Laymon Laymon: The Woods Are Dark

“All the more reason to have our say now.”

“Over here,” Cordie whispered. She pulled Ben toward a dark path between two of the cottages.

“We’d better get the ice.”

“What’s the hurry?”

“They’ll be waiting.”

“Let ’em wait. Come on. This’ll be our only chance to be alone, tonight.”

“Just for a minute,” Ben said. “We don’t want to get your dad angry.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“Did you really think he’d let us sleep together?”

“God no. Dad? Not a chance. It was worth a try, though.” She led Ben into the shadows. Wrapping her arms around him, she lightly touched her lips to his mouth. He seemed hesitant, at first-preoccupied. She kissed him more deeply, opening her mouth, sucking his tongue into her.

Ben pulled her tightly against him, and she felt his erection against her belly. If only she were wearing a skirt instead of these tight jeans! Moaning with frustrated desire, she rubbed against his shaft. His leg bent. She rode his upthrust thigh, grinding herself against it slipping a hand down the front of his pants and stroking him. One of his hands went inside her blouse. It squeezed her breast through the thin sheath of her bra.

Abruptly, his whole body shook. He bit her tongue. His hand clenched, shooting pain through her breast. He pumped warm fluid into her hand, and dropped to his knees.

Behind him, hammer poised for another blow, stood a grinning, toothless old woman.

“It’s sure taking them a long time,” Lander complained. He swirled his warm vodka, and sipped it.

“They haven’t been alone all day.”

“You’d think they could exercise a little restraint.”

“They’re in love, honey.”

“I know, I know.”

Ruth sat down on the bed beside him. “You’re not exacdy the world champ at exercising restraint, yourself. Remember the night on the porch glider?”

He laughed softly. “I thought for sure your dad would catch us.”

“And how you brought a can of oil, the next night?”

“I wonder if they ever noticed the squeak was gone.”

“I sure did.”

“I oiled you both, that night.”

“Geez, Lander!” She gave him a playful shove.

“I noticed you stopped squeaking, too.”

“You’re awful!”

They kissed. Her lips were pliant and warm and familiar. He felt the gentle pressure of her hand on his leg. “Hey,” he said, “we’d better not get started.”

“Better not,” she echoed. “Guess we’ll have to exercise restraint.”

“That’s not what I’d like to exercise,” he said.

She pushed him, laughing. “How about you getting the ice. It’ll keep you out of mischief.”

“Yeah, and maybe I’ll run into the lovebirds.” He picked up the room key, and went out the door. Outside, he tried the knob to be sure it was locked. He climbed down the wooden stairs, and scanned the three small duplexes across the driveway. No sign of Cordelia or Ben. He glanced into the car. Not there.

From the middle of the dirt driveway, he had a good view of all six cottages, the office and the main road. Turning, he looked behind him. The drive ended, and the forest began.

The forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks—

Maybe they went in there for a tumble in the hemlocks.

Joking about it didn’t help.

It’s no joke, your own daughter having a tumble.

Roll me over in the clover…

He pictured Cordelia on her back, Ben pumping. It made his stomach hurt.

Roll me over lay me down and do it again.

I’m obsessed, he thought.

Jealous?

Crap.

Where are they?

Could they get into one of the cottages? He studied each, turning as he walked, sometimes walking backward. Six duplexes. Twelve rooms in all. Lights on in the windows of about half. Cars were parked in front of several others. Real clunkers. One, he noticed—an ancient, battered Buick Special—even had a flat rear tire. One of its windows was down.

He shook his head. No. They wouldn’t dare make out in a stranger’s car.

Stopping, he eyed each car with new suspicion. Four, not counting his own. The kids could be in any of them, rutting on the backseat.

Rutting?

Shame burned Lander’s face as he changed direction and walked across the dirt to the Buick. He moved close enough to see that the backseat was empty, then veered away and approached the next car.

A Maverick. Its right rear corner was badly bashed as if a metal-eating monster had taken a bite from it.

Stepping closer, he glanced into the backseat. A dark shape jumped, and sprang through the far window. A cat. Lander laughed softly at his own fright. He patted his chest, where his heart pounded frantically, and looked again into the car. Baby shoes hung from the rearview mirror. His eyes lowered to the steering column. Something weird there. With a quick glance around to be sure he wasn’t being watched, he opened the passenger door and leaned across the seat.

On the steering column where the ignition should be, he saw only a round hole.

Strange, all right.

He climbed out, silently shut the door, and stepped to the front. His fingers searched beneath the lip of the hood. He found the latch and released it. He raised the hood, hinges squawking.

No battery.

No radiator, no fan belt, no carburetor, no air cleaner. The engine had been cannibalized.

“Jesus,” he muttered, and lowered the hood.

He ran across the driveway to a dilapidated Grand Prix. Raised its hood. Gazed into the darkness where the engine should have been, and found no engine at all. The car was an empty shell.

What kind of a motel was this, leaving useless cars in front of its rooms like—decoys?

With a sudden chill of dread, Lander wondered if the entire place was deserted: lights left on in rooms, hulks of cars rolled into place like props in a play…

The play is the tragedy “Man”—good ole Poe, popping up when you need him least—its hero, the Conqueror Worm.

A play. Its stage constructed by the smiling man in the office—by the strange person lurking behind his door.

“Cordelia!” Lander shouted. “Cordelia! Ben!” He waited, listening for a reply. He heard wind in the trees, crickets and distant frogs, the sounds of birds singing in the night as if nothing were wrong, the laughter of a television audience.

At the end of the courtyard, a door swung open. Ruth stepped out. “Lander? What’s wrong?”

He ran to her.

“For heaven’s…”

He pushed her inside and shut the door.

“What is it, what’s wrong?” Her frightened eyes begged him for a quick answer. “The kids?”

“I didn’t see them. I don’t know where they are, but something’s wrong here. All those cars, they’re fakes.”

“I don’t…” She shook her head.

“I don’t know what’s going on, but… Remember Norman Bates?”

“Who?”

“Anthony Perkins. Psycho? The hotel…”

“Lander, stop it!”

“I don’t think this is a real motel, at all. I think it’s some kind of a trap.”

“No!”

Lander leaned against the door and rubbed his face. Always a pacifist, he’d detested firearms. Now he wished to God he had one.

“What’ll we do?”

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Cordelia’s out there!”

“Look, maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it’s all… innocent, and the kids are out in the woods, or something, having the time of their lives. I don’t know.”

In a quiet voice tight with control, Ruth said, “We’d damn well better find out.”

“How?”

“We’ll march ourselves right over to the office…”

“Oh, that’s a great idea.”