Ike Hamill - Migrators

Bob’s hollow laugh stopped quickly.

“So what happened at your house?” Bob asked.

“Not yet,” Alan said. “I’ll tell you when we’re closer. That ground is already poisoned.”

Bob drove fast. Aside from scattered wet leaves and the occasional downed limb, the roads were clear. Before long, they reached the spot on the West Road upstream from the beaver dam. Alan was right—the water level had dropped fast after the beaver dam gave way. There was just a trickle across the road. Alan got out and moved the warning sign. With a big step, he cleared the little stream that crossed the road. He moved the sign on the other side and then waved Bob across.

Bob didn’t take any chance on the structural integrity of the road. He back backed up several car lengths and then accelerated fast towards the low point of the road. The pavement held and Bob screeched to a stop on the other side.

“No problem. See?” Alan asked.

“So far,” Bob said.

They drove in silence until they took a left on Alan’s road. As they passed the dump, Alan began to tell his story. He began with picking up Joe from school, and ended with climbing the hill to Bob’s house.

Bob considered the story as they climbed the north side of Hazard’s hill. Overhead the clouds had begun to break up and the moon peeked through.

“So you think it was migrators in your cellar?” Bob asked.

“I’m sure of it,” Alan said. “And I found out first hand what it feels like to have your flesh peeled off your bones. But I don’t think the migrators are the only thing we’re up against.”

“What?”

Alan nodded. “And if you want to change your mind about helping me, I’ll understand.”

“What are you talking about?” Bob asked.

“You remember the name of the deputy sheriff that came out to investigate when we first saw that thing?”

“No,” Bob said. “It was the same guy on TV later, but I don’t remember his name.”

“His last name was Prescott,” Alan said.

“Like Buster.”

“Yes,” Alan said. “He didn’t introduce himself and he wasn’t wearing a name tag or anything, but his name was on the card he handed me. The game warden who showed up, he was a Prescott as well.”

“It’s probably a common enough name around here. After all, Buster lived on the Prescott Road.”

“I think it’s common because four of the six Prescott boys grew up to take wives and have bunches of kids.”

“And you think they have something to do with this?”

“The deputy seemed to have some weird agenda, and the game warden said he was going to take the carcass off my porch, but instead he hung it from my front door.”

“Weird,” Bob said.

“And that girl that Joe had the conflict with at school. Pauline McDougall was born to Violet…” Alan started.

“Prescott,” Bob finished. “I heard the story. She was dating Mack McDougall when she was diagnosed with cancer. He adopted her kids because it was her dying wish. Everyone talks about what a great guy he is.”

“They’re Prescotts too. Just for shits and grins, I went through the Colonel’s files the other day. Guess who he bought our house from?”

“One of Buster’s brothers?”

“Quid pro quo,” Alan said with a small smile. “You win the prize—it was Paul, the worker of woodlots. He’s the one who planted all the pines out back.”

“So what’s the connection? I don’t understand,” Bob said.

“Neither do I, but I suspect that some of the drama tonight was orchestrated.”

“The Prescotts caused the flooding?”

Alan laughed. “No, but they might have had a hand in making sure I was home for it. The school closed so I had to pick up Joe and then for the first time ever, Pete comes over? I had to stay home to wait for Pete’s mom. She shows up right as they’re closing all the roads. I think they wanted me at home.”

“No offense, but you sound paranoid,” Bob said.

“Maybe,” Alan said. “Slow down and kill the lights, would you?”

Bob complied. They rolled up to the house slow and dark. The inside of the house was black and the front door was open, inviting them into the darkness of the hallway. The storm door hung to the side from one hinge. Bob slowed to a stop.

“I’m thinking that maybe they wanted my family here. I just don’t know why,” Alan said. “I’m going to check out the house.”

“Is that wise?” Bob asked.

“Probably not,” Alan said.

He slipped through the car door and walked across the road. His foot throbbed, but the pain was manageable. Alan climbed the hill and heard Bob kill the engine and get out of the SUV behind him. Alan stepped through the door and let his eyes adjust to the interior of the house. The floor was wet and littered with leaves and sticks. The filing cabinet they’d used to wedge the door shut was cast to the side. The door to the den was closed. Alan walked up the stairs. He paused halfway up. Divided squares of moonlight came through the window over the stairs and lit up the steps ahead of Alan. He heard that same low murmur from somewhere on the second floor. Alan turned. Bob had come through the door and was crouched. He had a stick in his hand. Bob was looking up the stairs.

“Did you hear that?” Alan asked.

Bob nodded.

Alan continued climbing. The carpet squished under his feet. Alan knelt and felt the runner—it was wet. When he got to the top, he saw that door to the master bedroom was open. Alan continued on. Bob caught up as Alan walked through the door. They both looked up at the ceiling as the murmuring began again.

Alan led the way to the dark closet. The hatch to the attic was open. A little moonlight filtered through the opening. Alan sat down and pulled himself through to the landing of the stairs. His hands hit a patch of dampness on the closet floor. The murmuring upstairs stopped. Alan took care not to bump his toe when pulling his foot through the hatch. He pushed up on narrow walls to stand. Wind blew down in his face as he climbed. Behind him, Bob grunted as he pulled himself through.

Alan touched a stair in front of him as he climbed. It felt damp. When he reached the top step, Alan’s breath caught in his chest. Below the open window, the old rocking chair sat. He had broken the chair into small pieces before throwing it out to the lawn below. He had taken those pieces out to the back field—the old fire pit—and burned them until the chair was nothing more than ashes.

He took a step forward. A cloud passed in front of the moon and the shadows shifted on the floor. When he blinked, the chair wasn’t there—the vision had been a trick of the light.

Alan jumped and grunted when Bob put a hand on his shoulder.

“Something left a trail,” Bob said. He was pointing to the floor.

Alan saw what his friend meant—the wet trail came from the stairs and went over to the window where he’d seen the phantom rocker. The wood planks were damp.

“Hand me that pry bar,” Alan said.

Bob reached and handed the long bar to Alan, who walked it over to the window. With both hands, he drove the narrow end of the pry bar between the floorboards. They creaked in protest as he levered a board until the nails popped out. Bob got his fingers under the board and pulled. When they had the first board up, they moved on to the next. The insulation beneath the floor had settled, leaving several inches of airspace between the floorboards and the loose tufts of insulation. In the dim light, the insulation looked like dirty cotton. There was something else beneath the floor.

“What is it?” Bob asked.

“I don’t know,” Alan said. He closed the attic window and dusted off his hands on his borrowed pants. “But I think those things wanted it.”