Eyes

An old school bus whines to a stop at the top of Haylewood Road.

Pete Greenwood steps off, pulling his jacket closed. It’s late afternoon, but the day never warmed up. The sun is hidden behind a white, shapeless sky, and the wind is pushing October air across the rolling Carolina farmland. The bus driver, a woman named Mrs. Marlow, smiles politely with one hand on the door lever.

“Have a blessed weekend, now,” she says. The door shuts and the yellow beast roars back into motion, kicking up dust along the gravel road.

The Greenwood farmhouse sits at the back edge of a sprawling, empty cornfield, shaded by a big oak tree that leans over it with gnarling branches. There’ve been plenty of summer days spent on the lower limbs of the monster, as his mom calls it. Plenty of scraped hands and knees from the climb. Pete tries his best to remember the last time he tried it, but can’t recall. It’s been years, somehow. He promises himself he’ll try it again someday, and sets off down the narrow road.

He’s almost at the house when he stops to watch the crows in the cornfield. There’s probably a dozen of them, pecking at the remains of the year’s harvest. There’s not much left for them, now. But they still hop and peck and caw, hunting for bits in the dirt. It’s a dance, almost. Pete smiles, the first real smile he’s produced all day, he thinks, and heads up the faded blue porch steps.

The swing is empty. It moves in the breeze, creaking lightly. Most days, Bill Greenwood is sitting there when Pete comes home, sleeping or smoking a Black & Mild. He works nights at Turtle Island Correctional, out across the river. The schedule makes him short-tempered, at best, and Pete’s mother seems to believe that fresh air helps him cope.

Pete pushes past the swing and leans over the edge of the porch railing so he can see the driveway. His mother hates when he does it. There’s a fifteen foot drop on the other side, leading to the basement door and the garage. “That’s a swan dive onto nothing but concrete, Peter,” she always says. He listens to her most of the time, but it’s fastest way to tell who’s home.

His dad’s blue Chevy truck is in the driveway, parked under the old basketball hoop. His mom’s Corolla isn’t in its usual spot. There’s a different car parked there instead, an ugly gold sedan. A jolt of excitement rolls through Pete’s chest. He spins around and heads for the front door, dodging the swing.

His hand takes the knob but it doesn’t turn. He steps back, surprised. The house is hardly ever locked in the afternoons, particularly when there’s company. He knocks twice against the heavy wood door, then tries the knob again. No one comes.

“Dad! You home?”

He pulls his book bag off and fishes for the keys in the side pocket, nerves rumbling in his gut. His older brother’s visits are normally grand affairs. His mother wouldn’t miss a homecoming for anything. Pete slides the key and turns it. The door creaks open.

The entryway is colder than normal. He steps in, looking around for any sign of life.

The living room is dark and empty. He can see a white bowl sitting on the ottoman by the couch, left over from his breakfast eight hours ago. His mother would have words about that, whenever she came home. He walks through and grabs it, then heads into the kitchen.

“Dad? Joey? Anybody around?”

He drops his bag on the kitchen floor and takes the bowl to the sink. Water is dribbling lightly from the faucet. He pushes the lever down and watches the last of the water disappear. Around the drain, catching in the stamped letters of INSINKERATOR, there’s a swirl of red. It flows with the last of the water and finally disappears down the pipe. Pete stares down at it where it was, not quite sure he actually saw it at all.

“What the hell is going on?” Pete says aloud, looking around.

There’s a set of car keys sitting on the grey marble counter. There’s a student ID tag on the ring, and Joe’s half-smiling face looks back up at him. Pete picks them up, turns them over in his hand. Joe must’ve left them before he disappeared of the face of the earth with the rest of the family.

A breeze pushes through the house, and Pete turns toward the back patio. The sliding kitchen door is cracked open, letting the cold autumn air inside. He walks over to it and pulls it all the way open. The patio is just as quiet and empty as the rest of the house. The wicker furniture sits, undisturbed, under the old ceiling fan. The fan and light are both on. The chain tick tick ticks against the bulb as the fixture hums.

“Dad?”

He steps through the patio to the screen door and pushes it open. His eyes follow the gentle slope of the backyard, from the road to his left to the trees on the far side. The grass is patchy and overgrown, same as it ever was. He steps quickly down the two sets of wooden stairs that lead to the driveway. The wind pushes fallen leaves across the ground around him. The chain hanging from the garage door raps lightly against the house. Pete turns around, searching for any sign of life. There’s nothing to see, and nothing to hear.

A familiar scent hits his nose. It’s a deep, sweet smell, like a burnt vanilla bean. His eyes lower to the cement of the driveway, where a half-smoked cigar has been stamped out.

“Where are you guys?” he says, barely loud enough to hear. He looks up to see that the trunk of his brother’s car is open, facing the woods. A stab of worry creeps up in him as he walks around to look inside. “Seriously, what is going on?” His voice quivers. He hears it and his hands start to shake. Panic is building slowly somewhere deep in his chest, and he’s hopeless to stop it.

When he can finally see the trunk, he gasps.

Inside, there’s a long black bag with SAFE ADVANTAGE ROADSIDE KIT written on the side in wide white letters. There’s a ripped piece of black plastic next to it, torn from something like a garbage bag. Covering the two items, and spilling out over the edge of the trunk, are little streaks of blood. There’s a few shallow puddles staining the grey interior of the trunk. It’s dripping down the bumper and pooling in the crevices of the driveway. It’s streaked across the taillights.

He wants to scream. It comes up from his lungs and he almost lets it out. He feels it rattle in his throat and his fists tighten. But before he can make a sound, he hears something from the woods behind him. A voice.

“Dad!” he hears. It’s his older brother’s voice. Even without seeing him, he knows. He turns sharply, nearly stumbling. The afternoon air falls silent again, but it was real. He felt it. Seconds later, he’s running toward the trees at full speed.

The hill leading up to them is steep and he slows, breathing hard. He makes it into the woods, following the narrow dirt path that cuts through them. He runs hard, barely keeping his eyes open. A few steps after entering the shade of the trees, his foot slips and he hits the dirt. His hands take most of the impact, scraping across the hard ground and ripping open up in long stripes. His chest hits, then his head. He slides a few feet and stops, moaning. The pain is hot in his hands, but he refuses to think about it. His mind is on finding his brother, or his dad, or anyone who can prove to him that he’s not suddenly alone.

He keeps running along the path. He listens for voices, but all he can hear is the low rumble of a train coming closer. The tracks run just on the other side of the woods, close enough to the house to make the dishes rattle in the cupboard as they go by.

He sees motion between the trees. A dark shape moves in and out of view somewhere ahead. Shouting voices blend with the roar of the train. Pete hurries forward, finally breaking through into a small clearing. There, standing at the edge of a narrow gully, is his dad. His back is turned toward him, and he’s staring down into the ditch.

Pete slows to a walk. He can see the blur of the train cars passing just past him. Two long I-beams stretch across the gully, rusted red. His dad is using one of them to keep his balance as he peers downward. When he speaks again, Pete can finally hear him.

“Careful now! Eyes up!”

“Ok, I’m almost there!” he hears. It’s Joey. His voice comes from somewhere down in the gully. Pete walks toward them, feeling the constant pulse of energy coming from the passing train. He trips over something and looks down. It’s a black trash bag, crumpled up against a tree, stained with blood and dirt. Pete’s stomach turns. He staggers back a few feet, fighting the urge to vomit.

“Wha…” he starts to say, but his words are lost in the roar. “Dad…” he says, but the man doesn’t turn.

“Ok, ready?” he hears his brother call from the ditch.

“Do it!” his father yells.

Pete steps forward just as the ground starts to shake. It’s nothing like the vibrations of the train. It’s a deep, rolling shake that makes the leafless tree branches knock together around them. A sound lifts from the gully that sounds at first like a scream but evolves into something like an explosion, filling the air and making Pete clasp his hands over his ears.

“Dad!” he calls again, but there’s no use. The world is trembling. Pete steps forward slowly, feeling unstable. He nears his father and the edge of the gully. Something is lifting from the ditch now, a dark haze that ripples in the air. Pete takes the last few steps to the gully’s edge, and starts to lean forward to look down into it.

“What? Peter!” he hears his father yell a couple yards to his left. He turns to see the old man glaring at him with a mix of anger and fear. He waves a heavy hand away. “Get the hell outta here! Now!” Peter stares at him for a moment but can’t make himself move. His eyes move back toward the gully.

“Peter, no!”

The gully is deep and filled with roots and weeds. Joe is there, crouched on a small flat piece of earth a few feet down. Beside him, hanging limply over the edge, is a girl. Her face is pale and lifeless, her bloody blonde hair is in tangles. Joe’s attention is fully on the depths of the ditch below him, where the light seems to disappear into a void.

Pete stares into the darkness. Inside it, something seems to move. The ground continues to rumble, knocking bits of loose earth down into the pit. In the dark, barely visible, he finds the shape of two enormous eyes. They’re narrow and glow with a low, glimmering light. They catch his gaze and his mind empties. His stares into them, suddenly dizzy.

A deep blue hand emerges out of the pit, circling the edge of the gully and landing on the girl’s body. The long, scaled fingers tighten and pull her away, dragging her down the slope and into the darkness. Joe finally looks up, and his eyes widen with panic.

“Pete, what the hell?!” He calls. Pete feels the hands of his father grabbing for him, but his eyes stay in the pit, caught by the big, dark eyes. They fill his mind. He takes a step forward.

“No, stop!” Joe yells, scrambling up the slope toward him. The ground crumbles under Pete’s foot and he starts to fall forward. His father’s hands grasp at him from behind, desperate to catch him.

“Peter!” he hears, but it sounds miles away. He falls forward, toward the pit and the eyes. Joe reaches out and grabs his leg. The force of his throws Pete sideways as he falls. Pete’s eyes finally leave the pit long enough to see the rusted edge of a metal I-beam as his face slams into it, and everything goes dark.

For a long time, there’s nothing at all.

Then Pete’s eyes open, one more than the other.

His vision is blurred and dark on one side. He blinks, trying to see more than the vague shape of the ceiling. A sharp pain rolls through his left side when he does.

His hands move for his face, and he whines when he fingers find cotton bandages instead of skin. There’s movement beside him, then a familiar voice.

“Hey, baby,” his mother says. He has to turn his head to see her. His good eye finally focuses, and he sees he’s in a hospital room. The TV is on in the corner, showing a sitcom he’s never seen. There are flowers here and there, and a big poster board card that says “GET BETTER SOON, PETE!” in thick marker.

Pangs of panic stab through him, and he tries to to move. Mary holds him down, gently at first, but then more insistently.

“Eyes!” he shouts. His voice cracks. His throat is dry and swollen. “Eyes!” he shouts again. The pain and dizziness overtakes him. He falls back against the bed, choking on heavy sobs. He tries to remember what he’s trying to say, but his thoughts are jumbled and chaotic. Eyes. The same thought keeps coming to the front, like a megaphone over the noise. Eyes. Eyes.

“Eyes, Mama,” he says, almost silently. He finds her face. There are tears on her cheeks, but no fear in her eyes. She puts a hand over the bandages that cover his left side. The pressure calms him down, and his eyes close again.

“I know, baby. I know,” Mary says. He feels her lean forward and kiss his forehead. “It’s all gonna be alright now. Ok?” He nods slowly. He knows there’s something he wants to say, but he can’t find it.

“What…” he starts, but the words don’t come.

“Hey, look here,” his mom says after a minute. When he looks, he sees two figures in the doorway. “You’ve got company.” Joe comes in, followed by Bill. Pete feels a jolt of excitement roll through his chest. For a moment, he forgets about the pain.

“Joey,” he says, grinning wide. He can feel the bandages curl around his mouth. He holds his hands up and his brother takes them, holding tight. Their mother steps away, letting Joe sit on the edge of the bed.

“Hey, little brother,” he says. He smiles, but Pete sees it falter as he looks at the bandages. Bill stands at the foot of the bed, wearing a half-smile.

“You scared us good, boy,” Bill says. His eyes shine in the bright light of the fluorescents, showing tears he won’t let fall. “We thought you were gone.”

There’s a long moment of silence in the room. Pete sees his mother step outside, wiping her eyes.

“That was a hell of a fall,” Joe says. His grip on Pete’s hands is tighter now. “You must’ve gone right over the rail. Probably trying to see the driveway, huh?” Pete tries to remember. He looks up at his father. Bill is staring down on him with a stern face. His smile is gone.

“Yeah…” Pete says quietly. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Landed right on your face, it looks like. You’re lucky it didn’t kill you on the spot,” Joe says. Pete nods, pushing himself to remember. Pain pulses in his face, clouding his vision even more. He won’t let the panic out again, though. It stirs and stirs but he keeps it down, trying to be brave.

“I don’t know what happened,” he says finally.

“What can you remember?” Bill asks. Mary comes up and stands beside him. Pete is silent for a long while, trying to put all the images in order.

“Let’s not pester him, now. He only just woke up,” his mother says. Bill nods slowly, still staring down at him. Joe lets go of his hands. After a moment, he stands up to leave.

“The monster,” Pete says finally. Bill and Joe turn back in unison, their faces grim. Bill kneels beside him. Pete feels the heat of his breath.

“I thought I wanted to climb it,” Pete says. He voice is thin and stuttering, but the thoughts are coming clearer now. “It’s been years since I have. I thought I might want to try it again.”

“My God, Pete,” his mother says, sitting down in a chair by the window. “Climbing that old tree should be the very last thing on your mind. We should have it torn out of the earth.” She laughs sharply and looks out the window, shaking her head. A broad hand moves to Pete’s face and turns it. Bill looks at him in both eyes.

“What else can you remember, son? Anything at all?”

Pete thinks hard. He feels sleep coming, but fights to stay awake. His father’s hand rests against his damaged face, much like his mother’s had. The tears that Bill is so afraid of showing glisten in his eyes. After a while, Pete nods.

“Yeah,” he says. His eyes close. The darkness of sleep closes around him, but he smiles. “I remember the dancing crows.” His fingers move at his side, pretending to hop and peck at the bedsheet. His father kisses his head and moves away.

“You’re okay now, kid,” Joe says. He sounds far off. “You’re gonna be alright.”

Pete drifts to sleep with a single, meaningless word floating in the darkness of his mind.

Eyes.

***

Michael Hill is an author of short fiction and comic books based in Charlotte, North Carolina. They have had short fiction published in Heater Magazine (as Michael Welsh), Under the Bed, and Creative Loafing Charlotte's flash fiction contest. They’ve also had comic short stories published in Containment Breach by Fugitive Poems Comics.