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?
The police would arrive.
Yes . . . and?
The police would inspect the house.
And they would find nothing.
All the police could do was escort us to our rooms, where we would collect our belongings, since there was no way we were spending another night in the house.
But how could I, much less the kids, explain to them what had happened to us?
We were dealing with something so far beyond their realm that it was senseless.
I realized dimly that no police report would be filed.
I had not figured out the Terby yet. All I knew was that somehow I had brought it into the house—and that it had wanted me to—but what had appeared in the flickering hallway was a secret I had to keep to myself. In this, the house and I were in collusion.
I called Marta. I chose my words carefully and explained that “something” had gotten into the house and assured her that everyone was fine and I had called the police and we were going to spend the night at the Four Seasons downtown and would she please make arrangements. I said all this in as calm a voice as I could create and I said it quickly—in a run-on sentence—mentioning the intruder in the lead so that the only thing that would register was the need to book a room in a hotel. But Marta was a professional and she was wide awake the moment her phone started ringing and she told me that she would be over to Elsinore Lane in fifteen minutes and before I could say anything she had clicked off.
Sarah was still in my arms and Robby was sitting on the lawn when the two officers—guys in their late twenties—walked up to us and introduced themselves as Officer O’Nan and Officer Boyle.
They noticed the blood on my lip and the bruise forming on the side of my face and asked if I required medical attention.
I told them I was fine and that it happened when I fell in my son’s room, gesturing at Robby, who nodded faithlessly, confirming this.
They asked if “Ms. Dennis was at home,” which I took in stride and explained that, no, my wife was on a film set in Toronto, and that it was just myself and the children in the house.
While another patrol car pulled up carrying two more officers, I explained to O’Nan and Boyle that an intruder had broken in, but because the electricity had “gone out” we were unable to “get a good look at it.”
This is when everything changed.
The word “it” was what clinched the night.
The word “it” was what labeled me the “not credible witness.”
O’Nan and Boyle conferred with the two other officers.
I cleared my throat and clarified that the intruder “might” have been a “wild animal.”
There was a not very convincing discussion about whether to contact the local ASPCA, an idea that was soon left abandoned. If anything was found—meaning “it”—then they would reconsider.
Boyle stayed with me and Robby and Sarah as the three other officers entered the house, which was radiating a light so intense that it seemed as if it were day for night on our lawn, and the decibel level of noise (“The Way We Were” sung over and over)
(but you don’t even own that CD)
had awakened the Allens.
I felt a pinprick of fear as the men entered the house. I didn’t want them to enter the house. I didn’t want anything to happen to them in that house. I wanted to cry out, “Be careful.”
I sensed it then (though it didn’t prove to be true): I was the only one in the family who would ever enter the house again.
And I also knew that our family—even outside the house—was not free from danger.
I suddenly looked behind me to see if the cat I had found yesterday was still decaying beneath the hedge.
When Officer Boyle saw Mitchell and Nadine Allen standing on their black granite driveway in matching robes, gesturing to him, Boyle asked us to “stay put.”
The light from the house became muted. Someone found the sound system and the singing stopped abruptly.
The silence was momentarily startling.
I asked the writer: What is Officer Boyle telling the Allens?
(Yes, the writer was back. He did not want to be left out of this scene and was already whispering things to me.)
As Boyle walked toward the Allens, I didn’t notice Robby taking the cell phone from my hand.
Officer Boyle is telling them that you are insane, and they are not disagreeing with him. Officer Boyle is telling them about your ridiculous wild animal scenario. Look at the Allens—they are not nodding at what Officer Boyle is telling them. He is telling them that a giant hairball forced its way into your house. And, of course, the Allens do not believe this, not after the freakout they witnessed Sunday night—remember that, Bret? And they are going to ask Officer Boyle, “Does he appear to be drunk?”
I looked away from Mitchell and Nadine and up to the second story of their house, where I could see Ashton silhouetted against the curtains of his room, and he was talking on a phone, and when my eyes moved back to our lawn I saw Robby holding my cell to his ear, his head turned slightly away from me, nodding.
That’s so you can’t hear what he’s saying.
I looked back up to Ashton’s window, but he had moved away from it.
How could Robby make a phone call when he had been weeping with fear only ten minutes ago? He had been urging me to kill the thing only ten minutes ago—how was he able to manage a phone call when I could barely move? What was he hiding from me? Why was the actor back? Hadn’t we tearfully reconciled only hours ago?
I was staring at Robby when suddenly Officer Boyle appeared in my line of vision.
He was leaning into Robby and asking him something.
Robby immediately looked over at me and then nodded.
Robby stood up and clicked off the cell as Officer Boyle kept talking to him, their conversation dotted occasionally by Robby’s nods and the glances he kept giving me.
Marta had arrived, and Sarah asked me to put her down.
I was unaware I had been holding her all this time until I handed her to Marta.
Marta was arguing that there was no need to file a police report since it would ultimately end up in the press. But her attitude was the same as mine: if everyone was okay, let’s just get the kids to the hotel.
Two of the officers walked out of the house.
Predictably, they’d found nothing.
Yes, doors were scratched. Yes, force had been applied to each. Yes, two doors were unhinged. But no windows were broken or open and all the doors leading into the house were locked.
Whatever I had seen must have gotten into the house earlier that day.
This was the consensus view.
I asked Officer O’Nan, “Did you check under the bed in the master bedroom?”
O’Nan turned to an Officer Clarke and asked him if he had looked under the bed in the master bedroom.
Officer Clarke walked up to us and said, “Yes, we did, sir. There was nothing there.”
“So the thing’s still in the house? Is that what you’re telling me?” I was not supposed to say this—I just couldn’t help myself at that point. The question came out in a croak.
“Sir . . . I don’t understand.”
“Wasn’t there a doll—a bird—under the bed in the master bedroom?” I had turned away from Marta and Sarah, and lowered my voice when I asked th
is.
“Why would this doll be under your bed, sir?”
“So it’s still in the house?” I asked myself, murmuring.
“Sir, what is still in the house?” O’Nan asked me this with a clenched patience.
Clarke stared at me as if I was wasting his time. But what is he going to do? I thought angrily. What were any of them going to do? I was married to Jayne Dennis. I was a famous writer. They had to put up with this. They had to do whatever I felt was required of them. Marta was identifying herself. They regarded her seriously.
And then a scene began arranging itself on the front lawn.
“If there are no broken windows and all the doors are locked, then that thing is still inside.” I was answering my own questions.
“Mr. Ellis, we found nothing in the house.”
Another officer appeared and asked, with barely disguised skepticism, “Mr. Ellis, could you give us a description of this intruder?”
I shuddered. Later, the writer reminded me of what I said. He had the transcripts.
“We were sleeping and . . . a noise woke my son up . . . it was . . . I don’t know what it was . . . it was maybe a couple of feet tall and . . . it had a blond coat of hair and . . . it was growling at us—actually, no, it was making hissing noises . . . and it chased us . . . it chased us through the house . . . it broke the doors . . . it wanted something . . .”
Someone commented on the fact that I was out of breath.
It was at this point that one of the officers walked out of the house with Victor.
The officer was holding the dog by its collar as he led the animal to the group assembled on the lawn.
Victor was panting and had a glassy expression.
There was a knowing and conspiratorial silence.
I recognized it and something flared up within me.
I wheeled around.
Flashlights scanned the tired dog, who kept squinting up at us.
Victor sat down on the lawn. He noted our stares and was oblivious to them.
And then it seemed as if I was the only human he was directing his attention at.
I projected shame emanating from him.
I could hear the dog saying: “You are fucked up. You are fucking absurd.”
I realized that everyone was looking at me, expecting something.
The presence of the dog seemed to be a question answered, and this was followed by—I could feel it—collective relief.
“Look, this thing was not a golden retriever, okay? The golden retriever was outside barking its ass off. The golden retriever wasn’t even in the house. And that dog is not capable of knocking those doors off their hinges.”
Silence again.
And then Officer Clarke said, “Mr. Ellis, the dog was in the house—we found him in the kitchen.”
The officers were asking the children what they had seen.
When Sarah shyly turned away from them, I said, “Honey, you don’t have to say anything.”
Sarah told them she had seen “a lion.”
Robby shrugged, uncertain. When asked by Officer Boyle if it could have been the dog, Robby kept shrugging. Robby did not look at me when he made this gesture. Robby did not look at me when he confirmed that what had invaded the house was not human but an animal and that it could have been the dog. But, Robby stressed, it was dark and he had kept his eyes shut during most of “what happened.”
I realized I was the only witness at this point.
Officer Boyle asked me, “Have you had anything to drink tonight, sir?”
Push the trapdoor open. The gulls are squalling. The wind gusts toward you. Your father is standing on the walkway of an interstate overpass.
“Pardon me?”
You heard him, the writer hissed.
Boyle moved closer and, lowering his voice, asked, “Have you been drinking tonight, sir?”
“I don’t have to answer that question. I’m not operating a motor vehicle.”
(I realized I had never used the term “motor vehicle” in any sentence I had spoken or written during my entire life.)
Marta was still holding Sarah as she listened carefully to this exchange.
I was also highly aware of Robby’s presence at this point.
Look at how dignified and sexy you are, the writer said. Quite the dad you turned out to be. Drunk and spazzing out over some kind of monster in the hall. What a guy.
The officers were becoming less concerned and more remote.
“Listen to me, whatever this was came in from the woods,” I pressed. “And it was not our dog.” Helplessly, I turned to my son. “Robby, tell them what you saw.”
“Dad, I don’t know what I saw,” he said, anguished. “I don’t know what I saw. Stop asking me that.”
“There was a half-empty bottle of vodka on your nightstand, Mr. Ellis.”
I didn’t know who said this.
“And you think this is evidence of—what?” I managed.
“Mr. Ellis, are you on any medication?”
“Yes. I am. Actually, I am.” This was answered in the defensive manner of the guilty addict.
“What is it that you’re taking?”
“It’s really none of your business, Officer, but I’m taking very low dosages of Klonopin for an anxiety disorder.”
(The irony: I had never felt more sober in my entire life than at that moment.)
The four officers looked sharply at one another.
“And you were drinking while taking this medication?” one of them asked.
“Look, I can see where you’re going with this.”
Officer Boyle was looking at me with a very basic and casual disapproval.
“Mr. Ellis, I think maybe you should call the doctor who is prescribing this—”
“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 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 shit 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. 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-ass 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 off
icers had masturbated to sex scenes in 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 doorknob.
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-shirt 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.
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 basement 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.