Menagerie

She carefully tied her shoes with well-crafted loops (as always), tucking the shopping list (which was almost always the same) into the pocket of her jacket, and ran back to the couch where her grandmother lay.

“Ready, Grammy!” she cheerfully declared.

“Oh, let’s have a look at you,” the older woman said, forcing herself to sit up. It was painful and she was slow, and the little girl steadied her as best she could.

“Well, you look just fine!” Grammy declared, “but let’s give the hair a touch...” She reached for a hairbrush on the end table and gave the girl’s long, brown strands a few quick strokes. She then sat back a bit and surveyed her work.

“Perfect!” she declared, receiving a kiss on the cheek in return.

“Remember,” she called after the girl as the front door creaked open, “don’t talk to strangers!”

So it had been since her son had died, along with his wife, in the crash. So it had been, since the court had given the little girl to her to raise. So it had been, since infirmity had confined her to this warm and tiny farmhouse, just beyond the edge of town.

The woman looked after the child, and the child look after the woman. Not old enough to pay the bills – there was a nest egg for that – but old enough to run the errands.

They had both lost so much. But they had each other.

It was a sunny morning, and she sang to herself and played makeshift hopscotch with sidewalk cracks as she made her way to the general store for the butter and the cheese and other items she and Grammy couldn’t produce for themselves (she had become quite adept at weeding the vegetable garden and identifying those specimens ripe for harvest). She loved the walk, and the morning sun, and the townspeople she routinely encountered.

There was Miss Marion, the piano teacher, on her porch with her knitting needles, who responded to her happy wave with a nod (her hands were full, after all). There was Henry Potter (who had once been mayor), cleaning out his shotgun in front of his garage (he was the county’s most skilled duck hunter – a thought that made her shudder). And Buck Porter, who had been the high school’s best football player and then gone off to war and come back to run his daddy’s gas station, doing chin-ups on the playground monkey bars. He sometimes shared a stick of gum with her; but he was busy, so she left him be.

Such was her happy mood that she’d have stopped and played a while herself, given her druthers, but she hadn’t told Grammy of any such plan, and she didn’t want to cause her to worry.

She paused briefly to watch the ducks in the pond across the road from the courthouse, which she always enjoyed, then proceeded to the general store, where Mister Comley stopped crushing ice with a steel mallet and promptly assembled her groceries in her carry bag and sent her back home with a peppermint stick (on the house).

From the darkened window of another house, far back from the road that broke the town’s perimeter, he peered out at the small community’s calm through a veil of black heat, a pulsing urgency that ate at the nerves behind his red eyes. Hunger. Vile craving. Gluttony primed for delicious terrors.

He’d only just arrived, but the view was the same as it always was, as it had long been. Many towns like this. Many happy, witless faces. Many potential satisfactions, and not much law to speak of. No one to stop him, no one even to suspect, until it was far too late.

And he noticed her, waving and smiling as she toted her bag, headed out of town.

He felt a rush, an unholy swell of anticipation, and let the curtain fall, shutting out the morning light.

Grammy was sitting in the window, watching for her as she strolled up the lane. Stepping into the house, she asked why.

“I was worried,” Grammy explained.

“But why? Did I take too long?”

“No, no, dear,” the old woman replied. “You were just fine! It’s nothing.” She forced a smile. “I just worry sometimes! Now, let’s see what we have here...” And she took the grocery bag from her granddaughter.

A week later, the ritual repeated. This time, the old woman positioned herself at the window while the girl was still in sight.

Her eyes closed, and her breathing slowed.

As she proceeded down the road to town, a tabby cat that she recognized from Miller’s farm appeared at her side. She couldn’t remember its name, but greeted it all the same. Moments later, the German shepherd from Old Man Beasley’s place took up station just ahead of her.

“Bandit!” she cried. “What are you doing here?” Undistracted, the dog trotted dutifully ahead.

Without warning, the bulldog from the junkyard at the end of Stumpy Lane suddenly appeared. She was startled, even frightened; this dog wasn’t friendly like Bandit; in fact, this dog hated Bandit. But it marched alongside her without comment.

By the time she passed the playground, she had accumulated four dogs and twice that many cats, and three ducks orbited above her and her motley assembly like an Air Force One fighter escort.

It seemed magical, like she was suddenly the star of a Disney movie; and though she could not fathom why the animals had decided to keep her company, she enjoyed them, all the same.

“Hey, Miss Marion!” she called from the sidewalk, “look at all my friends!”

The teacher looked down from her porch at the astonishing parade, set down her needles as her jaw dropped, and waved at the girl in wonder.

“Hey, Mister Toomey!” she called to the middle-aged man sculpting his hedges with the huge clippers, as he loved to do so meticulously, “it’s a lovely morning!” Toomey likewise stared at the unlikely procession. Passing Tom Barnett’s auto repair shop, where he was pouring fresh acid into a battery casing, she waved as he looked up in surprise.

The animals waited patiently outside Mister Comley’s store as she gathered her supplies, then escorted her back home.

He watched from his crack in the darkness, vexation roiling in his putrid gut. The larger dogs could tear a man in two; even the cats could be dangerous. His mind raced, as his depraved resolve asserted itself and his nerves danced like specks of grease on a scalding-hot tin plate.

He turned away, his breathing rapid, and paced the floor in shadow.

She marched up to the spacious porch of Grammy’s house with her proud companions, and once again Grammy was sitting in the window.

“Grammy! Grammy!” she cried, flinging open up the door. “Look who I found today!”

The animals all seated themselves respectfully on the porch. Not even the cats thought to invade the old woman’s home. They all simply waited, and the ducks settled on the lawn.

Grammy didn’t seem surprised.

“What a happy bunch you have there!” she smiled, as the girl toted the groceries into the kitchen.

When she returned, the animals were gone – except for Bandit and the bulldog, who began patrolling the yard.

Grammy had fallen asleep in her chair.

That night, two foxes and a bobcat found their way to the little farmhouse, standing watch till dawn.

And so it went in the coming weeks. Each time she went to town, whether for groceries or to play with friends or take her lessons with Miss Marion, her entourage promptly assembled. The townspeople began to take notice – and the phenomenon was so entertaining that none of the owners of the animals minded that they diverted from their routines to be part of the show.

But as the air cooled and the leaves turned and the sun spent less time in the sky each day, a cat went missing. And another.

The following week, the junkyard bulldog was poisoned.

Still the animals made their way to the girl’s side, but each time, they were fewer.

Bandit himself was found dead on the side of the country road, a mile from the farmhouse – a hit-and-run.

And even when most of the ducks had flown south, the three who stayed behind disappeared, one by one.

Behind the dark curtain, the twisted, shadowed scourge waited, biding his time, nursing his grotesque appetites...

Soon...

“Oh, Grammy,” she sobbed, mopping her brow with a cool cloth, “Please don’t be sick!”

The old woman drew breath with an effort, more worried for the girl than for her own slipping condition.

“It’s okay, dear,” she whispered.

“You must let me run and fetch Doc Tompkins!” the girl insisted. “You need him to make you better!”

“No, no!” Grammy replied. “You must not leave this house! It’s dark outside!”

“But I must!” the girl insisted. “You are so sick!”

“I’ll be fine...”

But she knew that wasn’t true.

And when the girl could stand it no more, she bolted from the couch, threw on her jacket, and burst out the front door and down the walk, into the darkness of the road.

Now...

He watched her as she emerged along the road, past the first few houses – alone. Nothing by her side. No canine sentries. No air patrol of fowl. Streetlights few and far between.

He hadn’t been able to get near the farmhouse. The wild animals surrounding it were, if anything, a far greater threat than the ones that had walked her around town. On the other hand, a bobcat couldn’t walk down the street in town without getting shot.

And now... here she was, delivering herself into his hands.

He only went out after dark, when it was easy to not be seen in a place like this. He loved the park and its shadows, which closed at dusk, where he could indulge his love of the night.

He waited until she arrived at the playground, where there was nothing but the bright moon to light her way.

The park in which the playground sat was lined with trees. It was almost certain that no one would see.

Spooked by shadow, the girl bolted across the playground lawn, remembering that Doc Tompkins’ house was on the far side, near the fire station. And he stepped from the shadows into her path.

She froze, terrified by the dark figure standing before her. He was a smear of gray against the night, preceded by a foul odor. Tall and looming, he was as still as the night around them both.

He took a step toward her.

Don’t be afraid, he whispered. She was too terrified to make a sound.

No Bandit... no bulldog... no friends to stand beside her...

Behind the shadowed figure emerged another. And another.

And behind her, two more.

And another, and another, on each side.

Mister Toomey, with his huge hedge clippers. Henry Potter, with his shotgun. Mister Comley, with his ice mallet.

Tom Barnett, with his battery acid. Miss Marion, with her knitting needles. Buck Porter, with just his muscles.

They moved with the duty and certainty of her missing entourage, and when a pair of nameless, loving arms gathered her up from behind and spirited her away, as the shadowed figure let out a single, truncated shriek, she didn’t question it.

She carefully tied her shoes with well-crafted loops (as always), tucking the shopping list (which was almost always the same) into the pocket of her jacket, and ran back to the couch where her grandmother sat, now feeling just fine.

“Ready, Grammy!” she cheerfully declared.

“Then off you go!” her grandmother replied, receiving her happy kiss.

“Remember,” she called after the girl as the front door creaked open, “don’t talk to strangers!”