Lumberton
Lumberton
The crunching 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 halfway 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 needs 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 speaks with 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 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 overused handkerchief and blew his nose. “Wife wants to know if you’d care 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 experienced 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 shuffled in place a bit and continued to watch me rake.
“Why don’t y-y-you wait until they all c-c-come down so you only need t-t-to do this one time?” It was a valid point and one I considered, but I enjoy the fresh air and the little exercise the raking provides. After another long pause, Lumberton said, “N-n-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 nodded and said, “Sure, sure, yeah. What time?” And that was how Erik Schneider and I were scheduled for dinner at the Lumberton household Sunday afternoon at 4:30, Beverly’s attendance to be determined.
Later in the 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 any reason we both were 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 prefers to be called Pammy. She is Erik’s on-and-off-again girlfriend, and she had on a man’s dress shirt, utilizing only half of its buttons, 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 occurred 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, knowing he most likely did. 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 her burgers would be veggie, or soy, or something similar. I declined, stating that I had eaten earlier. 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, but 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 Lumberton’s invitation 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 read mysteries. They’re nice people. Such a shame about Beverly. I really miss her, man. I have no idea why old Bennett is inviting you, you creep.” We both laughed, 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 a little stressed. I experienced a brief flashback but was unable to place it, and an uncomfortable bit of dread 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 all right. Without thinking too much, I grabbed a beer from the fridge, sat on my sofa, and turned on the television.
Sometime later, I fell 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 facing Lumberton’s property. All the windows in his house 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 the window for a while longer, not knowing what I expected to see. Twenty minutes later, I resolved I had 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 as if several minutes passed, Lumberton opened the door.
“Why, hello!” I took another step backward. More accurately, 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 it 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 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, at a great distance 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 had 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 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 then back at me. Pammy stepped around us and looked next door 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, picturing 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 didn’t want to sit idly by while those two discovered the gruesome Mrs. Lumberton, even though I must have been in shock at that point. I went to the front stoop, the place where I was so vigorously pointing a few minutes before, but I couldn’t see the entrance of the house next door because there was a large bush blocking my view. Nothing sounded 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 Pammy 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 as if they were in an advertisement for some kind of new wonder drug. They approached me with expressions similar to parents whose child had a nightmare.
“Hey, buddy,” Erik said. “Everything seems to be cool over there. Bennett was having his lunch. Umm...” He looked over at Pammy.
“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?” Pammy offered, but I was still in a confused state, which had grown even more confusing.
We did end up having lunch on Erik’s back porch. I don’t recall much except admitting it was possible I had a hallucination of Beverly, leaving out the gory parts. They were both supportive and comforting. They honestly 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 Pammy’s leggings, which I’m sure weren’t there before. After thanking them and apologizing for all the drama, 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 eating breakfast, I was prepared to do exactly 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 quit my job in the spring, I remember having similar nightmares, on occasion staying in bed until two or three in the afternoon. I thought I had gotten over it.
Knocking. I must have finally fallen into a deeper sleep, because I was awoken by knocking on my front door. I didn’t want to answer it, but I heard the sound of Erik’s voice between knocks and Pammy’s soon after. My bones ached as I slowly got up, and since I was already dressed, I didn’t look in the mirror, knowing I looked terrible, but I didn’t care. Glancing over at the bedside clock, I saw it was 3:53.
“Hey, buddy, just checking in 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 to 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 zoned out, right there in front of them.
“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’d probably think 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.”
“She’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 was more relaxed, although I continued to eye doorways and corners for anything remotely suspicious. The conversation was pleasant. Pammy was amusingly 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, which 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 an amusing thing that had occurred 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, only his eyes. He heard it too; I was quite sure.
“Is that you in there?” the voice had said. Beverly’s voice, I was 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 pleasant 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 her, didn’t you, Bennett?” I said, trying to remain calm, but I could tell there was an edginess to my voice.
“Heard who, 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 to order them around. Bennett was staring at me with what I thought was a confused look on his face. Now I know it was fright or panic—or shock. It was surely what my own face was displaying.
The dining room was basically 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 looked at me, and with hand extended and 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 forgot I had been utterly 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, and I started to sweat. I didn’t want to see Beverly again, but I needed to face up to my delusions, if that’s what they were, to somehow put an end to them. And this time, there would be 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 was hot and wet. Lumberton looked as if 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 a tone of firmness in his voice I had never heard before. He and Pammy were at the archway between the kitchen and the dining room. Pammy displayed a look 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 was seeing or hearing Beverly, it meant I was the crazy one. I was 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.” In my state of self-pity, 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 kneeled beside me and tenderly rubbed my back. “I’m sorry,” I repeated, this time apologizing for my breakdown, which had clearly 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?” 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 thrummed in my ears, and I was slightly disoriented. I’d 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. Immediately, I 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. Maybe I had delusions of befriending and looking after the old man, but the nightmares and visions didn’t subside. Neither Bennett or Erik, or 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, which 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 in those days. 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 driveway 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 close to falling into an infinitely 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 were a kid settling down to watch Saturday morning cartoons. Beverly stood over him, carving knife in hand, covered in her husband’s blood.
Without consciously doing so, I let out a surprised yelp because she had 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 back at her dying husband.
I ran back to my bike and sped home. For 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 you’re 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
