He needed to regroup and reorient.

"Ok . . . Ok . . . there's a giant . . . thing on the other side of this door, which isn't going to hold it for long. You gotta do something, brother. Ahhh, man, this is all sorts of bad." He started to cry. He curled his legs up into his chest. A loud thud from the bedroom signaled the spider's advance. His eyes began to glaze over. His head bobbed forward every time the spider crashed into the door. He went limp and his body slumped to the floor. He pressed his cheek against the floor and stared down the hallway into the kitchen. He could see the fridge, the white cupboards, the sink and the window above it. The shades were still drawn and the low light gave the entire scene a dreamlike feel. He thought he might be dreaming. And it was a familiar image. His kitchen looked a lot like Momma's did . . . on that day.

The day he had lain down on the floor in all that blood.

Sheldon stared in horror, fixed in place by the terror of the monster with him now, and the memories of the ones from his past, the thought of all those Horrible outside waiting for him every day. Images of his parents' death fluttered past his eyes in rapid succession; a constant film reel inundated with blood, fragmented bone, and the jagged lines of ragged tissue.

A scream was jammed back down his throat by wave after wave of sickened psychosis. As the facade that he, and his psychiatrist, had spent so many years building began to crumble away, Sheldon felt the urge to laugh maniacally until he pa.s.sed out.

His father ran at him from the kitchen. Sheldon could see his shoes stop just inches from his face. A ghostly hand reached down and came to rest on his shoulder. Sheldon stared up at his imaginary father. He was mouthing-screaming two words over and over.

Evan wasn't the only person who could read lips.

His father told him to fight, to rage.

Fight. Rage. Anger spread over him like a fevered rash. Last time he did nothing. Whatever killed his parents could have finished him off effortlessly and he would've let it. If given the chance his father would've fought it, tooth and nail. His mother would've fought.

Father nodded in agreement and faded.

He owed it to them to fight with everything he had.

The next time Sheldon tried to scream nothing stopped it from erupting out. He surprised himself with how loud it was. "NO! NOT AGAIN! NOT THIS TIME! I'M NOT GOING TO LAY DOWN AND JUST LET IT HAPPEN. I'M NOT GONNA LET IT HAPPEN, MOMMA!"

Complete silence. Not a sound from his bedroom. Nothing from the rest of the house. He stood up. He got up on the b.a.l.l.s of his feet and waited. When the bedroom door shattered and the spider broke through, he was already on the move, headed for the front door. He ran through the living room, grabbed an iron poker from the fireplace-sending the stand crashing to the floor-sprinted to the front door, heaved it open, and froze at the threshold.

He couldn't do it. The outside world was just too bright, too loud, too unforgiving. Too horrible. Even if it meant he would die, he couldn't go outside. He spun around with the poker out in front of him. The spider was there to meet him. It jumped through the air. The spider, Sheldon, and all his misery, tumbled outside.

His senses erupted in a geyser. Bright lights exploded with the intensity of the sun. Bombs went off in his ears. He could smell everything: the malodorous stink emanating from the spider, the gra.s.s and flowers and air, his own fear sweating out of every pore. Then everything went black and Sheldon signed off.

Sayonara.

PART TWO.

WITHOUT.

Well, now it gettin', Late on into the evenin' and I feel like, like blowin' my home.

When I woke up this mornin' all I, I had was gone.

Now it gettin', Late on into the evenin', man now, I feel like, like blowin' my home.

- Muddy Waters.

f i v e.

"There's nothing to fear, Sheldon. I'm here with you," Dr. Nemiah spoke soothingly. The tone of her voice always made Sheldon feel safe. "You have to let go. Let go of what happened. Let go of your parents. Here, we'll do it together."

"I can't do it."

"You can't do it or you don't want to?"

"Both."

"Give me your hand, Sheldon. Let's open the door and just take one step outside." Her hand felt wonderful in his. Her smooth skin was a lot like Momma's.

Sheldon looked straight into the face of his psychiatrist. Her entire countenance was lit up by bright light from behind. She was dark like his mother. And she had the most intelligent eyes. Her greying hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail. No make-up save for a conservative application of red lipstick. She was a sophisticated beauty, but no more real than his parents were. He knew this was a dream. He knew she wasn't real, but it felt so safe. He took a step forward with Dr. Nemiah and then froze. "What if it . . . Horribles . . . are outside waiting for us?"

"Can you remember his name, Sheldon? Do you remember the name of the man that hurt your parents?"

"Yes."

"Can you tell me that name, Sheldon?"

"Yes. His name was Oli Thompson. He was a bad man."

"That's right. And what happened to him?"

"He went to jail forever."

"Sheldon, later on, that awful man died in prison. He's no longer outside. He can't hurt you. Can he?"

"No."

"What happened to your parents was chaos, just a terrible, terrible chance happening. The person responsible for their deaths is dead. There won't be anything waiting for you-us-except for blue skies and fresh air.

"Open the door, Sheldon, and welcome in the world."

"Ok, Doctor. Just don't let go of my hand."

He closed his eyes and stepped through . . .

s i x Open your eyes.

The world had been knocked off its axis and flipped ninety degrees. Instead of seeing houses, streets, and a tree line, Sheldon only saw sky. Where did Dr. Nemiah go? She no longer held his hand. He wasn't with her anymore. This wasn't a therapy session.

Parade, motorcycles, spider, fangs, the chase. His brain fed the events back to him in bite-size installments. The process didn't ease the panic. He was growing catatonic; legs and arms stiffened. The intensity of his surroundings devoured his lucidity. Something moved next to him, temporarily distracting his plunge into irrevocable madness. He turned to face it. His back muscles screamed in agonizing protest.

Impaled by the poker, the spider twitched once, twice, and then lay still. Up close, he could see it was welded together steel and what looked like tissue; a slab of hamburger with an Erector Set crammed into the meat. Legs and fangs were driven by cogs, springs, and gears. All of this was held together with strips of white tendon and greying muscle.

It was something created, designed, and forged. And knowing that someone, or something, had constructed it was the most frightening aspect of the entire thing.

The stab wound leaked motor oil all over the sidewalk. The gathering puddle made Sheldon think of his parents again. He had mistaken his father's blood for oil. Instead of ceasing up with panic, he was taken over by rage again. Whatever made this spider and the evil that had killed his parents were of the same kind. He was sure of it.

He had killed-destroyed-this one and it felt good, a sliver of revenge for his parents, but then Sheldon remembered the long line of motorcycles and the trailers they pulled. He gasped.

Those trailers were full of things like this. Bigger, deadlier things. The whole town would be attending.

Oh G.o.d. The children.

Evan.

He'd be there with his parents. They couldn't protect him. Sheldon slowly worked himself up off the ground. He placed a foot on the underbelly of the spider. It squished and more oil seeped out. He grabbed the poker and pulled it free. He wiped it clean on the gra.s.s, turned around and looked back at his home, his fortress. Both his mother and father were in the window waving goodbye to him. He wanted to go back in with them. Forget about this whole ordeal. But when he took a step toward the house, his father shook his head no.

There was no going back in once he was forced out. It was a bitter and caustic realization, like dry swallowing his medication, but he knew it to be true. Plunging through that door had been some form of rebirth. He was no longer Sheldon Delaney the agoraphobic, but still had no idea what he had become.

He waved back to his parents, not surprised by the tear that ran down his cheek. They waved again and disappeared.

He walked down his sidewalk and turned toward Columbine Street. He was barefoot and dressed in his plaid pajamas, his favorite pajamas. He had bed hair and morning breath. One hand held the poker, the other rubbed his back. He hadn't thought of what he would do once he got downtown. All he knew was if something had happened to Evan that would be it.

Lock the door and throw away the key permanently.

His mind was so preoccupied with saving Evan, he didn't even think about being outside, walking, breathing, living without panic. And it was the first time in years.

Sometimes the best kind of therapy for fear is to face it head on. And drive a stake right through its rancid heart.

s e v e n Evan Hovland knew the parade arrived long before anyone else. He could feel the rumble in his feet and smell all the exhaust before it even turned onto Columbine. How could no one else feel it? It's humungous. Humungous . . . what a great word, he thought and scribbled it down in his notebook for Sheldon. The parade probably pa.s.sed right by Sheldon's home. He must've felt it too. Evan sighed, turned his head around to take in the crowd, and waited for the festivities.

Everyone was here. And small town antics were in full bloom. Mrs. Olsen's hair was as big as ever. And as impossible as it seemed, she figured out a way to wear even more costume jewelry. Evan thought she looked like a walking discount rack at a thrift store. The mayor was there with his legion of a.s.s (Evan wrote "b.u.t.t" in his notebook) kissers. Town drunks, reformed drunks, gossipers, cheating spouses, reformed spouses, and single moms with a string of children unaccounted for were all in attendance.

Sheriff Boone's police cruiser was parked lengthwise across the street and he directed traffic as if landing a 747. Evan laughed. His parents both turned and looked at him. He smiled back, and then returned his attention to the gathering.

It was almost poetic watching the town interact. It was like a big bees' nest or ant hill. Everyone had a role to play, and the players were cast perfectly.

There was real excitement in the air. Evan felt it emanating off every person in attendance. Even he was a bit excited. This was the biggest event in Poe's Creek for a long time. He wrote down every detail in his notebook for his good friend.

He stopped writing when the first motorcycle turned onto Columbine Street. He didn't have to be able to hear to know the crowd was utterly silent. Again, he could feel it. This was big . . . real big.

e i g h t It had been years, but he still knew the route well. At one time this was all his, speeding along on a bicycle, where his feet barely reached the pedals, weaving in and out of driveways, hopping off his bike to look for loose change in the rain gutters. There were all sorts of things down along with the detritus and garbage. He'd found a baseball glove once, never figured out how it got there, and was never able to get it out.

He wondered if the baseball glove was still there. His arms were probably long enough to reach it now. Suddenly, finding that baseball glove felt like the most important task at hand. It would be a closure of sorts to a broken childhood. He stepped off the sidewalk and crossed over to the other side of the street. As he walked, he could almost feel the small hand of a boy inside his own guiding him along the way. He bent down, and for one brief moment thought he saw the scuffed and aged leather of a glove. But it was a trick of the fading light. Nothing there but rainfall and rot.

Defeated, he continued along the curb, dragging the poker behind, searching each gutter for intangible nostalgia.

Even though he knew where he was going, it took a long time-a real long time-for Sheldon to make the trip. He was accompanied by newfound bravery, but the going was slow. Every third or fourth step a wave of nausea and dizziness washed over him. He'd lean up against a tree or a building. Sometimes he'd sit down on the lawn with his head between his knees, arguing with himself to take another step forward.

But it was useless. What was he going to do for the city? Save it from this nightmare? There were people a lot stronger than him out there. He looked down at his tattered pajamas, dirty bare feet, and shaking hands before lowering his head in disgust. He raised his makeshift sword to eye level and sighed. Might as well impale himself on the poker and do the world a favor.

Shut the f.u.c.k up and take another step! This ain't about you. He stood up, took a few more steps, and started the pattern of self-loathing all over again.

Eventually he took a break, leaning his back against an old oak near the curb, and was struck with the sensation someone was watching him. He turned around slowly.

Nothing.

Everything was quit. No neighbors. No noises from any of the houses, which was unnerving. Where was everyone?

At the parade . . . the dead parade.

He was about to shrug off the feeling to wound up nerves, but something caught his eye on the front porch of the house directly behind him. There was someone (something) very small and hunched over sitting on a porch swing.

Was it alive? A statue? Maybe something left over from the holiday.

"h.e.l.l . . . h.e.l.lo?" Sheldon called out.

No answer. Whatever was on the porch didn't move either.

Sheldon crept slowly toward the house. He climbed the porch, pausing after each step, the boards of the deck creaking loudly.

G.o.d, it was quiet.

Kind of like the inside of your house. You should feel right at home. It was his cynical self speaking now, thick with sarcasm.

He stopped in front of a slump of blankets, tattered clothing and white hair; overgrown hairs poking from the end of a giant, pock-marked nose, ears like chewed on cauliflower, wrinkles and folds of liver spotted skin spilling from a prominent forehead over sunken eye sockets. Eyes squinted shut behind all those folds in an expression of concentration . . . or agony . . . a death mask? It was a person. Whether alive or dead, Sheldon wasn't quite sure.

Go ahead, big boy. Give it a nudge and see if its head rolls off into its lap.

"Shut up!" Sheldon scolded himself while reaching forward to rest his hand on a shoulder covered in many layers of clothing and rags.

Still no movement. He was about to scratch this particular casualty up to old age and not the parade, already disgusted with the idea of touching a dead person, when the thing leaned forward and spit out a never-ending stream of chewing tobacco that hit the deck wood with a loud splat.

Then it laughed. The noise that gurgled up from its ancient throat sounded like a child choking on razorblade-laced Halloween candy.

"Sir?" was all Sheldon could manage.

It turned slowly toward Sheldon and stared at him through folded slits. "You're the Delaney boy, aren't you?" It asked with a crackled voice. It made Sheldon think of a fist closing over a handful of wasp wings. "Sure you are. Who else could you be? You stick out like a dirt colored birthmark on an otherwise angelic face." He let loose another strangled laugh.

"A d.a.m.n tragedy what happened to your parents. But the town found justice, didn't it? They caught that ol' drunk Iso-Oli Thompson, the one who used to drink up all the extra Sterno on hand. Well, they found him curled up behind a dumpster with blood all over his hands. Your parents' blood, so they say."

A coughing spasm interrupted the conversation. Sheldon didn't want to talk about this, not with a total stranger, and particularly not with this stranger. Besides, he knew the story all too well. He stepped back, intending to leave the porch, but the old man s.n.a.t.c.hed a claw from underneath the blankets and grabbed hold of Sheldon's arm. It was so fast Sheldon didn't even see it happen. One minute he was backing away and the next, the old man had one h.e.l.luva grip on him.

"Funny, though," the old man continued, "Oli was so far gone with the drink that he could barely stand without swaying like a buoy. Strange how he could've overtook both your mom and dad. They were young and strong folk, those two.

"But that's how this town works. Call it sterile justice. Gotta st.i.tch up the wound before it goes gangrene.

"Yep. Justice was served." He spat again, and Sheldon imagined warm blood from a freshly slaughtered sow hitting soiled pavement. "You know Oli died in prison a sober man. The booze had pickled him. Take away the drink and the body starts going bad. Swore to the very end he had nothing to do with those murders.

"Wonder why Iso-Oli didn't kill the young'un too."

Sheldon got the feeling the old man forgot he was talking to that particular young'un.