The Bulb People

  “She told us to come home first thing tomorrow,” Carl says, “but I think we should leave now. Something’s wrong.”

  His tone silences any further arguments from Spider.

  “Okay, we’ll be ready in a minute,” he says.

  Oh no, I think, back to Bridgestock!

  I feel like I’ve just heard a death sentence. I’m so comfortable sprawled out on my sleeping bag, too. The thick carpet under it is like a deep feather bed. The last thing I want is to face are more hours in the car – with Horror Town waiting for me at the end.

  But maybe this will work out for the best, after all. Maybe it’s actually a ‘blessing in disguise.’

  I pull the shoulder bag close to me, feel the paint cans through the bottom.

  I’ve got plans for you.

  16: Big Night on the Town

  The ride to Bridgestock is quiet and tense. Grim expectations hang in the air. The two brothers seem to be very worried about their home situation, and this leaves no room for the usual joking around type stuff.

  Freeway miles tick past us through the night. A heavy traffic of semi-trucks hems us in much of the way. Carl weaves in and out between the huge rigs, passing one batch only to deal with another. Mumbled curses drift back to me from the front seat.

  I wonder what the problem is with their family. Are their parents careening toward a divorce? It seems that half the kids at my old school have experienced a family breakup. I’ve been through it myself once. I want, more than anything, to go through it again.

  I feel bad for my friends, but I have other concerns right now – like where I’m going to sleep tonight. No way do I want to go back to that crappy house, especially since nobody expects me. I have permission to spend the night elsewhere, and I do not want to waste it.

  I can’t ask Spider to put me up, though. Who knows what terrible situation might be boiling up at his place? Besides, I just might have something important to do come very early morning ...

  ***

  The road is empty the last half hour before Bridgestock, as if nobody wants to be driving anywhere near the town. We turn off the freeway exit onto the long, dark country road.

  We drive forty minutes through thick blackness. I can’t see what lies alongside the road. I look out the back window half expecting to discover a mob of alien pod people chasing after us, with a couple of motorcycle cops leading the way.

  Then we pass through the Bridgestock ‘downtown.’ Except for a few cars parked by the Yookey Lake Tavern, the area is dead. Dim, bluish light exits the tavern window. Maybe it’s dead in there, too. Maybe the bar is filled with pod people silently drinking their alien brews.

  We are two blocks from my house now.

  “Let me out here, please,” I said.

  “Why, man?” Spider asks.

  “I need to stretch my legs,” I say. “I’ve been sitting around way too much.”

  “Okay, suit yourself,” Spider says.

  Carl pulls over; I get out.

  “Thanks for everything guys,” I say. “It was lots of fun.”

  “Sure,” Carl says.

  Under the street light, I can see that the tense, strained look has returned to his face.

  “See you at school Monday,” Spider says.

  “Yeah, see you,” I say.

  I watch them drive around the corner. Then I turn away from my house and walk the opposite direction.

  It isn’t a bad night for a stroll, even though this is Bridgestock. The air is warm, a bit humid, and breezy enough to keep the mosquitoes from swarming. My shoulder bag contains bug repellent, just in case. I shine my little AA flashlight on my watch. It’s going on 11:30.

  Without my friends watching my back, the residential streets appear dark and threatening. The big, shabby houses, filled with sleeping people I do not want to know, seem to lean in toward me like huge beasts getting ready to pounce. If I had any sense, I’d go straight to our house.

  But I’m just being paranoid. Despite its creepiness, Bridgestock has zero violent crime; the cops make short work of any troublemakers. This is a major selling point for Bob’s housing development. Come to charming Bridgestock to escape the pressures of big city life!

  Where can I go, then? I’m really tired and need some shut eye.

  That park by the elementary school is the best place to sack out for a while – lots of trees, a picnic shelter. The alarm on my watch can get me up in plenty of time before the town stirs into what passes for life. It will be kind of fun, actually, like a camp out.

  Who am I trying to kid? This town scares the heck out of me. It’s no Boy Scout campground but a sick, twisted place where any perverse thing can happen. There are some really nasty people here ... but not as many as there used to be, right? Those creatures at Melody Acres have already polished off a couple.

  A sudden panic grips me. Are those creatures out wandering the streets, are they crouched in the shrubbery waiting to attack? Terror crowds into my brain. Scream or run!

  I started running.

  The pock pock of my sneakers is the only sound in the deserted streets. Somewhere a dog begins howling. I dash around a corner and stop. My breath is coming in gasps now. I suck on my inhaler, and the panic retreats.

  I’m being an idiot. The creatures are like web spiders – they don’t go wandering around hunting like tarantulas. They just stay put, calling out to their prey. If nothing else, those long, ropey arms would slow them down, fix them to one place. At least I hope this was true.

  Look at the objective facts, Ryan.

  I am far from Melody Acres, and I feel none of the vibrating horror I experienced when the monsters were close. Their terrible smell alone would give ample warning of their approach. Right? I turn a corner, and the elementary school comes into view down the street under sagging yellow lights.

  Why am I doing this?

  Well, like I said, I don’t want to go back to the house. The thought of spending another night under the same roof with Bob and Katie is unbearable.

  Also, an idea is squirming in my mind, trying to get out.

  If I want to, I can spend the rest of the night outdoors. Then, come very early morning when nobody is up, I can sort of make my way to Melody Acres – not going in, of course – just to take a look at the sign.

  It isn’t too high off the ground. Bob wanted a lofty billboard, but a town ordinance forced him to keep it low. If somebody could find a ladder – like the one I saw leaning against that nearby house – why, he could climb right up to the gleaming billboard family and do a remodeling job on them with spray paint.

  How would those snotty people look with blacked-in teeth and X’s over their eyes? The picture window of their perfect house could be turned into a gaping mouth with fangs around the edges. The artistic possibilities are extensive.

  When I get home, I’ll casually say: “We drove past the Melody Acres sign, somebody really trashed it.”

  Bob will freak when he sees it!

  This is just a mental exercise, of course, sort of an amateur horror movie. But it could be done ... if somebody really wanted to.

  I pass a big wooden fence with a gate in it. A terrifying scene from Invasion of the Body Snatchers enters my mind – the one where pod people grope their arms around a wooden gate, tying to break in. A gate just like this one!

  My heart jumps into my mouth, I start running again. Aliens are chasing me through the darkness. They intend to change me into something I don’t want to be! I force myself to stop.

  Calm down, Ryan!

  The elementary school is very close now. Being careful to avoid the pools of street light, I maneuver myself into the park – the same park where Spider and Carl clobbered Larry Nolan. I find a spot behind the trash barrel at the picnic shelter, a place where nobody can see me from the street.

  I wrap my sleeping bag around myself and shut my eyes. The panic tries to grab me again – I see the creatures in Melody Acres looming up out of the groun
d, reaching for me with their ropy arms. I force my eyes open.

  The night around me is maximum creepy with insect whirrings and various strange noises. Are other things besides bugs lurking out there? I shift myself, trying to find a less uncomfortable position on the concrete. A huge question occupies my mind:

  What are those creatures at Melody Acres?

  Odd, I haven’t even asked myself this before. My brain was too shocked to think in such terms, but now I’ve recovered enough to speculate.

  Did they drop from outer space like those pods in the movie? I don’t think so. They seemed almost human somehow, despite their horrible mouths and arms. They were like a gang of mutant psycho killers.

  Did Mr. Thromp see them – was that why he raced his truck by our house screaming his head off? Where was he coming from, the mansion construction site where he worked? Spider mentioned a grove of weird dead trees that was going to be torn out. Is that where the creatures came from?

  But I can’t answer any of these questions, no matter how much I turn them over in my mind. Finally, I drop off to sleep.

  17: Morning

  My eyes pop open, like that pod guy lying on the massage table getting ready to take over Jeff Goldblum’s body. The darkness is just starting to lift.

  I’ve had a few blessed hours of total sleep – no aliens chasing me, no vine arms wrapping around my legs. One second I was dead to the world, the next I’m wide awake – and back in Bridgestock. I toss my things into my bag and prepare to move out.

  A huge black bird perches on the trash can with its head cocked, observing me. Like the raven in that Poe story.

  “What are you looking at?” I say.

  My watch alarm goes off, nearly giving me a coronary. The bird flies away with a harsh, mocking caw.

  I head east, toward the dawn. Masses of other birds are making a racket as I walk the gloomy streets. I’ve always hated that early-morning sound. It comes at a time when I should still be asleep, and it reminds me that a long, hard day is ahead.

  I am moving on auto pilot. The crazy plan that entered my mind yesterday is playing itself out, with me as an involuntary participant. I can’t deviate from it, even if I want to.

  ***

  The ladder is still leaning against the dilapidated house on the far side of town. It is rough and gray from weather exposure, and maybe a heavier person couldn’t use it, but it holds my weight as I climb up to the happy blended family on the Melody Acres sign.

  What am I doing? How did I get here?

  I stand level with the smiling dad now. He looks like all those phony dads everywhere who have treachery in their hearts behind the glittery smiles. Men like my dad, like Bob Warwick. I want to smash my fist right through his repulsive face!

  I shake the can of black spray paint. This jerk will look a lot better with horns on his head and his eyes Xed out. Then on to the mom, who is just as guilty as he is by letting him ruin the family. I’ll give her a stupid grin and a tongue hanging out of her mouth – she’ll look like the idiot she is.

  The kids I’ll leave alone because nothing is their fault. Instead I’ll move on to the house and trash it with the red spray paint. And then the finishing touch. I’ll add a single word so the text will read:

  FUTURE SITE OF MELODY ACRES underground ESTATES

  When I’m finished, I’ll throw the paint cans out into Melody Acres. Bob will see them there and go after them. He’ll want to dust them for fingerprints, but there wouldn’t be any fingerprints, or paint on my hands either, because I’m wearing latex gloves.

  Yes, Bob will be out in the open fields when he hears the snare song. He won’t be able to resist; he’ll wander off to the tentacles with the same stupid look that Larry wore ...

  What the heck am I doing!

  I pause with the paint can in mid air, right in Dad’s face. My finger trembles on the spray button. I am ready to take an irreversible step into the world of evil.

  But none of this is my fault! I’m just a kid, aren’t I? And I’m just sort of arranging an invitation. Bob doesn’t have to take it, does he? It’s not like I’m going to drag him into a hole myself and tear him up.

  Who asked him to put this stupid sign here, anyway? My finger stops trembling, and I prepare to ex out the jerk’s eyes.

  Then I hear them calling to me.

  It’s a low, soothing rumble beckoning me out to Melody Acres. I’m not really sure if I’m hearing it with my ears or just in my mind. I look at the spray paint can in my hand. What am I doing with this thing when I have more important matters?

  I take a step down the ladder.

  No Ryan! a panicky voice screams in my head.

  But I’m exhausted, and the song promises me rest – relief from all the troubles of this world. I take another step down.

  The full horror of what’s going on slams into me like a freight train. I’ve become one of the nasty people; I can now hear the creatures’ siren song! But I didn’t really mean anything bad, it was just a sort of game. I am almost completely down the ladder now.

  I have to fight!

  Then my cell phone rings, breaking the spell. I tumble off the ladder and sprawl on my back.

  The phone is still ringing. I wrench it off my belt.

  “H-hello?” I say.

  “Hey, Ryan!” the phone says from a million miles away.

  “Spider?” I say.

  “Yeah. Can you come over right away?”

  “ ... what’s this about?” I say.

  The call suddenly breaks off.

  I’m too stunned to grasp what’s happening. What does Spider want that’s important enough to disturb a Sunday morning? I try calling him back but can’t make a connection. Typical Bridgestock dead zone service.

  The last cobwebs clear out of my head. Why am I here in this undignified position? I look up to see a ladder stretching above me. A can of spray paint lies nearby. Now I remember.

  The low, rumbling lullaby is starting again.

  “No!”

  I scramble to my feet and knock the ladder over. It breaks apart hitting the ground. I snatch up the paint can along with my bag and start running. I am well away from Melody Acres before I allow myself to slow down.

  The Last Outsider

  18: An Abrupt Departure

  Daylight is taking firm hold now, but nobody seems to be up yet. Block after block of dreary houses moves past me. Everything is deserted, as if body snatchers have taken over the town and are lurking inside the buildings. As I pass through downtown, I fling the spray paint cans into a trash barrel, along with my latex gloves. The last faint murmurings of the lullaby cease.

  A terrible surprise is waiting for me when I round the corner to Spider’s block. A moving van is parked in front of his house, and men are carrying furniture out to it.

  Spider must have seen me gaping on the sidewalk. He comes out the front door and bounds down the steps toward me.

  “Glad you could make it, Ryan,” he says. “Sorry about the crack of dawn phone call.”

  “Spider? What’s ...”

  I’m too shocked to say anything more.

  “We’re getting out, Ryan,” Spider says, “back to the suburbs.”

  My heart turns to a concrete blob. It seems as if a giant hearse, rather than a moving van, has arrived to haul away my only friend in the world.

  “Why?”

  “Because of the disappearances,” Spider says, “and that weird incident with Jim Thromp last Monday.”

  I watch the moving men haul a load of boxes out of the house, still unable to believe this disaster.

  “Mom decided that she was leaving with me and Carl,” Spider says. “She told Dad he could stay if he wanted, but he’s getting out, too. Mrs. Thromp was the last straw.”

  “Mrs. Thromp?”

  “She never got home after school Friday,” Spider says, “She just disappeared, like the others.”

  I’m too stunned to answer. My commitment to secrecy i
s melting away fast. I simply can’t conceal what I know any longer – not from my best and only friend who is dropping out of my life. I grasp Spider’s arm.

  “I know what happened to Larry Nolan,” I say, “and probably to the others as well.”

  Spider smiles. “Was it the Body Snatchers again?”

  “I’m not joking, Mark. I know what happened. I saw it.”

  Spider’s eyes widen. “You saw it?”

  “Yeah, I followed Larry after the fight Wednesday afternoon.”

  Spider draws me away from the moving van where nobody can overhear us.

  “What happened, Ryan?”

  “Out in the vacant fields. Melody Acres ... I ...”

  “What?” Spider’s voice has become a hoarse whisper.

  “Some ... thing with long, ropy arms grabbed Larry and pulled him underground,” I blurt out. “I think it ate him. Another one almost got me, too.”

  Spider’s mouth drops open like a fish out of water. A gasp of breath rushes in.

  Then, in halts and jerks, I tell him the whole story – from right after the fight up to my narrow escape, in full, gory detail. As he listens, astonishment shoots across Spider’s face, then disbelief. Finally he smiles.

  “You’re kidding ... right?” he says.

  I shake my head. “I am not.”

  “Come on, Ryan, you’ve been sick,” Spider says. “You must have imagined the whole thing – an hallucination. That and too many horror movies.”

  “This was no hallucination, Mark. I didn’t imagine it because I was sick; I was sick because of what happened.”

  Spider turns deadly serious. “Wow! I never thought ... wow!”

  Mrs. Cozzaglio appears at the door.

  “Mark!”

  “Yeah, Mom!” Spider replies.

  She looks really tense and upset, like she wants to get out of town before the goblins come out. I wave to her. All I get back is a worried look and a head shake, as if she feels sorry for me.

  “Dad needs your help, Mark,” she says. “Get in here, now!”

  “Okay, in a minute,” Spider says.

  “Make it a quick minute,” his mom says.

  Spider turns toward me. “You’d better tell somebody about this, Ryan.”

  “Who,” I say, “the cops? They’re probably as crazy as everybody else around here. Mom’s still out of town, and I’m sure not gonna tell Bob.”