Lumberton
Lumberton
The crunching of the leaves beneath my feet sounded like breakfast cereal as I raked the withered relics into a small pile by the curb. Every other day, weather permitting, I would perform this chore in an effort to maintain and beautify my ninety or so square feet of lawn. My neighbor, a Mr. Bennett Lumberton, shuffled over from his house, which was next door to mine, and quietly watched as I scratched the dry ground with my metal-tined rake. He was an older gentleman, in his late seventies, my best guess. He wore worn, but still usable, plastic sandals, an old pair of gray dress pants (zipper half-way down), and a red-white-and-blue checked JCPenney flannel shirt.
I knew what was coming. Good ol' Benny makes this familiar trip across our mutual property line once every few weeks to invite me over for a Sunday dinner with him and his lovely wife. Sounds innocent enough, but there are two problems with this scenario. Firstly, he mistakenly turns left out of his front door when he actually means to turn right. You see, the intended recipient of this gracious invitation is the man who lives on the other side of Mr. Lumberton, a Mr. Erik Schneider. The second and more interesting problem is that Beverly, Lumberton's wife, has been dead for six months. She was hit by a cross-town bus. She was late, the bus was early. They met in the middle of Center Street. Her head hit a steel support column on the front corner of the bus. She was dead before she hit the pavement. The severe impact of her already misshapen head against the tarmac some fifteen feet away was just to make sure.
"Hello," Lumberton said, gazing at the ever-growing swath of brown grass that I was revealing. I smiled and nodded at him. "Great d- d- day for yard w- wor- work," he said, smiling back. By the way, Mr. Lumberton has a stutter, there wasn't an echo. He stood, hands behind his back, watching as I continued my redistribution of leaves from my lawn to the adjacent curb.
"Yes, it is," I said, pausing, looking up at the cloudless sky, waiting for the misguided request, preparing myself to correct the old man once again on his mistakenly reversed invitation.
"In my day, w- w- we would just burn the entire p- p- p- pile instead of waiting for the city's va- vacuum cleaner," Lumberton said with a snarky grimace. I raked another several feet of tree droppings while he produced a ragged and over-used handkerchief and blew his nose. "Wife wants to know if you'd like to j- j- j- join us for dinner Sunday ni- ni- night." And there it was.
I smiled at him and pointed in the direction of Erik's house with the handle of my rake. "I think Beverly meant for you to ask Mr. Schneider, over there, to dinner, not me," I said, playing along, thinking the poor guy was in the beginning stages of dementia, however I felt an uncomfortable prick of anxiety when I spoke her name. I resumed my raking not wanting to embarrass the old man, I just wanted to get rid of him as fast as possible. He just shuffled in place a bit and continued to watch me rake.
“Why don’t y- y- you j- just wait until they all c- c- come down so you only have t- t- to do this one time?” It was a valid point and one I considered but I like the fresh air and the little exercise the raking provides. Another long pause and Lumberton says, “N- No, no, we’re inviting b- b- both y- you and Mr. Schneider over. C- c- can you come?”
I was not expecting this and couldn’t come up with a believable excuse, so I just nodded and said, “Sure, sure, yeah. What time?” And that was how Erik Schneider and I were to have dinner at the Lumberton household, Sunday afternoon at 4:30, Beverly’s attendance to be determined.
Later that evening, I decided to take the short walk over to Erik’s house to see if he received the same invitation and if he knew anything about the reason we were both asked to dine at the Lumberton’s. I knocked and waited and, in a few moments, I was greeted by the eye-pleasing Pamela, who likes to be called Pammy. She is Erik’s on-and-off-again girlfriend and she had on a man’s dress shirt and it appeared to be the only thing she was wearing. Pammy was tall, with long, straight, dirty-blonde hair, on the wrong side of forty but still attractive. She worked at Home Depot in the next town over and met Erik when he broke open a bag of gravel in her checkout aisle. By the time they had picked up every stone morsel he had asked her out. Nice.
“Hey, Pammy. Erik in?” I asked her pale, blue eyes, compelling myself not to look at anything else.
“Hi, Ted, I’ll go get him for you,” she said with a sunny smile and turned, pirouette-style, and sashayed down the hall to the back of the house. Pammy’s one of those women who looks just as good leaving a room as entering. I heard her shout Erik’s name from somewhere in the house as I leaned on the iron railing on the front stoop.
Erik Schneider was an aging hippie. Not your original, from the sixties, summer of love, burn your draft card variety of hippie, but a modern day hippie. He was forty-five, had longish salt and pepper hair, and sported various tattoos. He was a nice guy, calm, relaxed, easy to get along with. His one claim to fame happened twenty years ago when he and his band, Rat Fink, had a hit song that reached number four on the rock charts. Erik was the bass player in Rat Fink and the song was Ain’t Messin’ ‘Round No More. As I recall, the bass part was the only thing worth remembering about the godawful song.
“Heeey, neighbor!” Erik called out joyfully as he strode through his house to greet me. He was wearing a tie-dyed shirt with the Woodstock logo on it, probably a Target version, not an original. We shook hands and he asked me if I wanted a beer. I declined and we chatted on his front stoop since the evening air was so nice.
“So, did you get invited over to Lumberton’s for dinner Sunday?” I asked, already knowing he most likely did. Just then, Pammy showed up at the door and asked if I wanted to stay for dinner; she was making burgers. She had changed into frayed, white jean shorts and a Batman t-shirt. I knew that the burgers would be veggie or soy or something similar. I declined, stating that I had already eaten. Pammy, easily accepting no for an answer, squeaked an okay, passed an already toked upon joint to Erik and headed back to the kitchen.
“Smart move, my man,” Erik said, pulling on the doobie. “She makes ‘em spicy as hell.” We stood in silence for a few moments, Pammy’s perfume still wafting around my brain. “Yeah, he asked us,” Erik confirmed, exhaling gray smoke. “I’m going, Pam’s out of town visiting her dad on Sunday.” My heart sank a little but I smiled and asked him if he had any idea what this was about. “I’ve had dinner over there many times. Beverly and I used to donate blood together and we’ve swapped books for years. We both like mysteries. They’re nice people. Such a shame about Beverly, I miss her. I have no idea why old Bennett is inviting you, you creep.” We both laughed at that and he held out the joint for me to sample. I passed.
After a bit more chatting, I told him I’d see him Sunday afternoon. We fist-bumped and I made my way back to my house, glancing at Lumberton’s place as I passed. I could have sworn I saw two moving silhouettes behind Beverly’s lace sheers in the living room. A trick of the light or possibly I was just stressed. I experienced a brief flashback but was unable to place it, just an uncomfortable bit of dread that accompanied it. Maybe I should have headed back to Erik’s and consumed some of what he’d been smoking. I got back to my house, debating whether I should go over to Lumberton’s and see if everything was alright. Without thinking too much, I grabbed a beer from the fridge, sat on my sofa and turned on the television.
I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I remembered was being woken by some gasping. Or was it screaming? I was still a bit hazy from sleep, so I proceeded to ignore it, but I recalled the eerie feeling I had when I saw the shadows in the house next door. I got up and went to the window that faced Lumberton’s property. All the windows in his house that I could see were dark. His front porch light was on, casting long, ebony shadows of some tall shrubs onto the front yard. Another flash of some deeply buried memory tinged with a discomforting feeling of trepidation. I looked at my watch: 10:42. All quiet outside. Did I dream those shouts? I looked out of the window for a while longer, not knowing what I expected to see. Twenty minutes later, I resolved that I must have imagined the noises, whatever they were.
The next morning I slept in since it was Saturday. After downing a bagel and coffee, I decided to check on Bennett since I still had an eerie feeling from the night before. As I knocked on his front door, I was sure I heard voices and shuffling sounds coming from inside. Television? Radio? I waited, but I took a step back. After what seemed like several minutes, Lumberton opened the door.
“Why, hello!” I took another step backward. Alright, I stumbled backward. Mrs. Beverly Lumberton stood at her doorway smiling, a quarter of her head caved in, blood streaming down the side of her face and from her mouth, soaking the top half of her dress, bits of brain and bone littering her shoulder.
“Are you okay, dear?” Beverly said, with what seemed like genuine concern but had a palpable sense of sarcasm to it. I teetered in horror as she emitted a fine spray of blood as she spoke.
“I… I…” There was no way I was going to find any words to utter. I took another step back, trying to make sense of what I was seeing.
“Honey?” Beverly said, her voice cracking just a little. This can’t be happening, I thought for the hundredth time as a chunk of Beverly’s brain fell away and landed on the welcome mat with a faint splat sound. My knees gave out at that point and I forced myself to roll away from her, down two concrete steps and onto the grass.
I thought I heard Bennett Lumberton yelling from somewhere in his house. “Beverly, no!” His voice sounded frail, very distant but with no hint of a stutter.
I got to my feet, willing myself not to glimpse over at the horrific scene at the front door. I half ran, stumbling to Erik’s house. I did not want to go back to my house and be alone with the vision I just witnessed. As I pounded on Erik’s door, I realized I was a mess, crying and slobbering, and I hoped Pammy wasn’t with him. Erik answered the door and all I could do was point at Lumberton’s house and make guttural, whimpering noises.
“What? What?” Erik said, loud enough and with enough concern that Pammy was soon by his side. I just kept gesturing to our neighbor’s house, now poking the air repeatedly as if this would convey the enormity of what was happening over there.
“Ted?” Pammy said gently.
“Ted, what’s going on?” Erik said, looking at the house and back at me. Pammy stepped around us and started to look over as well.
“Beverly…” I managed to say something coherent at last. Pammy looked confused but started to walk over to the Lumberton house, determined to help out, whatever was going on. “No, no, no, no, no, no!” I shouted at her.
“What about Beverly?” Erik asked me, more seriously. I started to cry again, thinking about her bloody, dented head and the bit of brain hitting the mat. Erik led me inside and sat me down on his sofa. “Stay here,” he said and ran out to catch up with Pammy.
I suppose I was in shock at this point but I didn’t want to sit idly by while those two discovered the gruesome Mrs. Lumberton. I went to the front stoop, the place where I was so vigorously pointing a few minutes before. I couldn’t see the entrance of the house next door because there was a large bush blocking my view. I didn’t hear anything unusual, which I took as a good thing. I waited, wiping my face with my hands.
A few more minutes passed and I wondered if I should call the police, but Erik and Tammy appeared, casually walking toward me holding hands. He was wearing a kimono, bare-chested, with jeans shorts and Nike sandals. She was barefoot, wearing pale blue leggings and a t-shirt with a rainbow on it. They looked like an ad for some kind of new wonder drug. They approached me with expressions like parents whose child has had a nightmare.
“Hey buddy,” Erik said, “everything seems to be cool over there. Bennett was having his lunch. Umm...” He looked over at Tammy.
“Yeah, Ted,” she said, with a tilt of her head and a crooked smile, “nothing much going on.”
“Beverly,” I mumbled. My mouth was incredibly dry and I felt a little nauseous.
“C’mon, Ted. Beverly’s gone, you know that,” Erik said.
“Why don’t we all have some lunch? Okay, Ted?” Tammy offered, but I was still in a confused state that had just grown more confusing.
We did end up having lunch on Erik’s back porch. I don’t recall much except admitting I may have had a hallucination of Beverly, leaving out the gory parts. They were both supporting and comforting. They really did make a nice couple, I thought. By the time we had finished eating and I had a couple of beers in me, I was feeling close to normal. I didn’t even say anything or react at all when I noticed two tiny red stains on Tammy’s leggings that I’m sure weren’t there before. I thanked them and apologized to them for all the drama and I made my way back home, leftovers in a plastic container in hand. I didn’t look at Lumberton’s house as I passed.
Sunday morning was warm with the sun streaming through my window. I had a fitful sleep but managed to get a few hours in. I decided before I got out of bed to decline Bennett’s invitation to dinner later that evening and after showering and breakfast, I was prepared to do just that. It was around noon when I called, a rehearsed refusal in my head. When Beverly answered, I dropped the phone.
Three hours later, I was still in bed, sometimes whimpering, sometimes briefly dozing, only to be awakened by horrific images of Beverly. When I had quit my job in the spring, I remember having similar nightmares, sometimes staying in bed until two or three in the afternoon. I thought I had gotten over it.
Knocking. I must have fallen into a deeper sleep, because I was awoken by knocking on my front door. I didn’t want to get up. I didn’t want to answer it. But then I heard the sound of Erik’s voice between knocks and soon after, Pammy’s voice. I slowly got up and since I was already dressed I didn’t look in the mirror. I must have looked terrible. I didn’t care. I glanced over at the bedside clock. It was 3:53.
“Hey, buddy, just checking on ya,” Erik’s friendly voice greeted me as I opened the door.
“Hi, Ted.” Pammy lifted a hand in a half-wave. Her smile was comforting.
“Hey, guys,” I said, “what’s up?” I said, trying to sound somewhat normal. I suddenly flashed back on the phone call and the sound of Beverly’s unmistakable voice. ‘Well, hello, there’ she had said, and not in an overly convivial way. I must have zoned out.
“Ted, what’s wrong,” Erik was saying. “C’mon. Why don’t you get ready? We’re all going over to Bennett’s for dinner. Remember? Pam’s coming, she changed her plans.” Pammy was nodding vigorously, an even broader smile now, this time with a sympathetic look in her eyes.
“I.. I’m not going over there, sorry,” I said, shaking my head. I had already decided not to tell them about the phone call. They probably thought I’d lost my mind in addition to seeing dead people.
“Ted, everything is fine next door,” Pammy said, touching my arm in an almost maternal way. “We think it’ll do you good to go.”
“That’s right,” Erik said, “you’ll see nothing is out of the ordinary. Everybody has a rough patch once in a while. This will get you out of it. C’mon.”
They both persisted for a while, not threateningly or in a belittling manner, but supportive and caring. I don’t know how they did it but they convinced me and I put on a more appropriate shirt and cleaned up a bit and all three of us were at the Lumberton’s front door at 4:40.
Bennett greeted us with smiles and hellos and handshakes. It all seemed perfectly normal. The house was warm, but not overly so, and smelled like baking bread, roasting meat, and cinnamon. I mentioned the wonderful aromas and Erik elbowed me gently and whispered, “Bet you didn’t know ol’ Benny was a great cook.”
After a vodka rocks, I felt more relaxed, although I continued to eye doorways and corners for anything remotely suspicious. The conversation was pleasant. Pammy was very animated when she was telling stories. Bennett was a gracious host. Even Erik had us laughing with tales from his rock band days. Everything was… nice. I had started to think I had imagined everything. That was why I was so startled when I heard Beverly’s voice coming from the kitchen.
I had heard it, no hallucination. I looked over to Erik and Pammy, both retelling a funny thing that happened on one of their early dates. When I turned to Bennett, his eyes shifted from the giggling couple to me. His head didn’t move, just his eyes. He heard it, too, I’m sure of that.
‘Is that you in there?’ the voice had said. Beverly’s voice, I’m sure of it. I was, as the saying goes, scared shitless. My heart was pounding in my chest. All of my muscles were painfully tense but I couldn’t move. I was aware my eyes were unnaturally wide open and Erik noticed.
“Ted, what’s up?” he said. When Pammy heard this she looked at me and her happy demeanor collapsed.
“Ted?” she said, concerned.
“Shhhhh,” I hissed and managed to hold up a hand. We all listened, half of us not knowing what we were listening for. Silence, except for the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the light classical music on the radio. Bennett lumbered in his chair, shifting to a more upright position.
“W- w- why don’t w- we go into the d- d- dining room so w- we can eat?” he said, hands on the arms of his chair, elbows up.
“You heard that, didn’t you Bennett?” I said, trying to remain calm, but I could tell there was an edge to my voice.
“Heard what, Ted?” he said, then to the couple, “Let’s g-go eat.” He slowly lifted himself from his chair. When he was upright, he said to Pammy, “Pamela, could you help m- m- me in the k- kitchen?”
“No!” I shouted, before I knew it was coming out. Everyone looked at me with unsettled expressions. “I’ll help Benny,” I said at a lower volume. “You guys sit at the table. Erik, why don’t you open the wine for dinner.” I wasn’t used to delegating others with tasks, so it felt a little weird for me ordering them around. Bennett was staring at me with what I thought was a confused look on his face. Now I know it must have been fright or panic. Or shock. It was what my own face must have been displaying.
The dining room was just an extension of the living room and the kitchen was through a narrow archway. I saw Bennett open a small drawer in the china cabinet and take out a corkscrew. He placed it on the dining table next to the wine and looked up at Eric, who proceeded to give him a thumbs up sign. Bennett then looked at me, and with hand extended palm up, he said, “Shall we?”
I entered the kitchen ahead of him and it was empty of ghosts or spirits or demons, Beverly Lumberton in particular. The place smelled incredible. Simmered meat and vegetables permeated the space in layers of such savory bliss that I nearly had forgotten that I was totally mortified a couple of minutes earlier. At the back of the kitchen were windows and a door to the backyard. An interior door leading to another room was closed.
“Where is she?” I asked Lumberton. I had started to sweat. I didn’t want to see Beverly again but I felt I had to face up to my delusions, if that’s what they were, to put an end to them somehow. And this time, I would have witnesses.
“W- Where is who?” Bennett said with a puzzled look on his face.
“Beverly, Beverly, that’s who!” I shouted and immediately regretted it. “Where. Is. Beverly?” I said softer but more sternly, teeth gritted. My face felt hot and wet. Lumberton looked like he honestly didn’t know what I was talking about.
“She’s not here, Ted. She died. Remember?” This was from Erik and I sensed an edge of firmness in his voice that I had never heard before. He and Pammy were at the archway between the kitchen and the dining room. Pammy displayed a look that I don’t think I’ll ever forget. Disappointment mixed with embarrassment and concern. The type of look one has when seeing their child on stage at the school play forgetting his lines.
I slumped down in a chair at the kitchen table. It must be me. Something is definitely wrong with me. Obviously, if nobody else is seeing or hearing Beverly, that means I’m the crazy one. I felt flustered and humiliated, having behaved in an insane manner in front of these people. I began to weep and covered my face with my hands, my elbows on my knees, tears falling on the linoleum between my shoes.
“I’m sorry,” I mumbled, between sobs. “I think I need help.” At that moment, I was convinced I had deep psychological problems compounded by severe hallucinations. I heard some soft murmurs of encouragement from the others and Pammy came over and knelt beside me and tenderly rubbed my back. “I’m sorry,” I repeated, this time apologizing for my breakdown which had apparently ruined the mood for dinner.
As I continued to sob and stare down between my feet, I noticed a strange sensation and tried to place it. Pammy’s gentle massage seemed all wrong. It felt wet. And sticky. I slowly raised my head and saw Beverly Lumberton’s tortured and bloody face inches from my own, smiling grotesquely. I could smell her rot and almost vomited.
“Remember? I died, Jake. Remember?“ she seethed, parroting Erik’s phrase to me, minus my current name. “You didn’t even slow your bus down, you sped up, Jake. Remember that?” I can’t recall if I screamed, but I shot up out of the chair, stumbled across the kitchen, and in my panic, ran through Pammy and Erik, still standing in the doorway. They were giggling at me, I believe, as I careened through them into the dining room on my way to the front door.
Outside, my heart thrumming in my ears, I was slightly disoriented. I had never come out of the Lumberton house before. I perceived laughter and whooping inside as I found my bearings and tore across the lawn to my house. I staggered through the front door and collapsed on the couch. I immediately sprung up again and locked and bolted the door.
It’s been forty five minutes since Beverly’s cold and bloody hand was on my back and thirty minutes since I’ve been writing this account of the last few days. It’s also been twenty minutes since I swallowed sixteen sleeping pills and eleven Percocet; that should do it. I’m fading but I want to make sure I get this down. I remember everything now. The shock of seeing Beverly’s gruesome face so close to mine triggered deeply repressed memories to come flooding back in unwanted clarity.
My name is Jacob Walker and I was a bus driver. I changed my name to Theodore Grant after hitting and killing Beverly Lumberton. I grew a beard and got contact lenses after the police ruled the incident an accident. I moved into this house last spring, knowing the widower Lumberton resided next door. I think I had delusions of befriending and looking after the old man but the nightmares and visions didn’t subside. Neither Bennett or Erik, nor anyone else on our street for that matter, recognized me.
The afternoon of the accident, a pipe bomb went off in a local high school gymnasium, injuring three. That got the majority of press coverage. A small photo of me appeared in the paper the next day, page four. My infamy died quickly, as Beverly had, and I began to repress the grisly event and the guilty feelings that followed.
I’m getting quite sleepy so I’ll wrap this up.
Beverly Lumberton has been haunting me since I was in the sixth grade. She was my teacher. Of course, she was Beverly Brooks back then. She, and her husband Larry, lived in a house a few blocks from my family. One Saturday evening in October, when I was 12, I was riding my bike near their home when I heard shouting. Being a curious boy, I walked up their drive to spy through their front window. What I saw created a dark, wet stain in my jeans.
The following may sound like the drugs talking, and I admit I’m about to fall into a very long slumber, but I assure you it’s the truth. The Brooks’ living room was a horror show. Larry Brooks was sliced in several places, blood seeping from every wound. He was sitting on the floor against the couch, as if he was a kid about to watch Saturday morning cartoons. Beverly stood over him, carving knife in hand, covered in her husband’s blood.
I must have let out a yelp of surprise because she turned and looked at me through the window. I was mortified and couldn’t move as she came to the door and opened it. “Not a word to anyone about this, Jakey. I would hate to see your parents end up like this,” she said quietly to me, pointing the knife first at me and then to her dying husband.
I ran back to my bike and sped home. The remainder of the weekend I was in shock. I was terrified of the prospect of going to school on Monday. My parents were concerned but I never told them what I saw.
I can’t keep my eyes open much longer.
On Monday morning, Mrs. Brooks told me, “Keep quiet, Jake, or your next.” Every month or so, she would repeat the warning. Many times in class she would stare at me or drag her index finger across her throat when she knew no one was looking. Over the years, every so often, she would seek me out and verbally abuse and threaten me in horrific ways.
So yes, I did speed up that day and