In Human Form

177

In Human Form

by David Kubicek

Moaning Rocks Press

Lincoln, Nebraska

Copyright 2011, 2017 by David Kubicek

Cover photo by Mircea Bezergheanu & Dreamstime

Cover design by David Kubicek

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to http://www.smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.

For Cheryl, who kept Wendy alive

Contents

Part I: The House is Full of Ghosts

Part II: When the Stars Begin to Fall

Part III: The Beginning of Good-bye

Notes and Acknowledgements

About the Author

PART I: THE HOUSE IS FULL OF GHOSTS

May12 - May 27, 1983

The general store smelled of chocolate. The floorboards were scuffed and worn, and they creaked when walked upon. It was the first sunny day in a week, so Mr. Anderson had propped the door open. Wendy gazed into a kaleidoscope, which rustled softly as she turned it. Her hair tumbled down over her shoulders in golden swirls, and her eyes were the color of a prairie midnight.

What do you think, Wendy? Mr. Anderson asked.

A sudden aching sorrow filled Wendy’s chest.

It reminds me of home, she thought.

The patterns are pretty, she said. She laid the kaleidoscope on the counter. Ivar will like this. It will remind him of stars and space and the beautiful things he likes.

Ivar’s a star-gazer, huh? Mr. Anderson said.

He began to ring up the items on the counter: chocolate cake mix, flour, canned peaches, frozen strawberries, a half-gallon box of tin roof sundae ice cream. He glanced at her.

She nodded, her sorrow was so intense now that she couldn’t trust herself to speak.

He goes out and stares up at the sky for hours, and I don’t know what to do, she thought.

The last item totaled, Mr. Anderson punched a button, and the cash register drawer jinged open.

That’s eight ninety-five.

Wendy unzipped a compartment on her purse. Mr. Anderson popped open a paper bag and began sacking the groceries.

Looks like you’re going to have a party.

Wendy handed Mr. Anderson a ten dollar bill. He laid it on the cash register while he counted out the change.

It’s Ivar’s birthday, Wendy said.

How’s he feeling?

He’s been sick off and on all winter.

She picked up the sack.

Must be pretty tough on him, him being a mute and all.

Yes.

Wendy said good-bye to Mr. Anderson and went out. Three men were coming down the sidewalk. She waited for them to pass, but they stopped. An aura of alcohol cloaked them. They were men she’d seen around town, men whose names she knew.

Hey, baby, the big one said. His name was Keith Barlow. Wanna fuck?

Excuse me, Wendy said. I need to get to my car.

They didn’t move, so she brushed past them and stepped off the curb. Barlow grabbed her arm. She jerked it away and shoved him with one hand. He stumbled backward and fell flat on his back.

The other two—Butch Cruickshank and Roger Dowd—started toward her. The door to Anderson’s General Store opened.

Get out of here or I’ll call the cops, you drunken bastards, Mr. Anderson said.

Barlow had regained his feet and his composure. He thrust his middle finger at Mr. Anderson.

Fuck off, asshole.

His two minions already were slinking off down the street. He leered at Wendy, then he followed them.

Are you okay? Mr. Anderson asked.

Fine, she said. Thanks, Mr. Anderson.

The encounter had repulsed her. She could still smell Barlow’s liquored-up breath and his body odor. She could still feel his clammy, hairy skin as she’d brushed past him, and she could feel his grasp encircling her upper arm like a brand of fire.

You want to come in and sit for a little while?

I’m okay, she said.

A cool breeze hit her as she started across the street. She stopped for a moment to let a station wagon idle past. By the time she had crossed to the old Ford Galaxie, a heavy cloud had hidden the sun. She could smell rain coming.

She put the groceries on the floor in back, then slid behind the wheel and pulled the door shut. She started the engine and drove past the men, who had gathered in a clump outside Mike’s Bar & Grill. Barlow leered and thrust his hips toward her.

Morons, Wendy thought.

She followed Main Street through town and out into the country.

Later, shortly after turning onto Old Ridge Road, she noticed a pickup closing on her from behind.

It’s them, Wendy thought.

She pulled the Ford as far as she could to the right and slowed to let the pickup pass. The truck pulled up alongside her and matched her speed. Barlow sat in the passenger seat. He winked at her.

Come on, baby. Let’s have some fun.

Wendy’s face grew hot. She glanced at the man, then back at the road. She braked the Ford, and the pickup inched ahead. Butch Cruickshank sat on the side of the truck bed.

"Goddamn, look at her, Barlow hollered. He spat out the window. How’d you like to get your hands on that piece, Butch?"

I could fuck her, Butch said. Tits’re kinda small, though. I like ‘em with big boobs.

The pickup crowded Wendy’s Ford. Barlow made a face at her. The truck wobbled from side to side on the road.

Are you crazy? Wendy shouted.

She could barely make herself heard above the rumble of tires over gravel.

Hey, Rog! She talks, Barlow said.

He punched the driver. The truck veered suddenly and nudged Wendy’s Ford with a metallic clank. The Ford lurched, but Wendy controlled it as easily as if it were a toy.

Eat this, Wendy thought.

She floored the accelerator. The engine roared. Gravel ripped from beneath the Ford’s tires and splattered the truck. The pickup swerved, and the driver fought to keep it out of the ditch. Soon Wendy had left the four men in a dust cloud behind.

After two more crossroads, the Ford crested Lookout Hill, and Wendy spotted the farm. Trees and bushes hid some of the buildings and lined the long crushed-rock driveway. The small pond on the east side of the driveway gleamed with late afternoon sunlight. Trees were clustered along Antelope Creek, which cut through their farm a quarter mile west of the house.

Wendy coasted down the hill and turned into the drive. Chickens scampered, fussing, out of her way as the Ford bumped across the yard. As she pulled up to the gate, the pickup carrying the three men chugged over the hill. She got the groceries out of the back and watched the truck approach. It slowed while passing the driveway, and its horn blared. Then it picked up speed and disappeared down the road. The men’s shouts floated back to her.

Her sorrow, which had eased while the men had distracted her, was back. She looked at the sky. The rain smell was stronger now. It would be a bad storm. Anxious to check on Ivar, Wendy hurried up the walk to the back door.

*****

Water rippled down the window pane. Wendy gazed out into the night. The yard light cast an eerie glow over the farmyard, and the wind lashed rain ahead of it in waves. Vaguely, Wendy could make out the solid dark bulk of the barn, looming against the grove of crabapple trees, and a dull glint of silver from the windmill.

A gust of wind dashed raindrops against the glass, blurring the picture, and Wendy turned away from the window.

I don’t see anything, Ivar.

The old man waved his arms. He made noises in his throat that sounded like marbles rolling around the bottom of a cast iron barrel. The skin over his throat flapped like a bed sheet hanging in a strong wind. He ended with several whirring clicks.

You can’t go out, Ivar. You’ll get sick again.

The old man’s head was almost hairless. His eyes resembled reddish-brown beads, and his ears were misshapen lumps of flesh that stuck out from the sides of his head. He turned away from her and waddled back and forth. Thunder cracked, rattling the window glass. The furnace clunked and came on beneath the floor register. The room smelled of burning dust.

Wendy went to the pantry for her raincoat and overshoes. Lightning flashed and lit up the kitchen like midday. Thunder grumbled against the walls. Rain battered the house.

The old man stood in the kitchen doorway and watched her pull up her hood, tuck her hair into it. He followed her to the back door.

I’ll only be a few minutes, she said.

Ivar made a noise that sounded as if he were choking on his tongue. Wendy touched the old man’s cheek.

"They’ll come, Ivar. They can’t have forgotten."

She said it with a passion she no longer felt. She said it for the old man, for her father.

Ivar didn’t reply, so Wendy went out and down the walk.

Rain beat coldly on her face. Water ran into her eyes and streamed down her neck into her raincoat. It wet her shirt and made her shiver. The night smelled wild and fresh. She swung open the gate and started across the yard, her feet squishing through the mud and sodden grass.

Wendy didn’t want to be out here. She didn’t expect to find anything. Ivar was lonely, and loneliness did strange things to the mind. She would look around a little then go back to the house and tell Ivar that everything was okay.

On clear nights Ivar and Wendy would stand in the pasture and look up to the stars, sparkling like sequins on a silken evening gown. But no star moved. They’d seen a satellite once, and Ivar had gotten excited, thinking his people finally were coming for him. On another occasion they’d seen what had later turned out to be a high-altitude jet creeping across a star field. After both sightings, his disappointment had been deeper than if he’d seen nothing.

Ivar’s beacon had been operating for more than forty years. Yet, no one had heard. No one had come. No one in all that time.

As the lonely years passed, Ivar had slowly wasted away. Now he was shrunken and old. He spoke often of giving up, the way the others before him had given up as hope had soured into heartsickness and despair. One by one, they’d sat down, had slipped quietly into trance, and had passed on to a world free of misery. Soon it would be Ivar’s turn, and the thought made Wendy sick.

The land flared with golden fire. A thunderclap struck. Wendy’s ears rang, and she could hear nothing for a few seconds. Slowly, the brightness faded, as if swept away by the tide of rain.

Water gurgled in tiny rivulets to the drainage ditch behind the barn. Rain slashed the crabapple tree s’ leaves, and water rushed in the ditch. A small animal rustled through the long grass near the barn’s foundation.

Rain pounded Wendy’s back. She unlocked the small door and cautiously pushed it open, peered into the darkness. Dimly, she could make out the welding machine just inside the door, the bench and the tools hanging above it, the junk oil drums and other scrap iron. The air in the barn was dry and dusty.

A mouse scurried along the wall.

Water dripped on metal toward the rear.

Blasted by a gust of wind, the walls creaked,

Wendy closed and locked the door. She glanced at the machinery shed on the other side of the windmill.

To hell will going down there, she thought.

As she turned back toward the house, she felt a sudden chill. Something seemed strange, but she didn’t know what.

She scanned the landscape.

Only grass waving, tree branches clashing together, a few leaves sailing over the farmyard. Lightning stabbed out of the southern sky. After a long wait she heard the faint boom and crackle of thunder.

Wendy went up the walk and into the house. She took off her boots and raincoat and left them to dry in the laundry room.

The sense of uneasiness was so great now that her muscles hummed with tension. She stepped into the kitchen. The refrigerator was running. Something cricked in the basement.

Ivar?

Silence.

Wendy went to the living room doorway.

Ivar?

Breathing. Not a single man breathing. There were one, two, three—

The skin on her abdomen tightened.

Get in here.

A voice, grating on her mind. A familiar voice. A voice she’d heard that afternoon, yelling at her from the cab of a pickup truck.

Hurry up, or I slit the old fart’s throat.

Wendy stepped into the room. The three men from the pickup truck were there. Butch lounged on the sofa, Rog leaned against the wall, and Keith Barlow had a choke hold on Ivar and a knife to his throat.

What do you want?

I want to see if you can satisfy a man.

Let him go.

Barlow shoved Ivar away from him. The old man shambled toward his bedroom, but Rog stepped in front of him.

Where you goin’?

Barlow motioned to Wendy.

Come on, baby.

Wendy walked toward Barlow.

That’s it. Come on. He held the knife in front of him. Come to papa.

She was so close that she could almost feel his breath.

Come on. Come to—

Wendy grabbed the hand holding the knife, twisted it. Barlow screeched and dropped the knife. She smashed her palm into his mouth, and blood splattered her face.

Before Barlow hit the floor, Wendy spun around and slammed the bottom of her clenched fist against Rog’s temple. He whirled away and crashed into the wall.

Ivar shambled into his bedroom.

Butch grabbed Wendy from behind. She thrust her hips to the side and jerked her heel up into Butch’s crotch. He fell away screaming and then retching.

Ivar appeared in the bedroom doorway, pointing a short silvery object at Rog, who had regained his feet. Rog lunged for Ivar. The silvery object hummed. A pencil-thin red beam shot out of it. The smell of burning flesh. Rog screeched, clutched his arm, and fell to the floor where he flopped around like a sick fish.

Barlow pushed Ivar’s hand aside. Wendy leapt toward Barlow, but Butch slammed something heavy over the back of her head. She crashed to the floor, paralyzed. Through a haze she watched Barlow slide a knife between Ivar’s ribs. Silently her mind cried out as she felt him die.

Butch, Barlow said. Go see if there’s some gasoline in the garage.

That was the last thing Wendy heard before darkness washed over her.

*****

The woman in a ragged, muddy shirt and jeans materialized out of the fog.

Jared Parker stomped the brake. The truck skidded and slipped sideways, throwing a spray of gravel into the ditch and pitching him against the steering wheel.

The horn blasted, jarring him full awake.

Slumped over the wheel, he shook his head, dazed, an echo of the horn fading in his ears. The damp night smell permeated the pickup’s cab. A flicker like a strobe light across the dashboard. Far away, thunder growled.

Still groggy, Jared raised his head.

As he watched, the figure crumpled to the ground. Mist swirled in the headlight beams and glistened on her skin.

"Keee-rist!"

The door squealed as he thrust it open. Wind ripped his cap away down the road. Sparsely scattered raindrops stung his face, and a wind gust chilled him. He dashed to the woman, his feet thudding on the road, his heart hammering.

Jesus Christ. Jesus H. Christ.

He knelt down and gently rolled her over. Her eyes popped open. She sprang at him as if she’d received a jolt of electricity. She clutched his coat with such strength that he nearly fell on top of her. He grasped her forearms to steady himself.

As he looked deep into her midnight black eyes, he shivered.

An empty stare, devoid of intelligence. He felt as though he were gazing into the eyes of an animated corpse. Her rigid grip on his coat and her clammy, doughy skin repulsed him.

Then he recognized her.

Wendy? Wendy Konicka?

She opened her mouth but only gurgled deep in her throat. Her hot breath touched his face. A fetid odor, as if she were rotting inside. Her chest expanded jerkily as she struggled to breathe, collapsed, expanded, collapsed ...

Jesus, he whispered.

Last night Ivar Konicka’s home had burned. Before volunteer fire fighters could arrive, fire had gutted the house. Old Ivar was dead, and his daughter Wendy was missing.

Where were you? Jared whispered.

She blinked at him, her mouth lolling open.

God in heaven, what happened to you?

Jared pried her fingers from his coat and slid her arms around his neck. Instinctively, she clasped her hands.

Hang on, Jared said. I’ll get you to the hospital.

He slid one arm under her back and the other under her knees, scooped her up and carried her to the pickup, its engine still chugging in the churning mist.

He found an old blanket in the box in the truck bed and wrapped it around Wendy. She grasped it but gave no sign she knew what was happening. To keep her upright, he belted her into the passenger seat then began the frantic four-mile run to the hospital. Every time he glanced at her an icy hand clutched his heart.

She’s dying, he thought.

He reached the hospital in record time and pulled into the ambulance bay. He lunged out of the truck and punched the door opener. The doors began to slide apart.

I need help!

Two attendants in white came running with a gurney. The men transferred Wendy and whisked her through the double doors.

Antelope Valley Memorial’s emergency department had three examining rooms, and to anybody’s knowledge all three had never been used simultaneously. The last time two of the rooms had been used at once had been in July, nearly a year ago, when two boys had had a fireworks accident.

A set of double doors on each side of the admitting desk separated the waiting area from the exam rooms. Tonight one R.N., one nurse’s aide, and one physician were on call. The physician, Dr. Lucius Farley, was snoring in his chair when the attendants rolled Wendy into Exam Room 1.

The nurse jostled Doc’s shoulder. He snorted, blinked under the soft lights. Tiny red lines webbed the whites of Doc’s eyes. His nose was large and red and was covered with many tiny blue and red blood vessels. Several downy hairs sprouted from the bridge of his nose.

After Jared had finished with the admittance questions, few of which he could answer, he found Doc maneuvering the bell of his stethoscope around on Wendy’s chest. Jared’s skin crawled, and something caught in his throat when he saw Doc. Being in the hospital made him queasy enough without that man being on duty tonight.

Doc’s spidery white hair was unkempt, and he seemed confused.

What is it, Doc?

Shssss.

Wendy lay motionless, like a corpse, but unlike a corpse she had good color. A sheet had been pulled up to her shoulders, and Doc continued to probe with his stethoscope beneath the sheet. Slowly he straightened up and let the earpieces of the stethoscope hang around his neck. He stared at her, his hand tugging at his whisker stubble.

What is it? Jared asked.

Doc looked at him as though he’d just realized Jared was in the room. He glanced toward the nurse’s station then stepped to the door and pushed it shut with a metallic snap.

Is she ... dead?

No.

Doc bent over her, pulled up her right eyelid, and shone the light from his ophthalmoscope into her dilated pupil. Then he examined the other eye.

Jared noted the slight tremor in Doc’s hand and wondered if he’d been drinking. He stepped closer. Doc smelled musty, as if he’d been shut in closet for two days, but Jared didn’t detect any liquor.

Doc changed heads on the ophthalmoscope and peered into Wendy’s ears. Then he straightened up and stared at her while absently tapping the ophthalmoscope in his hand.

Is she dying?

No.

She looks like she’s dying.

She’s exhausted, but nothing else is wrong with her.

Wait a minute ... if you’d looked into her eyes like I did —

I just looked into them. She’ll be fine in a day or two.

What?

She’s been exposed to the wind and rain for the last twenty-four hours. She’s exhausted, but it’s not serious enough to admit her.

Aren’t you going to run some blood tests or take x-rays?

Doc shrugged.

If it’ll make you happy, but it’s an unnecessary expense.

The nurse poked her head in the door, and Jared realized that his voice had been steadily rising.

Is there a problem, Doctor?

Doc shook his head.

I’m releasing Wendy into Mr. Parker’s care.

Wait a minute ... Jared said.

She doesn’t need to be admitted, Doc said. She has nowhere to go, and you have an extra room.

Jared clenched his fists at his side. A memory of burying his daughter came into his mind. He felt sick in his throat.

The nurse looked at Doc and then at Jared and then at Doc again.

Is that a problem?

No, Jared said.

I’ll prepare the forms, the nurse said and left the room.

The door eased shut with a click. Doc listened to her footsteps squinch across the tiles.

Don’t talk to anyone about her, he said. If any reporters come around, refer them to me. If the police stop by, tell them what you know, but you don’t know anything about her condition. Direct them to me. Do you understand?

Jared said nothing.

Do. You. Understand?

Yeah, Jared said.

This is important. She needs rest. After you’ve signed her out you may leave. I’ll check on her tomorrow.

He nodded at Jared and went out. Jared sank down on the chair to wait. His mind was racing with all that had happened tonight and with memories of sitting in this room ten years ago.

*****

Jared was late coming home, and Lyn was worried. Priscilla tried to calm the older woman by playing her guitar. But Lyn’s attention kept drifting toward the shade drawn over the large picture window in the living room as she searched for the faint brush of headlights turning into the driveway.

Priscilla Davenport was seventeen and short and had chestnut-colored hair that swept down her back nearly to her waist. She was on the second verse of Wildwood Flower when she spotted the light moving across the shade, heard the rumble of the truck and the crunch of crushed rock on the driveway. She fell silent, watching the fireplace. An occasional gust of wind down the chimney fluttered the flames.

Priscilla followed Lyn, who was already halfway to the kitchen.

Lyn hurried through the laundry room and down the steps, pulled open the back door. Outside, the rain pattered on the grass and on the patio. The night smelled fresh and damp.

Where were — Lyn began.

Help me, Jared said.

He loomed like a dark phantom just out of range of the laundry room light. He held a bundle in his arms.

What? Lyn said.

Jared stepped through the door. He cradled the bundle the way he might cradle a baby. So tightly swaddled was the person in a dripping blanket and Jared’s hooded raincoat that Priscilla couldn’t tell if it were a man or a woman. She looked at him, her face asking the question.

It’s the Konicka girl.

Lyn’s mouth made a silent O. She lifted a flap of the hood. Her eyes widened, and she stood rock still.

Make up Angie’s bed, Jared said.

She shook her head, dazed.

Did you hear me?

She looked at him.

It’s impossible, she said in a small voice.

It’s the Konicka girl. Go make up the bed.

Lyn lowered the flap over the sleeping face. Without a word, she turned away. Her slippered feet whisked on the floor and up the stairs.

Surprised