The Bazaar of Bad Dreams

‘Just a sec.’ The thought of telling her to lock the doors crossed his mind, but he dismissed it. They were on 1–95 in broad daylight, for God’s sake. Cars passing every twenty or thirty seconds, sometimes two or three in a line.

He bent down and picked up the phones, one in each hand. He turned to Carla, and thus did not see the car door opening wider, like a mouth.

‘Carla, I think there’s blood on this one.’ He held up Doug Clayton’s cracked phone.

‘Mom?’ Rachel asked. ‘Who’s in that dirty car? The door’s opening.’

‘Come back,’ Carla said. Her mouth was suddenly dust-dry. She wanted to yell it, but there seemed to be a stone on her chest. It was invisible but very large. ‘Someone’s in that car!’

Instead of coming back, Johnny turned and bent to look inside. When he did, the door swung shut on his head. There was a terrible thudding noise. The stone on Carla’s chest was suddenly gone. She drew in breath and screamed out her husband’s name.

‘What’s wrong with Daddy?’ Rachel cried. Her voice was high and as thin as a reed. ‘What’s wrong with Daddy?’

‘Daddy!’ Blake yelled. He had been inventorying his newest Transformers and now looked around wildly to see where the daddy in question might be.

Carla didn’t think. Her husband’s body was there, but his head was in the dirty station wagon. He was still alive, though; his arms and legs were flailing. She was out of the Expedition with no memory of opening the door. Her body seemed to be acting on its own, her stunned brain just along for the ride.

‘Mommy, no!’ Rachel screamed.

‘Mommy, NO!’ Blake had no idea of what was going on, but he knew it was bad. He began to cry and struggle in his car seat’s webwork of straps.

Carla grabbed Johnny around the waist and pulled with the crazy super-strength of adrenaline. The door of the station wagon came partway open and blood ran over the footing in a little waterfall. For one awful moment she saw her husband’s head, lying on the station wagon’s muddy seat and cocked crazily to one side. Even though he was still trembling in her arms, she understood (in one of those lightning flashes of clarity that can come even during a perfect storm of panic) that it was how hanging victims looked when they were cut down. Because their necks were broken. In that brief, searing moment – that shutterflash glimpse – she thought he looked stupid and surprised and ugly, all the essential Johnny swatted out of him, and knew he was already dead, trembling or not. It was how a kid looked after hitting the rocks instead of the water when he dived. How a woman who had been impaled by her steering wheel looked after her car slammed into a bridge abutment. It was how you looked when disfiguring death strutted toward you out of nowhere with its arms wide in welcome.

The car door slammed viciously shut. Carla still had her arms wrapped around her husband’s waist, and when she was yanked forward, she had another lightning flash of clarity.

It’s the car, you have to stay away from the car!

She let go of Johnny’s midsection a moment too late. A sheaf of her hair fell against the door and was sucked in. Her brow smacked against the car before she could tear free. Suddenly the top of her head was burning as the thing ate away her scalp.

Run! she tried to scream at her often troublesome but undeniably bright daughter. Run and take Blakie with you!

But before she could even begin to articulate the thought, her mouth was gone.

Only Rachel saw the station wagon slam shut on her daddy’s head like a Venus flytrap on a bug, but both of them saw their mother somehow pulled through the muddy door as if it were a curtain. They saw one of her mocs come off, they got a flash of her pink toenails, and then she was gone. A moment later, the white car lost its shape and clenched itself like a fist. Through their mother’s open window, they heard a crunching sound.

‘Wha’ that?’ Blakie screamed. His eyes were streaming tears and his lower lip was lathered with snot. ‘Wha’ that, Rachie, wha’ that, wha’ that?’

Their bones, Rachel thought. She was only six years old, and not allowed to go to PG-13 movies or watch them on TV (let alone R; her mother said R stood for Raunchy), but she knew that was the sound of their bones breaking.

The car wasn’t a car. It was some kind of monster.

‘Where Mommy n Daddy?’ Blakie asked, turning his large eyes – now made even larger by his tears – on her. ‘Where Mommy n Daddy, Rachie?’