The Bird Eater Page 8

  He pulled up next to a beat-up Ford, leaned back in his seat, and took a deep breath. Something about this meeting felt finite, as though showing his face to the ghosts of his childhood would seal his fate and brand him as a bona fide Ironwood resident. But he’d already told Eric he’d come, and it wasn’t Aaron’s style to bail.

  Tucked into the Ozarks like some ancient burial ground, Stonehenge was nothing more than a clearing a dozen miles outside of Ironwood proper along one of the fingers of Bull Shoals Lake. They called it Stonehenge because the oaks and maples had been cut down in a near perfect circle, and a handful of odd-shaped rocks jutted out of the ground every few feet. It was where the high school kids would congregate on weekends, thinking that nobody but them knew about the place—but in truth, even Aunt Edie and Uncle Fletcher had swilled cheap whiskey among those rocks.

  With a six-pack of microbrew in tow, Aaron followed a beaten path through the trees and bushes to where the fire blazed, a faint spark of excitement igniting in the pit of his stomach. Pushing through that bracken made him feel young again; it reminded him of the times he and Cooper would meet friends on Rockaway Beach, when the only thing they had to worry about was how to score booze. Rockaway had become a haven—the perfect place to sit with Evangeline beneath his arm, a blanket wrapped around them both, Evangeline’s head on his shoulder as they watched the breakers crash onto the shore. Stonehenge was the Rockaway of Ironwood, the place where the youth of a forgotten corner of the world would sit, drink, and watch the moon’s reflection travel across the lake.

  As soon as Aaron stepped into the clearing, a unified cheer rose up around the fire, awakening a newfound excitement to reconnect with the friends of his past. Eric met Aaron next to the tree line and patted him on the back with a wide smile. His button-down manager’s polo had been replaced by an old Silverchair T-shirt, and his jeans sagged a few inches below his hips, crumpling at the base of a pair of worn-out Converse kicks. There were a few girls on the opposite side of the clearing, but they kept their distance despite glancing Aaron and Eric’s way. They looked young, stealthily passing a square bottle between themselves as they glanced over their shoulders, probably whispering to one another about the guy they didn’t recognize—someone new, because everyone in Ironwood knew everyone else.

  “We were worried you had changed your mind,” Eric said, still slapping Aaron on the back.

  “I stopped off at your place for beer.” Aaron surrendered the six-pack to Eric while a guy stepped forward from across the fire, a Bud Light in one hand, his free hand extended toward Aaron to shake.

  “Aaron,” he said. “How the fuck are ya?” His sandy blond hair framed his face like a shoulder-length curtain, the silver half-inch gauges that were shoved through his earlobes glinting in the firelight.

  Aaron grabbed the guy’s hand, not sure who he was regarding, and the guy laughed at Aaron’s blank expression.

  “You don’t remember me? Mike, man. Mike Faust.”

  Aaron cracked a grin. If there had been a fourth musketeer, Mike Faust would have been it. He was Eric’s cousin, three years older and two grades above them both. Aaron and Eric had always regarded Mike as the “cool” one, the guy who heard all the new music first, who played the best video games and made out with his girlfriend in front of them like it was no big deal. A junior when Aaron had left, Mike had been the one to introduce Aaron and Eric to the likes of Soundgarden, Alice in Chains, and the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

  The button-down flannel Mike wore over his T-shirt did little to hide his slow-growing paunch. He looked rough, tired, like the past two decades had bounced him from one hardship to another. Silently, Aaron appreciated Mike’s worse-for-wear appearance. It made him feel a little less out of place, a little more connected.

  “Jesus, dude, where the fuck did you go?” Mike asked. “We thought you were dead. Nearly held a funeral and everything.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “Funds, man. Caskets are fucking expensive. We thought about using a shoe box, but that didn’t feel right. I mean, we didn’t even have a body.”

  Aaron forced a smile. The subject of caskets left a bad taste in his mouth.

  There was a third member of their party sitting in the shadows of the bonfire. He rose from where he sat, adjusted a too-large motorcycle jacket, and slowly approached the others. “Hey, man,” he said, offering Aaron a nod of acknowledgment.

  “You remember Craig…,” Eric said.

  Aaron and Craig Lawrence had never been close. Aaron had always found Craig to be a louse, even though he was Mike’s best friend. The guy was a pathological liar. He spent his time weaving elaborate tales about how his family was filthy rich despite living in a trailer, how his pop had bought him a brand-new Mustang even though Craig didn’t have a license. Aaron didn’t get why Mike continued to let Craig hang around, but he put on a smile and gave him a quick embrace anyway.

  “Good to see you, man,” Aaron told him. “Cool jacket. You ride?”

  Craig looked down at his leather as though only then realizing what he was wearing, but his reply came without a hitch of hesitation. “Hell, yeah, dude. I’ve been on the Harley waiting list for years.”

  “So, what the hell?” Mike asked, motioning toward a cooler in the dancing shadows of the fire, encouraging the group to follow him back to where he and Craig had been sitting moments before. “What happened to you? You just went MIA?”

  Aaron gave the group a shrug before taking a seat on a rotting log. It was like explaining an alien abduction; one minute he was here, the next minute he was somewhere else.

  “I got taken into custody,” he said.

  Mike and Craig both wore matching expressions of disbelief. Eric examined a bottle of the beer Aaron had brought, popped the cap, and held it out to Aaron.

  “What does that mean?” Eric asked.

  “Turns out you can’t be a minor and live on your own,” Aaron said, taking the bottle.

  “Shit, sorry about your aunt, man,” Mike said. “I went to the funeral with my folks. Sad as hell. Seemed like the entire town was there.”

  “My parents didn’t let me go,” Eric confessed. “Something about funerals being for adults, not kids.”

  Aaron’s stomach twisted.

  “So they just took you?” Craig asked. “Like, kidnapping?”

  “I don’t know if you could call it kidnapping,” Aaron said. “There wasn’t anyone to take care of me, I guess. My uncle’s folks had passed a few years before, and I’d never met anyone on my aunt’s side. I don’t know if they’re alive or dead or what.”

  “And your mom?” Mike asked.

  Aaron shrugged. “They looked for her, but then they found out she passed away when I was a kid. They didn’t tell me much and I didn’t really ask. I guess I don’t really want to know. I didn’t know her anyway, you know? Edie was my mom.”

  “Shit, that’s rough. So where did you end up?” Mike asked.

  “Portland.”

  “Seriously? Always wanted to go there,” he said, “never got the chance. Maybe someday.”

  “It was just weird,” Eric said, distracted. “I mean, we at least expected you to be at the funeral. I sent a letter with Mike, but he just brought it back to me, like, ‘Sorry, man, Aaron wasn’t there.’ And Cheri…”

  “I ran into her,” Aaron said. “Ended up at the shop, needed a new tire, and there she was.”

  “What was that like?” Eric asked.

  Aaron didn’t say anything for a moment, taking a swig of beer instead. How was it? Strange and transcendent, awkwardly perfect, electric enough to make him feel guilty for the way his heart had clenched and released when her mouth had drifted across his neck.

  “It was okay,” Aaron said. “I don’t think her husband likes me too much.”

  Eric made a face. “Miles.”

  “Miles is co
ol,” Mike protested. “You knew him, right?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at Aaron.

  “No,” Eric answered for him. “He moved here the middle of sophomore year. Either way, I don’t know why they got married. She was fine without him.”

  “Okay, Dear Abby.” Mike chuckled, trying to make light of Eric’s distrust.

  Aaron didn’t want to be too quick to judge. If Evangeline had reacted to an old friend the way Cheri had, he would have been reeling with insecurity, too. Every couple had their share of problems. For all he knew, he had compounded one by walking into that shop.

  The group fell into momentary silence, listening to the firewood pop, watching it throw sparks into the air. Eventually, Mike spoke again, changing the subject entirely.

  “When’d you start on that ink?”

  “Seventeen, on a fake ID,” Aaron said with a reminiscent smile.

  “And what happened there?” he asked, motioning to Aaron’s left arm, the scar shining in the firelight like a glossy lick of moisture.

  “Accident.”

  “You got pins in there?”

  “Proud owner.”

  “What happened?”

  Aaron looked down at his beer, reflexively peeling away the label. “A drunk guy ran a red. Sixty-mile-per-hour impact.”

  “Goddamn,” Eric murmured. “You’re lucky to be alive.”

  Aaron didn’t respond, failed to make eye contact, waited for the sudden roil of anguish within his chest to subside. The memory was still raw, burning like salt ground in an open wound, like a staple shoved beneath a fingernail.

  “So you get a second chance at life,” Mike said, “and what do you do? Come back to Ironwood. What the hell is up with that?”

  “The house.”

  “The house,” Eric repeated. The way he said it was ominous, and the way he looked across the fire at Mike didn’t make Aaron feel any better.

  “What?” Aaron asked. “This is the second time you’ve made me feel like I should know something I don’t.” Aaron had all but forgotten the weird comment Eric had made at Banner’s—something about the place being the stuff of legend.

  Mike looked impressed. “All that obsession with black magic voodoo hocus-pocus crap and you didn’t spill the beans?” he asked Eric. “Outstanding; that must have taken a shitload of self-control.”

  “Stop,” Eric said, not looking at all amused.

  “Stop what?” Mike asked. “He’s going to find out sooner or later.”

  “The house out at the end of Old Mill, right?” Craig cut in. “That house is haunted, man.”

  Aaron blinked at that, actually had to stop himself from expelling an incredulous laugh at how serious Craig looked.

  Craig snorted. “Just because you don’t believe in something doesn’t mean it isn’t real.”

  Aaron cracked a helpless grin at that. “Honestly, I—”

  “You don’t believe in ghosts,” Craig finished his sentence. “Right?”

  Eric chewed on his bottom lip, slowly turning his attention to his old friend, assuring Aaron that it wasn’t a rhetorical question; he was interested in what Aaron had to say.

  “You’re living in the wrong house, dude,” Craig assured him. “And you’re hanging out with the wrong guy.” He pointed an accusatory finger at Eric. “He’s been ghost hunting for years.”

  “Oh, come on, are you serious?” Aaron blinked at his childhood friend.

  Eric shrugged as if to say guilty as charged, but he also looked embarrassed, as though his love affair with the paranormal was something he preferred to keep under wraps.

  “What’s the organization called?” Craig asked, snapping his fingers, trying to jog his own memory. “Arkansas Ghost Hunter Central or something?”

  “Northern Arkansas Paranormal Syndicate,” Eric muttered.

  Aaron furrowed his eyebrows. “NAPS?” he asked, desperately trying to keep a straight face.

  “Fucking NAPS.” Mike laughed, and Aaron was helpless to keep from joining in.

  “Okay,” Eric said begrudgingly, looking like he’d had enough of that particular joke.

  “Watch out,” Mike said, holding his hands up and giving them a spooky shake. “The ghosts come out when we’re taking afternoon naps.”

  “I’m feeling a little tired,” Craig chimed in.

  “Are you kidding?” Mike asked. “You can’t sleep, goddamn you. Naps are a trigger.”

  “You just curl up, go to sleep, set your EVP recorder on blast.” Craig cackled.

  “Great,” Eric murmured, looking down at the ground between his feet. “How about we make fun of black holes or supernovas or some other shit we don’t understand?”

  “Oh come off it,” Mike said. “We’re just fucking with you. Besides, Aaron here is the one who has the problem.”

  Aaron cleared his throat and tried to look serious, but with both Mike and Craig still snickering, it was tough. “You really think the place is haunted?” he asked after a moment. When Eric failed to respond, Craig cut in.

  “Everyone believes it,” Craig said. “You can ask them”—he motioned to the girls a dozen yards away—“or anyone else in town. The old folks avoid Old Mill, while the cool kids drive out there to get drunk and wait to see ghosts in the windows.”

  That explained it, then—the reason that asshole kid was hanging around the property, giving him a hell of a time. Maybe that was why the little bastard was breaking in, to convince Aaron that the stories were true.

  “I can see it in your face,” Craig said after a moment. “Something happened out there and now you’re putting it together. The wheels are turning.”

  “No, just…” Aaron leaned back, rolled his sweating bottle of beer between his palms. “I’ve seen kids hanging out around there. I didn’t know what the hell they wanted, but now it makes more sense.”

  “Kids?” Eric asked.

  “Yeah, I mean, it may just be one kid or it may be more than one, I’m not really sure. But whoever it is, they’re the reason I ended up at Cheri’s shop. Someone slashed my tire.”

  “Ghosts,” Mike said. “Next thing you know, they’ll be stealing your spark plugs and siphoning your gas.”

  “You know, for a while the rumor was that you were the one who was haunting the place,” Craig said matter-of-factly.

  Aaron released a laugh.

  “It’s true,” Craig assured him. “Ask Eric.”

  Eric shifted uncomfortably upon the knotty log he was sitting on, cleared his throat, and flashed Aaron an apologetic smile. “You weren’t at the funeral. People started to wonder. Word spread that Edie had died and you were missing. As soon as the rumor was out there, people started driving by the ‘death house’ to get an eyeful. And then someone saw something.”

  “A kid,” Craig said. “In a window on the upper floor.”

  “Then someone else saw it,” Eric continued, “followed by a third person, then a fourth. Suddenly people were camping out on the lawn, crossing their fingers that they’d be lucky enough to catch a glimpse of whoever was still occupying the house.”

  “Hoping to see you,” Craig clarified. “The story was that you had killed your aunt, and then you had killed yourself, which was why nobody knew where you had gone. And it was weird, man; you had to get the electricity turned on when you got back, right?”

  “Sure,” Aaron said. “Water, too. The whole place was off the grid.”

  “Except that people said that every now and then, the lights upstairs would come on, then go out again.”

  Aaron stared at the three of them, not sure whether to roll his eyes or let the shudder that was crawling across his skin shake him from the inside out.

  “Well, I guess I’ve debunked the story,” he finally said.

  “How’s that?” Mike asked.

  “I’m right here; no
t a ghost. I can’t haunt the place if I’m still alive.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything,” Craig said. “It just means that you aren’t the one who people have seen.”

  “You believe this?” Aaron asked Eric.

  Eric shrugged faintly, as if not wanting to talk about it despite his expertise.

  “You’ll believe, too,” Craig assured him. “You stay anywhere near that house for long enough and you’ll believe it whether you want to or not.”

  Seven

  Aaron chose not to believe.

  Blaming the occurrences back at the house on something paranormal rather than on what they really were—an annoying kid who thought he was being funny—didn’t make sense. Aaron liked to think of himself as a logical creature. The simplest, most obvious explanation was the right explanation. If the cops removed the kid from Aaron’s property and strange things continued to occur, he’d be willing to consider the supernatural, but until then, this was a clear case of a bored adolescent giving the new guy in town a hell of a time.

  Returning home, Aaron sat in his car and stared at the sunken roofline of Uncle Fletcher’s shed. He ran the story Craig had related over in his head—the shadowy figure in the upper windows, the lights turning off and on even though the house wasn’t hooked up to Arkansas Electric. The broken window and footprints in the dust confirmed Craig’s story; there was no doubt that high school kids did drive out to the end of Old Mill to screw around. But ghosts? Aaron blamed that on the overactive imaginations of kids with nothing better to do.

  Shoving his car door open, Aaron stepped around the front bumper and froze. He saw something shift just beyond the tree line. Squinting in the dark, he strained to make out what it was, and after a few seconds of letting his eyes adjust to the darkness, Aaron saw him: that same punk kid.

  Every muscle in his body reflexively tensed. He clenched his teeth as he ducked back into the Tercel and grabbed the camcorder off the passenger’s seat. Pointing the camera at the trespasser, this time Aaron made his approach. When the boy disappeared into the overgrowth, Aaron walked faster, nearly breaking into a run, determined to catch up.