The Midnight Men and Other Stories

  The Midnight Men and Other Stories

  LEE MOAN

  Copyright © 2011 by Lee Moan

  Lee Moan's Steam-Powered Typewriter

  These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Lee Moan.

  Cover art copyright © 2011 by Lee Moan

  Table of Contents

  The Midnight Men

  Juju

  Killing Gloria

  The Devil's Bones

  Inheritance

  The Glamour

  Nan

  Death's Head

  The Witch is Dead

  Deus ex Machina

  About the Author

  The Midnight Men

  The Robinsons were the first to go.

  It was the all-pervading purr of a powerful motor engine which dragged me from a deep and blissful sleep. The LED display on my alarm clock said: 12:03. It wasn’t unusual to hear cars on our street at that time of night—people being dropped home after a night out; nightshift workers heading off—but something about the drone of that car whispered to my subconscious. Something was not quite right. I went to the bedroom window and looked down the moonlit street.

  The Robinsons lived on the other side of Cedar Road, about four houses down. Sitting in the road outside their front gate was a huge black car, bigger than any car I’d ever seen, the make and model alien to me. The headlights were on full beam, sending twin shafts of white light down the street. A man dressed in a black hat and overcoat stood beside the car, staring up at the Robinson house. I watched the static figure for several minutes, wondering all the time if it was all just a very odd dream, until he reached in through the driver’s window and punched the horn.

  “Ben, what is it?”

  Sally was sat up in bed, her face washed in moonlight from the gap I’d made in the curtains.

  “Dunno, sweetheart,” I said. “Something going on with the Robinsons.”

  She came to the window, huddled close to me, the warmth of her body fighting the chill which had seeped into my bones.

  Just then, Phil Robinson emerged from the front door of his house, his arms around the shoulders of his three daughters. Shortly after that, Lea Robinson came out, clutching herself, and even from this distance we could see she was crying.

  “My God,” Sally said in a hoarse whisper. “Do you think they’re in trouble, Ben?”

  “What, like running away from crime lords? That sort of trouble?”

  “I can’t imagine any other reason why they’d be leaving in the middle of the night.” Sally chewed her bottom lip thoughtfully. “Ben, I think you should go down and speak to them. Something’s very wrong.”

  I was about to protest when we both sensed a presence in the room. It was Caleb, standing in the doorway with his eyes shut.

  “Mum, I can’t sleep,” he said, pointing to the window. “Noisy car.”

  Sally slipped her arm around his narrow shoulders, and then turned to me with that familiar look: the raised eyebrow, the cocked head.

  “All right,” I said, grabbing my dressing gown. “I’m going.”

  ***

  When I stepped out my front door, I found Jed Palmer standing on the porch next door. He was leaning on the rail and smoking one of his unfiltered cigarettes, observing the goings-on up the road with his usual weary expression.

  “Hey there, Ben,” he said. “Some weird shit going on at the Robinsons.”

  I nodded. “I was just going to go over and see what was up. Fancy the walk?”

  Jed took a final drag on his cigarette and then tossed it into the rose bushes. “Let’s mosey,” he said.

  We were both wearing our pyjamas, slippers and bathrobes, but found the evening surprisingly warm. The full moon, shining brilliantly in a cloudless sky, lit the street in an eerie silver glow. Despite the steady rumble of the huge car, no one else in the street seemed to be interested in the Robinson’s business. I wondered if we were sticking our oars in where they weren’t wanted.

  As we approached down the middle of the road, Jed called out: “Hey, Phil. What’s the rumpus?”

  Robinson seemed not to have heard, only turning in our direction when one of his daughters alerted him to our presence with a nudge. His eyes were sunken and red-rimmed, like he hadn’t slept in days. There was no response to Jed’s probe, not even a friendly acknowledgment.

  “Phil,” I said, raising my voice. “Is everything all right, buddy?”

  Again he didn’t respond, but his wife stepped up to the picket fence then, wiping tears from her cheeks.

  “No, everything is not all right,” she said. She began to sob again, and I realised she wasn’t about to elaborate.

  “Lea,” I said, “is there anything we can do to help?”

  “No,” she told me, her eyes burning into the side of her husband’s head. “No, there’s nothing anyone can do.”

  The man in black opened the rear passenger door and stood back, hands clasped together in front of him like a funeral director, silently urging the Robinsons to climb in.

  There was a long pause. None of the Robinsons moved. The youngest girl moaned loudly and hugged her father even tighter than before. Robinson threw a desolate look in his wife’s direction, then raised his chin and began to move towards the car, his daughters clinging to him like limpets.

  “Phil!” I cried out. “What’s going on? You’re going to leave just like that?”

  He stopped, and looked back.

  Jed pointed at the Mercedes-Benz in the driveway of his immaculate house. “What about the Benz?”

  Robinson’s eyes flicked over to the gleaming car. “Where we’re going we won’t need it.”

  “But Phil,” I protested. “You can’t just up and leave—”

  He looked me in the eye then. I’ll always remember that look. The look of a defeated man. “I have to,” he said. “I made the choice.” He kissed the top of his youngest daughter’s head. “For them.”

  Before I could quiz him any further, he and his beautiful daughters had vanished into the back of the car. Lea Robinson waited a little longer before succumbing to the same fate. She looked over her shoulder at the house which they had occupied since the year their eldest daughter was born. Then she dropped her head, marched towards the car, and disappeared inside.

  Jed and me stood in the street on that balmy evening, and watched the giant car thunder away down Cedar Road. A hundred questions were rolling around in my head, but when I looked at Jed to start voicing them, I realised it was pointless--he had no answers. He was as confused as I was. Without another word between us, we shook our heads and wandered back home to the warmth and safety of our respective beds.

  ***

  By noon the following day, I had almost forgotten the midnight departure of the Robinsons as the chaos of the emergency ward engulfed me. As a triage doctor, the day begins at screaming pitch and escalates from there.

  Around noon, I was examining a young man with suspected appendicitis when the curtain of my cubicle was wrenched apart and I found Sally standing in the opening, breathless, trembling, her face drained of colour.

  “Sally? What’s up?” I said.

  “It’s Caleb,” she explained, her eyes filling with tears. “He’s been stabbed.”

  “Stabbed?” At the sound of that word, an icy claw closed around my heart. “Jesus, i
s he okay?” I was out of the cubicle before the young patient could protest. We hurried down the emergency ward, Sally sobbing uncontrollably, unable to speak. When we reached my son’s cubicle, I had to pause. The fear in my heart at what I might find when I pulled back that curtain was overwhelming. I drew in a deep lungful of air, and went in.

  Caleb was lying unconscious on his back, his face as white as bone, his forehead slick with sweat; large swatches of blood dappled his crisp white school shirt. On a daily basis, I see every possible type of mortal wound, every facet of human suffering, and yet the sight of just a few drops of blood on my son’s clothing almost tipped me over the edge.

  Nurse Andrews was at his side, and she must have seen the naked terror in my eyes because she put a reassuring arm on my shoulder. “It’s okay, Ben,” she whispered. “It looks worse than it is. I’ve dressed the wounds. They’re only surface scratches, really. He was lucky.”

  Still numb with shock, I stared down at my son.

  “Thanks, Kathy,” I said. “I’ll take over. There’s a guy in cubicle four who might need some assistance.”

  Nurse Andrews nodded and slipped away.

  Sally appeared on the other side of the bed, Caleb’s hand clasped tight within her own.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  Sally palmed the tears from her face and sighed. “Apparently, Darren Hawkins went on a robbing spree at school--money, cell phones, iPods. Caleb refused to hand over his phone and Hawkins pulled a knife on him.”

  “Little bastard,” I whispered. “Where’s Hawkins now?”

  “They arrested him after he attacked Caleb. Principal Tolkan suspected he was high on something.” She shook her head in despair. “Can you believe it, Ben? Kids robbing kids, kids on drugs, kids carrying knives in the schoolyard. This is junior high, for Christ’s sake.”

  Caleb stirred at the sound of his mother’s raised voice. After studying our faces through bleary eyes, he managed a weak smile.

  “Hey, buddy,” I whispered. “How’re you feeling?”

  His brave smile disappeared and tears began to trickle from the corners of his eyes. “Hurts,” he said.

  I lifted his shirt and carefully unpeeled the dressing Nurse Andrews had placed over his torso. Two long gashes ran across his lower abdomen, both still oozing blood. But on close inspection I decided the nurse was right--they would heal in no time.

  “You’ll be okay,” I told him. “I think we can save the six-pack.”

  He managed a smile.

  “I’m sorry, Dad,” he said. “I bet you think I’m a wimp.”

  “A wimp?” I said. “Why would I think that? I’m proud of you for standing up to that guy. So proud.”

  “Me, too,” Sally added.

  “Where were your friends in all this?” I asked. “Weren’t the Paisley twins with you?”

  Caleb looked up at me with his big brown eyes. “They’ve left.”

  “Left? What do you mean?”

  “They weren’t at school yesterday. And I heard that their house is empty. It’s really weird, Dad. No one knows where the Paisleys have gone.”

  I thought of the Robinsons then, and a cold finger ran down my spine.

  ***

  Two nights later, I was jostled from sleep by a hand on my shoulder. When my eyes unglued themselves, I found Caleb’s worried face inches from my own.

  “Dad,” he whispered, “the car’s back again,”

  I listened for a few moments, and sure enough, I heard the strange alien purr of its engine on the street outside— sounding much closer than before. Heart in my throat, I clambered over to the window. It was on our side of the street, outside Ted’s house. That solitary dark figure was looking up at my best friend’s bedroom window.

  I had to get down there.

  I checked the alarm clock. 12:03. Sally had pulled a double-shift at the hospital and was still deep in sleep. I shook her roughly as I pulled on my bathrobe.

  “Sally, look after Caleb. I’ve got to go outside.”

  When I burst out of my front door, I found Ted and his wife Alice walking down their garden path. Ted was dressed, and had a bundle of spare clothes under one arm. Alice, however, was still in her nightdress, and she was pulling at her husband, trying to make him stop.

  “Ted!” I called. “Where are you going?”

  He stopped halfway down the path and looked at me. His cool grey eyes— always so bright, so fearless— now seemed shadowed, and he could barely meet my gaze. The last time I’d spoken to him was the previous evening. He’d seemed fine, his usual jocular self. What had happened since then?

  “Ted?” I said, lowering my voice, aware of the ominous presence at the end of the drive. “Do you want me to call the police, Ted?”

  He shook his head.

  “Police?” cried Alice. “You should call a goddamn psychiatrist, Ben!” She thumped her husband hard in the arm, a real full-on punch, but Ted didn’t seem to feel it. He looked down the path, his attention drawn to the man in black, as if the stranger had sent him a mental command.

  “I have to go, Ben,” he said, his once-authoritative voice now timid, thin.

  “But why, Ted?” I demanded. “Why do you have to go?”

  He met my gaze. “Because I made the choice.”

  Because I made the choice.

  That’s exactly what Phil Robinson said.

  “What choice, Ted?”

  He didn’t answer me. He was moving down the path again, and I matched his footsteps on my side of the fence. When he reached the open car door, I rushed to intercept him, grabbing his arm and turning him round to face me.

  “Ted, this is insane! Where are you going? Where are they taking you?”

  Ted’s eyes were bloodshot, wide with fear. “I don’t know,” he said.

  “Oh, yes you do!” Alice cried.

  We both looked round. Alice had stopped some way back on the garden path. Her arms were folded, her white features set like marble in the clear moonlight.

  “You know exactly where they’re taking us! You made the choice, Ted, remember? Only, I’m not going!” She shifted her gaze from Ted to the man in black. “Y’hear me? I’m not going!”

  The man in the black hat turned to Ted. Although his eyes were hidden by the shadows beneath the hat, Ted seemed to read some silent communication.

  “Honey, you have to come,” Ted said, holding his hands out in a pleading gesture. “I made the choice for you!”

  She shook her head defiantly, but a moment later tears filled her eyes and she sank down to her knees. For a few moments we all just stared at her, a tragic figure weeping on her own garden path. Then Ted walked over and gently helped her to her feet. The fight seemed to have left her. Still crying, she allowed herself to be led to the car.

  Before they could climb into the back seat, I stepped into their path.

  “I can’t let you go, Ted!” I said. “This stinks. I won’t let these bastards take you away!”

  The man in black was suddenly beside me, yet I hadn’t seen him move from his position some metres away. His hand gripped my shoulder, a hand which looked like dead white meat. I could feel its chill through the fabric of my robe.

  I reached up to remove his hand, but the grip was immoveable. My anger and frustration flared up and I whirled on him, throwing my best right hook, connecting with a satisfying crunch around the bridge of his nose. The blow knocked the hat from his head. When he turned back to me, with the moonlight falling across his pale features, my gut filled with ice water at what I saw.

  His features were plain, unexceptional, all except for his eyes. They were huge, the size of coasters, and they had a wet, jelly-like appearance, like fish-eyes. I thought of those creatures which live at the bottom of deep sea trenches, whose eyes grow to enormous size from the absence of light. He raised a hand to shield himself from any further blows, but the shock of such a hideous sight had knocked the fight out of me. He stooped to pick up his hat, and carefully placed i
t back on his head.

  “Ben,” said Ted behind me. “Forget it.”

  “There’s nothing you can do,” said Alice.

  I turned to face them. I’d known Ted and Alice for ten years. They were the best neighbours—the best friends—a guy could have.

  They both managed faltering smiles, and then disappeared into the huge back seat of the car. The man in black shut the door behind them and marched round to the driver’s door. He paused before getting in, glaring at me from the shadows beneath his hat. I couldn’t see those eyes, but I knew they were there. He seemed to be sending some thought to me. Although I heard no voice in my head, I knew what he was trying to tell me.

  Someday soon, I might be seeing him again.

  As the car roared away down Cedar Road, I watched it with a cold, empty feeling in my heart. The feeling grew stronger as my eyes drifted up to my own bedroom window, to the faces of my wife and son.

  ***

  Morning came slowly, the dawn light struggling through an ominous blanket of mist on the horizon.

  I hadn’t slept. Exhausted, confused, I wandered through the emergency ward like a ghost. The patients passed through my cubicle like a procession of insubstantial clouds. After six hours I couldn’t remember a single one of them.

  During a brief respite between patients, I sat alone in a cubicle, my head buried in my hands, fighting the exhaustion that threatened to engulf me. Suddenly, screams erupted in the ambulance loading bay outside. I rushed into the corridor and headed towards the source of the mayhem. An army of paramedics and nurses were surrounding a trolley freshly unloaded from the back of an ambulance. I saw the hands and feet of a patient thrashing back and forth amidst the sea of medical staff.

  “We need some help here!” someone shouted.

  Without further hesitation, I jumped into the huddle of uniforms.

  The patient was a man in his late fifties, very tall, very thin. His eyes were gone, and where they’d been only bloody mounds of scar tissue remained. Blood ran down his face and neck in dark rivulets, soaking into his shirt. The man’s screams sent waves of goose flesh down my back.