed when they came upon the green light saber on the floor of my office.

The writer told me that two of the officers had m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.ed to s.e.x scenes in American Psycho. American Psycho.

Boyle stayed with Robby and Sarah as O'Nan escorted Marta and me into the house. Marta would go to the kids' rooms to gather their things (uniforms, backpacks, schoolbooks) while I grabbed whatever I needed.

But first I followed Marta into Sarah's room and stood by the bathroom door.

Marta glanced at the door and paused.

O'Nan noted the pause and made a gesture-just a shrug, just a sympathetic glance-that indicated we would wait and see.

I wanted to shout, "Wait and see for what?"

The door had burst off its hinges, and slime glistened horridly from its doork.n.o.b.

The worst thing: the door had been gouged because the thing had splintered it with its mouth.

There were clumps of fur dotting the hallway-hair the thing had shed.

From the window in the master bedroom I watched as two of the officers scanned the field behind the house, looking for nonexistent clues. They were not going to find any trails. Nothing led up to any of the "unbroken windows" and "locked doors" of the house. They were gossiping about Jayne Dennis and her crazy husband. O'Nan made a sound that suggested I start packing my things. I blindly filled a large duffel bag with a suit, my wallet, my laptop. I packed toiletries and medication. I glimpsed myself in the mirror as I changed into a pair of sweats, a T-s.h.i.+rt and a leather jacket. The side of my face was a crescent of burgeoning purple. My lower lip was split in the middle by a thin black line. My eyes were fluttering.

After leaving the bathroom, I looked one last time at the bed the Terby had crawled under.

The writer was with me in the room.

Tell them you have information about the horse mutilation in Pearce.

Tell them about Patrick Bateman calling you earlier tonight, the writer suggested. the writer suggested.

Tell them about the girl in Room 101 of the Orsic Motel.

Go ahead. Make the leap. Maybe you'll save yourself.

I piled the kids into the Range Rover, along with Victor, who would be staying in a kennel located in the bas.e.m.e.nt of the Four Seasons. Marta left her car in the driveway and drove. This decision was made after the officers threatened to give me a Breathalyzer test. They also insisted on escorting us to the hotel, where the night manager would be waiting for us.

The Range Rover and the two patrol cars pulled away from the darkened house.

Look, it's still peeling. Did you look in the living room again? I think you'd- As we drove through the barren town I leaned my head against the pa.s.senger window. The coolness of the gla.s.s felt soothing against the bruised cheek.

So, the writer said. the writer said. The thing in the hall. The thing in the hall.

What about it?

It's memory lane time, isn't it, Bret?

I know what I saw.

What did you see? Or, more precisely, when did you first see it?

I actually saw it on Halloween night. It had been in the woods. I saw it scrambling in and out of the woods. Like a spider.

How old were you when you wrote the story?

I was twelve. Just about Robby's age. It was written in the hand of a child.

What was the story called?

It didn't have a t.i.tle.

Actually, that's not true.

You're right. It was called "The Tomb."

What was the story about, Bret?

It was about a thing. This monster. It lived in the woods. It was afraid of light.

Why did you write this story?

Because I was so scared all the time.

What were you so scared of?

My father.

What did the monster in the story look like, Bret?

It looked like what was in our house tonight. It was identical to what I had imagined at twelve. I had written the story and ill.u.s.trated it. And the thing in the hallway was what I had drawn.

Had you ever seen it before?

No.

What did this monster you created do?

It broke into the homes of families. In the middle of the night.

Why did it do this?

I don't want to answer that.

But I want an answer.

Why don't you tell me?

It broke into the homes of families because it wanted to eat the children.

The empty streets were sliding by, and no one in the car said a word. Robby was regarding the moon and it was whispering to him while Sarah hummed softly to herself, almost as if in consolation. At the corner of Fort and Sycamore I noticed that a ma.s.sive eucalyptus tree had burst up out of the sidewalk.

I asked the writer: Why is it appearing-manifesting itself-on Elsinore Lane?

I'll answer that question with another question: Why is Patrick Bateman roaming Midland County?

What else is out there? How can a fictional thing become real?

Were you remorseful when you created the monster in the hall?

No. I was frightened. I was trying to find my way in the world.

A brief period of consciousness: checking into the hotel in the grand, deserted lobby.

The respite: the dullness of the exchange-all monotone and trance-between Marta and the night manager. My voice was too hoa.r.s.e for me to talk to anyone.

A bellboy showed us to a two-bedroom suite. The kids would occupy one room with two queen-sized beds. A s.p.a.cious, ornately decorated sitting room separated them from where I would be sleeping.

As Marta helped the kids to bed I remembered discussing "The Tomb" once with a psychologist my parents had sent me to when I was a teenager (I had parodied him in Less Than Zero Less Than Zero), and he had been amused by the Freudian elements-the s.e.xual imagery-present in the story that I couldn't have grasped at twelve. What was the mound of hair? Why did the orifice have teeth? Why was a light saber nearing the mound of hair? Why was the little boy screaming Shoot it! Shoot it!?

But something knocked me out of my memories of a story I had nearly forgotten and that played itself out in the early morning of November sixth.

And this was: the kids seemed okay.

I stood in the doorway and watched as they settled into their respective beds, Marta tucking them in.

I had imagined that the fear they had experienced during those roughly ten minutes of horror would be permanently sewn into their future. But this did not seem to be the case. It appeared that life was going to move on in its usual fas.h.i.+on. The bounce-back time amazed me. Their recovery would be complete by the time they woke up the next morning. What had been a frightening experience was now going to become a game, an emblem of pride, a story that would impress and enthrall friends. The nightmare was now an adventure. They were shook up but they were also tough and resilient. (This was the only relief I felt about anything that night.) Sarah and Robby had been bored and tired in the ride over to the hotel, and they kept yawning in the elevator, and soon they would be sleeping and then they would wake up and they would order room service for breakfast before being driven to school by Marta (though it would be up to the kids if they wanted to go) and Robby might even take a math test in the afternoon and then they would return to the Four Seasons and they would do their homework in front of the television and we would keep waiting for Mommy to come home.

The kids fell asleep almost immediately.

Marta said she would give me a call around eight, just to check in.

It was now 3:40. From the moment the lights blinded us until now, everything had happened within the s.p.a.ce of an hour.

I walked Marta to the foyer of the suite and feebly whispered, "Thank you" as I let her out.

Leaning against the door I had just closed, I was. .h.i.t by the thought: Writing will cost you a son and a wife, and this is why Lunar Park Lunar Park will be your last novel. will be your last novel.

I immediately opened the minibar and drank a bottle of red wine.

During the next four hours something happened that I don't remember.

The writer filled in the blanks.

I plugged in my laptop and logged on to the Internet.

This is where I typed in the following words: "ghost," "haunting," "exorcist."

Surprise and dread: there were thousands of Web sites related to these matters.

Apparently I specified by typing in "Midland County."

This narrowed the list considerably.

Supposedly I checked out a few Web sites, but I don't remember doing so.

Supposedly I "decided" on Robert Miller's Northeastern Paranormal Society.

I sent a drunken e-mail. I left my cell number as well as the number at the Four Seasons.

According to the writer: Jayne called from Toronto at 5:45 after speaking to Marta, who told her what happened at the house. I have no recollection of this.

Also according to the writer: Jayne was sipping coffee while having her makeup done.

My wife thought I was overreacting and she appreciated it.

Your wife is a fool, the writer murmured. the writer murmured.

You said, trying to control your slurring, "We'll be here until you get back-I just want to make sure the kids are safe."

You did not have an answer for Jayne when she asked you, "Safe from what?"