He stood up, the chair scraping the floor beneath him. He had to go. He had to find his memory, find the truth. He had to get to the school, to the Sentinel’s office.
And that meant he had to leave the house and go out into the fog.
16.
He felt the fear flare inside him as he moved down the hall to the stairs. But he felt something else, too: the old pulse of curiosity, the old fever for the answers. As he passed the front door, he glanced out the sidelight. He glimpsed the thickening sheets of mist covering the front lawn. Pretty frightening—but there was no point in dwelling on it. He turned away and dashed up the stairs, taking two at a time.
Into his bedroom. The baseball bat—the Louisville Slugger Warrior—was back in his closet, as if he’d never removed it. He reached in and felt the cool of the aluminum against his hand. It made him feel a little better to grip the bat and bring it out. He was going to need a weapon out there. The Warrior wasn’t much, but it was all he had.
He went to the computer table. Collected his phone and his keys. He started back to the bedroom door—and as he did, there was a soft sound behind him. A brief electronic sizzle, almost like a whisper. Tom stopped in his tracks. He knew where the sound was coming from. The computer. He glanced over his shoulder at it. The little whisper of sound came again, and at the same time there was the faintest hint of light in the depths of the monitor, the faintest appearance of a shape, a silhouetted figure.
Something was in there. Someone. Trying to get out. Trying to talk to him.
The Lying Man.
Tom stood where he was a moment. He was tempted to wait, tempted to listen. It was just that this place—his house, his empty house—was so lonely now. And he was afraid, afraid of going outside. The musical, soothing sound of the Lying Man’s voice would be some sort of company, some sort of comfort, even if it told him lies.
It cost Tom a measure of will to turn away, but he did turn away. Lies were of no use to him now. Before the computer could make another noise, he hurried out the door, carrying his baseball bat with him.
Back down the hall. Back down the stairs. Back to the front door. He pulled it open.
A heaviness came into his belly; a darkness came into his heart. The forward wall of the marine layer had now crept up over the edge of the driveway and was tumbling steadily toward him. He couldn’t see the malevolents in the depths of the whiteness yet, but he knew they were there. Close. Getting closer.
Here we go, he thought.
He stepped out of the house and pulled the door shut behind him.
His heart beat hard, and the fear coursed through him like blood as he headed up the driveway to the garage door. His mind was crowded with a thousand doubts and reconsiderations. What if Lisa was wrong? What if he should have stayed in the house and toughed it out? What if Marie was right and he needed to get to the monastery as quickly as he could? He wished Burt was around to help him figure out whom to trust, whom to believe.
He reached the garage door. Took a nervous glance over his shoulder to make sure none of the creatures were sneaking up on him. The main body of the fogbank was still down toward the end of the drive, though the mist up on the lawn was denser than it had been even a few minutes ago.
Taking a deep breath, he turned his back on the scene. He stooped down and grabbed the garage door handle and rolled the door upward.
Burt’s old yellow Mustang sat inside in the shadows. Tom moved to the driver’s door, unlocked it, and slipped in behind the wheel.
He moved fast, trying to outrun his doubts. He shut the door. Stowed the baseball bat on the passenger side, wedging it half upright between the seat and the door so he could grab it fast if he had to. He snapped on his seat belt. Worked the key into the ignition and switched the engine on. With a deep breath, he shifted to look out through the rear window. He backed out of the garage slowly, backed down the driveway slowly, rolling toward the wall of mist.
The car backed into the street—and the fog closed over it. Wrangling the Mustang’s transmission stick into Drive, Tom faced front. The white mass was plastered to the windshield, blotting out the view. He could barely see past the car’s hood. He turned on the wipers. They swiped away the condensation on the glass, making it clearer. He turned on the headlights. They carved out about three feet of visibility in front of his fenders. That was as good as it was going to get. He was going to have to take this slow.
He pressed the gas pedal down gingerly. The car started rolling forward at about fifteen miles an hour. Any faster than that and he’d be barreling blind through the fog. And yet every instinct he had urged him to go faster, to get through this mess, to get to the school, to get back indoors as quickly as possible. It took all his restraint to keep the Mustang’s speed under control.
Slowly—so slowly—he rolled down the street. His breath came shallow. His heart beat hard. He cast his eyes briefly to the right and left as he moved, peering through the fog to see what he could. Mostly: nothing. White on cloudy white. But now and then he thought he caught a hint, a shadow, a shape of—something. Was that the hovering outline of an oak tree? Was that the looming mass of the Willoughby house hunkering right by the curb at the corner? Yes. The mist shifted a little and he got a clearer look at the old place. All the windows in the house were dark. No one home. No one home anywhere. Tom knew he was all alone out here.
He looked ahead, out the windshield—and let out a gasp as a hulking figure appeared at the edge of his headlights’ glow. It vanished almost immediately back into the mist. Gone.
Tom took a few hard breaths, trying to steady himself. He could feel his palms sweating on the steering wheel. The Mustang rolled on—slowly, slowly. He reached the end of his street, where it met with Eucalyptus Road. That was the broad, straight, open avenue that led north to Highway 182, where the school was. The stop sign became visible just before he reached the intersection, but Tom was afraid to halt the car. He was afraid the malevolents would seize the opportunity, that they would come swarming out of the fog and surround him, block his car, break in and devour him. He knew they were out there, just waiting for their chance.
He went right past the stop sign without even slowing. Hey, let the police pull me over, he thought. Really, there was nothing in this world he would have liked better than to see a cop right now, traffic ticket and all!
He turned the Mustang onto Eucalyptus. On the wider street, the fog seemed to spread out and become a bit thinner. He lifted his eyes from the small patch of road directly in front of him and scanned the scene through the windshield. He could make out houses like shadows, and the low broad shape of the YMCA building, and the modest spire of the Hope Church where he and his mom went, and where Burt used to go, too. His eyes lingered for a moment on the church as he remembered those mornings when they had all sat together . . .
But then, something—a movement in the mist—caught his attention. He turned toward it.
There they were. Two—no, three—no, wait, four—limping shadows, hulking in the mist: one on a lawn, one in a driveway, one outside the Y, one by the curb. One, that last one, was close enough so that Tom could make him out clearly through the drifting marine layer. He could make out that bizarre and awful elongated face. He could see those red and hungry eyes. They watched him drive past. Once again, he had to fight the urge to hit the gas, to try to race away.
Keep it slow. Keep it steady. They can’t touch you if you’re in the car, if you’re on the move. If you make a run for it in this fog, you’ll crash, he told himself, and then they’ll have you.
He forced himself to focus forward, and he drove on.
The malevolents slipped away behind him. Now there was nothing again, nothing but the fog. Tom’s pulse began to slow. His breathing began to even out.
Then the radio started playing.
It was so startling he nearly jumped out of his seat. All at once, the digital display lit up and the car filled with the sound of static. The next moment the numb
ers on the display started to change, climb. The radio was scanning, looking for a channel. As the numbers on the readout shifted rapidly, the whisper of white noise wavered and dimmed. For a second, Tom heard a snippet of music, a note or two. Then it was gone. The next second he heard a weatherman’s voice: “No break in the dense . . .” Then that, too, disappeared into the static as the readout numbers continued to roll on.
The next sound, though . . . the next sound distressed him. Just for a moment, dimly under the white whisper, Tom heard a woman weeping, sobbing.
Was that his mom? Was that his mom crying for him?
Before he could be sure, the noise was gone. There was another snippet of music under the hiss of static. It sounded like a rock band performing in the belly of a giant snake. Then that music, too, dissolved.
Enough, Tom thought.
He reached out to the Off button and pushed it. It had no effect. The radio kept scanning. The static went on. Holding the steering wheel with one hand, Tom tried to hit the button again.
And a voice spoke to him out of the radio with shocking clarity, “Don’t touch that dial, Tom.”
He knew at once it was the Lying Man. He recognized the calm, lilting, hypnotic voice. He hit the Off button again—harder—and then again. No change. The readout stayed lit.
The Lying Man said, “No, no, no, Tom. That’s no use. I’m with you. Whatever you do. I’m always with you.”
Tom had to watch the windshield to keep from running off the road. He took his hand away from the radio, put it back on the steering wheel.
“Did you think I would abandon you?” the mellow voice continued. “I would never do that. I’m here for you, Tom, even when you try to escape me. I’m not only traveling with you—I’m waiting for you wherever you go. Where are you headed now? To your school? I’ll be right there when you arrive. Me and all my friends. You can’t get away from us. Ever.”
There was a flash of movement at the corner of Tom’s eyes. He turned to the side window just in time to see another malevolent limp off into the mist. He tried to swallow, but his throat had gone dry. His neck and back and sides, on the other hand, were pouring clammy sweat.
“It’s just like Lisa told you,” said the Lying Man. “You’re not alone.”
“What do you want?” Tom said hoarsely. The Mustang continued its slow passage through the deep mist.
“Oh, it’s not about what I want,” said the Lying Man with a sound of gentle sympathy and concern. “It’s about what you want, Tom. That’s what I’m here for. For you. It’s all about you.”
“I just want to find out the truth,” Tom said tersely.
“Well, then that’s what I want, too,” said the serene voice from the radio. “I want you to find out the truth also. The truth about yourself. About what you’re really like. About what your life is really like. And about what you really want more than anything.”
The sweat poured off Tom even harder. He shivered with the clammy cold of it. His shirt clung to his skin.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.
“I think you do,” said the Lying Man. “I think you know deep down. I just think you need a little help to figure it out. I think you need my help before you can really face the truth.”
Tom glanced at the radio. He sneered. “I know you,” he said, his voice trembling. “I know what you’re like now. You lied to me. You’re nothing but lies. You’re . . .”
At that moment, with a horrible thud, something—someone—smashed into his fender.
Without thinking, Tom hit the brakes. The tires squealed as the Mustang skidded to a stop. Tom shouted in fear as a figure tumbled out of the fog and collapsed over the side of the Mustang’s hood. At first, he thought it must be a malevolent. But it wasn’t. It was a man.
Sprawled over the front of the car, the man looked up through the windshield, looked at Tom desperately. His forehead was streaked with blood. His eyes were wide and shining with a sick brightness. His expression was one of terror.
Shocked, Tom realized he knew the man. He recognized him. It was the lanky, long-haired young guy from the heavenly garden. The man with the sunken cheeks and hollow eyes, the addict he’d seen on television lying in the hospital bed next to his.
Slowly, the man raised one hand, his wrist bandaged. He reached out desperately as if trying to touch Tom’s face through the windshield glass.
Then, in the very next second, before Tom could react, two of the hungry-eyed malevolents lunged out of the surrounding whiteness and seized the man in their poisonous hands. The man shrieked in terror as the creatures’ long claws dug into the flesh of his arms. He shrieked again as, gibbering, the malevolents dragged him off the car’s hood. The man went on screaming and screaming, but it was no use. With wild cries of triumph, the creatures hauled him away into the mist.
The calm voice on the radio gave a warm laugh. “Now there’s a man who finally got what he wanted,” he said.
Openmouthed, Tom stared out the windshield at the place where the long-haired man had been. The whole awful scene had happened in an instant, and another instant passed before Tom could break through his horror and amazement and act. Then, quickly, he reached for the baseball bat next to the seat beside him. He had to do something. He had to . . . what? He didn’t know. Would he go out there? Try to fight the monsters? Try to save the man? What chance did he have?
It didn’t matter. He had to try. He wrapped his fingers around the Warrior and turned back to the windshield, grabbing hold of the door handle with his other hand, ready to leap out.
But it was already too late. The fog swirled and tumbled past the Mustang’s windows, deep and thick and empty. The long-haired man had vanished. And what Tom saw next filled his whole body with an acid fear.
The malevolents. They were coming for him. They were everywhere.
17.
His car had been stopped too long. The monsters had spotted him. They were swarming around him now, hunched figures limping and hunkering toward him out of the mist, becoming visible on every side of the Mustang, at every window.
There were two right in front of him, their raw, hideous, misshapen faces caught in the out-glow of his headlights. They were approaching the hood of his car, their arms raised for attack, their clawed fingers reaching. There were more of them to his left, out the driver’s window. Three more hungry-eyed beasts slouching out of the drifting whiteness, closing on him. Two more to his right, coming toward the passenger window. And when he looked up into his rearview mirror, he saw the lumbering figures coming up behind him, too.
He was surrounded. There was no way past them.
“I told you, Tom,” the Lying Man said quietly over the radio. “You’re never alone.”
Tom’s muscles had gone weak with terror. Second after second as the creatures closed in on him, as they limped closer and closer toward the car from every side, he sat behind the wheel frozen, unable to will himself to move. The monsters in front of him reached his fenders. Their claws were on his car, scraping horribly against the metal. They were beginning to climb up onto the hood, making the Mustang rock. Tom’s heart pounded as one of the malevolents reached his door. He heard its claws scraping at the door’s handle. And now another one started pounding at the passenger window, trying to break through the glass. And the car rocked even harder as yet another of the things started to climb onto the trunk in back.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of, Tom,” said the Lying Man. “Soon you and I will be together forever.”
Tom let out a roar and hit the gas. The Mustang’s tires squealed and the car shot forward. The monsters on the hood went flying off to either side. For another second—and then another—Tom saw the creatures at the windows running alongside him, hanging on to the doors, trying to keep him from getting away. But the car kept racing forward. The malevolents lost their grip and tumbled off into the mist. Tom kept roaring, kept the gas pedal pressed down hard beneath his sneaker.
The car broke out of the closing circle of creatures and shot away. Tom was free—free but blind because now the mist was thick again, tight against the windows again, and the car was speeding, speeding through a swirling, cottony mass in which he could see nothing.
Moving so blindly at such a speed, Tom quickly lost his sense of direction. He didn’t know where the road was. He didn’t know where he was going.
There was one more giddy second of racing blindness. Then the Mustang hit the curb, bounced up over the sidewalk, and smashed into a tree.
The car stopped. The engine died. The fog closed in around him.
18.
In that first moment of impact, there was a crunch of metal, a clatter of shattering plastic, a tinkle of breaking glass. The left side of the fender collapsed as it smacked into the tree trunk. The left headlight disintegrated. The jolt threw Tom forward against the seat belt, and the belt threw him back against the seat. He was dazed for a moment—but only for a moment. He willed his mind clear. There was no time to waste.
The malevolents would catch up to him in seconds. With the car dead, he’d have no chance to escape.
He grabbed the ignition key, wrenched it over, trying to start the car again. The engine wheezed and coughed but wouldn’t catch. He could see smoke beginning to pour up from beneath the hood. No, it was no good. The Mustang was finished.
Time to go.
He grabbed the baseball bat. Yanked it out of its space by the door. He glanced through his window to see if the path was clear. He saw the malevolents, dim in the thick fog, but getting clearer every second as they came humping after him.
Moving with the speed of panic, Tom pressed the button to release his seat belt. He grabbed the door handle. Pushed the door open. Dragging the Warrior with him, he tumbled out into the mist.
The cold, damp air closed over him, chilling his cold, damp skin. But it wasn’t just the air that chilled him. It was the beasts. So near. He could see their dark shapes. He could hear the brusque grunts of their breathing, the shuffling rhythm of their oncoming footsteps. Without the car around him, he felt totally vulnerable—he was totally vulnerable. He had to get out of here. Now.