David Morrell: Creepers

A Bram Stoker Award Nominee

Creepers.

That's what they called themselves, and that would make a good story, Balenger thought, which explained why he met them in this godforsaken New Jersey motel in a ghost town of 17,000 people. Months later, he still would not be able to tolerate being in rooms with closed doors. The nostril-widening smell of must would continue to trigger the memory of screams. The beam from a flashlight wouldn't fail to make him sweat.

Later, as he convalesced, sedatives loosened the steel barriers he'd imposed on his memory, allowing frenzied sounds and images to dart out. That chilly Saturday night in late October. A little after nine. That was the moment when he could have turned around and saved himself from the mounting nightmare of the next eight hours. But in retrospect, even though he'd survived, he surely wasn't saved. He blamed himself for failing to notice how hyper everything felt. As he approached the motel, the crash of the waves on the beach two blocks away seemed abnormally loud. A breeze scraped sand along a decaying sidewalk. Dead leaves rattled across cracked pavement.

But the sound that Balenger most remembered, the one that, he told himself, should have made him retreat, was a mournful rhythmic clang clang clang that drifted along the area's abandoned streets. It was harsh, as if from a fractured bell, but he would soon learn its true origin and how it represented the hopelessness he was about to enter.

Clang.

It could have been a warning to ships to stay away and avert disaster.

Clang.

Or it could have tolled for a funeral.

Clang.

Or it could have been the sound of doom.

The motel had twelve rooms. Only unit 4 was occupied, a pale yellow light seeping past its thin curtain. The exterior was run-down, as much in need of paint and repair as all the other buildings in the area. Balenger couldn't help wondering why the group had chosen it. Despite the hard times the community had suffered, there were still some decent places in which to stay.

The cold breeze made him tug the zipper on his Windbreaker all the way to his neck. A broad-shouldered man of thirty-five, he had short, sandy hair and an experience-etched face that women found appealing, although there was only one woman he cared about. He paused outside the room, wanting to control his thoughts, to prepare his emotions for the role he needed to assume.

Through the flimsy door, he heard a man's voice. It sounded young. "The guy's late."

A woman's voice, also young. "Maybe he isn't coming."

A second man, much older. "When he contacted me, he was enthused by the project."

A third man. Young, like the first two. "I don't think it's a good idea. We never took a stranger with us before. He'll get in the way. We shouldn't have agreed."

Balenger didn't want the conversation to proceed in that direction, so he decided he was as focused as he was going to get and knocked on the door.

The room became quiet. After a moment, a lock was freed. The door came open the length of a security chain. A bearded face peered out.

"Professor Conklin?"

The face nodded.

"I'm Frank Balenger."

The door closed. A chain rattled. The door came open again, revealing an overweight man of sixty silhouetted by light.

Balenger knew the man's age because he'd researched him thoroughly. Robert Conklin. Professor of history at the State University at Buffalo. Vietnam War protestor during his graduate-school years. Jailed three times at various political events, including the 1967 march on the Pentagon. Arrested once for possession of marijuana, the charge dismissed for insufficient evidence. Married: 1970. Widowed: 1992. One year later, he became a creeper.

"It's after nine. We began to wonder if you were coming." The professor's gray hair matched his beard. His glasses were small, his cheeks heavy. After a careful look outside, he shut and locked the door.

"I missed the earlier train from New York. Sorry to hold you up."

"Quite all right. Vinnie was late arriving also. We're getting organized."

The professor, who looked out of place in jeans, a sweater, and a Windbreaker, indicated a thin man of twenty-four, who also wore jeans, a sweater, and a Windbreaker. As did the two other young people in the room. As did Balenger, who'd followed the instructions he was given, including the directive to make certain the clothes were dark.

Vincent Vanelli. B.A. in history: State University at Buffalo, 2002. High school teacher in Syracuse, New York. Unmarried. Mother deceased. Father unable to work, suffering from smoker's-related emphysema.

Conklin turned toward the remaining two people, a man and a woman. They too were twenty-four, Balenger knew from his investigations. The woman had ponytailed red hair, a sensuous mouth that some men would have worked not to stare at, and a figure that the sweater and Windbreaker couldn't hide. The good-looking man next to her had brown hair and a solid build. Even if Balenger hadn't researched his background, he'd have known that the man enjoyed exercise.

"I'm Cora," the woman said, her voice pleasantly deep, "and this is Rick."

Again, only first names, although Balenger knew that their last name was Magill. They had B.A.s in history from the State University at Buffalo, 2002, and were now in the graduate history program at the University of Massachusetts. Met in 2001. Married in 2002.

"Pleased to meet you." Balenger shook hands with everybody.

An awkward moment ended when he pointed toward objects laid out on the worn bedspread. "So these are the tools of the trade?"

Vinnie chuckled. "I guess, if the wrong person came in here, he'd get suspicious."

It was an amazing array of equipment: hard hats with battery-powered lights attached to them, flashlights, candles, matches, spare batteries, work gloves, knives, knapsacks, rope, duct tape, water bottles, hammers, a crowbar, digital cameras, walkie-talkies, trail mix, energy bars, and several small electronic devices Balenger couldn't identify. A Leatherman all-in-one tool (pliers, wire cutters, various types of screwdrivers) sat next to a first-aid trauma kit in a red nylon bag. The kit, labeled Pro Med, was the equivalent to what SWAT teams and military special-operations units carried, Balenger knew.

"Anticipating trouble? Some of these could be considered burglary tools."

"The furthest thing from our minds," Professor Conklin said. "Anyway, there's nothing to steal."

"As far as we know," Cora said. "Not that it would make a difference. We look but don't touch. Of course, that's not always possible, but that's the general idea."

"To quote the Sierra Club," Rick said, "'take nothing but photographs; leave nothing but footprints.'"

Balenger removed a notebook and pen from a Windbreaker pocket. "How long have you been creepers?"

"I hope you're not going to use that word in your article," Vinnie objected.

"But it's part of the slang, isn't it? 'Mice' are law-enforcement officers, right? 'Ball busters' are large pipes you're forced to straddle to get over. 'Poppers' are the crowbars you use to pry up manhole covers. And 'creepers' are-"