Lunar Park

Lunar Park Page 106

I slammed the bathroom door shut, and Robby locked it. I was still holding Sarah and the light saber. We were waiting while staring at the door.

Calmly, I asked: “Where’s your cell phone, Robby?”

“It’s in my room.” He gestured over his shoulder.

I was contemplating something. I would unlock the door that led into Robby’s room and find the phone and run back into the bathroom and call 911. This was the idea that formed inside my mind.

Victor continued his freakout in the backyard.

Then something slammed into the door to Sarah’s room with such force that it bulged inward.

Robby and Sarah screamed.

“It’s gonna be okay. Robby, unlock your door. We’re gonna get out through your room.”

“Daddy, I can’t.” He was weeping.

“It’s gonna be okay.”

The thing slammed into the door again.

The door cracked down the middle. When the thing hit it again, the door was falling off its hinges.

This moved Robby to immediately unlock his door and run out of the bathroom.

I followed, still holding Sarah and the light saber.

We ran through Robby’s room and Robby unlocked the door and without hesitating we started moving down the staircase. The moon was streaming through the window and now we could see more clearly.

Halfway down the staircase I could see the thing rushing across the landing above us.

It began to chase us down the stairs. I could hear its mouth opening and closing, making wet snapping sounds.

Sarah turned her head and shrieked when she saw it lurching toward us.

My office seemed closest. The door was open. The front door was not.

My office had the gun in the safe.

In my office we closed and locked the door. I put Sarah down on the couch. Both of the kids were crying. I uselessly told them it would be “okay.”

Holding the light saber toward the dial, I unlocked the safe and pulled out the gun.

I scanned my desk with the saber until I located my cell phone.

I asked Robby to hold the light saber while I dialed 911.

Robby was just staring at the gun I was holding. This caused him to close his eyes tightly and cover both ears with his hands.

The thing began slamming itself into the door.

“Jesus Christ,” I shouted out.

The slamming was becoming more frequent. The door was bulging forward in its frame. I looked frantically around the room. I rushed to the window and opened it.

(Note: The paint was peeling off the house so rapidly that it looked as if snow flurries had drifted onto Elsinore Lane.)

But then the door cracked and fell to the side, hanging off the top hinge.

The thing stood in the doorway.

Even with the faint glow of the saber I was swinging at it, I could see the froth wreathing its mouth.

“Shoot it! Shoot it!” Robby was screaming.

I pointed the gun at the thing as it began shambling toward us.

I pulled the trigger.

Nothing.

The gun was not loaded.

(Note: Jayne had removed all the bullets from the gun after the night she thought I “imagined” an intruder had broken into the house.)

We could barely see the thing as it advanced toward us. It was making sucking sounds.

The electricity came on so quickly that we were blinded by the lights. The smoke alarm was beeping incessantly. Everything that had been turned off before bed was now on. Every light in the house was burning. The television was blasting. From the stereo blared a Muzak version of “The Way We Were.” My computer flashed on.

The house was sunstruck with light.

The light kept us from witnessing the thing’s disappearance.

“Daddy, you’re bleeding.” This from Sarah.

I touched my lips. My fingers came back red.

As I stood there I noticed the time on the battery-powered clock on my desk.

The electricity had come on at exactly 2:40 a.m.

25. the thing in the hall

Four minutes after a 911 call was made, the flashing blue lights of a patrol car pulled up to 307 Elsinore Lane.

I had told the 911 operator that there had been a break-in but no one had been injured and the “perpetrator” had escaped.

I was asked if I would like to stay on the line until the officers arrived.

I declined because I had to think things through.

I had to make a few key decisions.

Would the threat I was about to relate entail something that had found its way into our house? Or would I try to push the lie (the more plausible scenario) that it was—what?—your basic home invasion? Would I refrain from using the word “creature” as I gestured toward the woods? Would I make an attempt to describe the thing in the hallway? Would I act “concerned” while downplaying the true extent of my fears since there was nothing anyone could do to help us?