Red Water, Shadows of Camelot Crossing Page 3

  "Did you hear all that?" Hazel asked, waving her arm behind her to indicate where the noises had come from but keeping her eyes on Mom.

  Mom stood on her toes, peering over Hazel's shoulder as if she could see the sounds Hazel was talking about. "Hear what?"

  Hazel's eyes blinked rapidly, and she shook her head in disbelief, as if her family's lack of awareness was being tossed in her face.

  Dad leaned out of the bathroom, his electric toothbrush still churning in his mouth, and attempted to say, "What's going on?"

  "Hazel's having some first-night jitters, that's all," Mom said to Dad. Turning back to Hazel, and using her practiced there-there-dear voice, she said, "I was using my WaterPik. I didn't hear anything. This house has been vacant a long time. I'm sure it has some settling to do."

  "But the Ring … Motion … Garage door …"

  "Yeah, Dad checked the app. He couldn't see anything, really. He said there was a flash of light and then maybe some fog. It shouldn't have triggered the sensor. It may be some malfunction, I don't know. He said he would check it out tomorrow. Maybe it was an animal, but it's certainly no masked home invader. There's nothing to worry about." Mom was rambling in an obvious effort to calm her daughter's nerves.

  Seeing her family's reaction, or lack thereof, Hazel almost believed the settling house theory. "Um, yeah, okay. Sorry to bother you guys. Good night."

  "No bother. You know, you should try Sleep Sounds on your Dot. It's the best. It blocks out noises, like snoring," she said in a low, conspiratorial whisper. Winking, she nodded her head toward the bathroom where Dad could be heard gargling mouthwash. "Always helps me nod off."

  Dad exited the bathroom and joined the conversation. "I'll take a look at the Ring camera out back tomorrow. Probably needs some adjusting. Sleep tight, kid," he said.

  Hazel hugged her mom and left the room. Back in the hallway, she stomped her foot to mimic the noise only she and her dog had heard just minutes ago. With a shrug, she returned to her room, bracing herself for a jump scare to emerge from the shadows. But nothing was lurking in the recesses.

  A sleeping Coraline roused and lifted her head without alarm. The dog had moved past it. Hazel tapped the tops of boxes, scanning for one labeled L's Nightstand. The small, round device was on the top, inside hastily wadded, gray paper. She plugged it in, waited for the ringed light to flash, then directed, "Alexa, play Sleep Sounds." The intensity of the day swept her away swiftly. In an instant she was under sleep's spell.

  Four

  The speed at which a life can be reborn in a new setting is astounding. The next day, the family shaped the space together full tilt, melding old memories with new lives, each doing their part to nestle into their forever home. It was enormous task that found them working late into the evening.

  Leftover pizza, the official dinner of moving day number two.

  Dad tossed a partially eaten wedge of crust back onto his paper plate. Slowly circling his neck and shoulders, he said, "I'm back on the clock tomorrow. I need some additional muscle; my office furniture is too much for this old man to handle by himself. Any volunteers willing to help a dad out? I'll pay you in pizza."

  His request was met with reluctant, but obligatory groans of acceptance from Hazel and Holden. "You both look pretty able-bodied to me," Mom said, gathering the remnants of their meal.

  Thankfully Dad's office was on the ground floor, and they reconvened in decidedly the most baffling room in the house. It had a stained-glass window with a family-crest vibe, and a Romeo and Juliet balcony from whence Mom could summon her minions, should she so desire. The mash-up of elements resulted in the room bearing resemblance to a Vegas-style chapel where the black sheep of Tudor families could have a quickie wedding. They decided to call it the cathedral. "Dad's office" was far too bland for such a grandiose design.

  Dad and Holden heaved the heavy oak desk across the sea of parquet, being careful not to scratch it, under Mom's vigilant eye. Hazel focused on the landmass jutting out halfway up the immense wall. "Why is there a balcony with no stairs?" she pondered out loud. The only reply was the sound of successive footfalls overhead. In unison, their wide-eyed gazes shifted to the ceiling. Sharp intakes of air could be heard, and they all held their breaths as the noise boomed on.

  Both dogs heard the noise and reacted by cowering, whimpering high-pitched sounds from behind bared teeth. The maelstrom died down as the unseen runner reached the bottom of the stairs. The dulling thud of feet treading on the stone entry floors could be heard briefly. Finally, the silence broke the trance that held them all. Together they advanced into the foyer, stepping over both dogs, who were now positioned as if anticipating belly rubs and whining in harmony.

  "That! That was it! The noise I heard last night!" Hazel urged.

  Dad grabbed the banister at the foot of the stairs and stared up the dark staircase. "What was that?"

  Mom peered over his shoulder, clutching his T-shirt. She started to say something, but was interrupted by Alexa announcing, "Motion detected at the garage door."

  They followed Dad into the kitchen to see what the watchful eye outside the garage door saw. The Echo Show screen was lit up, a grainy flurry of moths dancing chaotically, their virtual auras lit by an unnatural glow of night vision. "I made adjustments again today. I guess they weren't enough," he mumbled in puzzlement as he visualized his actions, replaying each step, checking them off in the eye of his mind.

  "Squirrels?" Mom questioned, wide-eyed and hopeful.

  "Um, sure, if they make squirrels the size of large children out here in the sticks," Holden jabbed.

  Mom's frigidly stern expression, fondly referred to by all as "the look," flashed in Holden's direction. Dad enveloped Mom in his arms, saying, "I'll call a critter company tomorrow and have it checked out. It wouldn't be too unusual to have some unwanted guests in the attic. They've had free rein of the place for a long time."

  Mom was pacified by this action plan, and the two returned to the cathedral arm-in-arm to finish arranging Dad's office. Holden waited a beat to see if he would be summoned again. When he heard soft giggles and banter from the room behind him, he shrugged at Hazel. "I think our work here is done," he said, making his escape up the stairs. As he reached the top stair, he turned and stomped down again, bringing to life the unmistakable sound of feet pounding down the stairs. Holden, though swallowed up by the darkness, yelled, "Gotcha!"

  Hazel was glad he didn't see her flinch, or know that given another half a second, she would have turned and run back to the cathedral to the comfort of other people. "Not funny, lame-o!" she said, attempting to smooth out any unease her voice might betray. "Heading up to bed," she called to Mom and Dad.

  "Good night, sweetie!" Mom piped back.

  Just like that, all returned to normal and complacency thwarted the hunt for a rational explanation. No one had noted the time when they’d heard the noises, but from the moment the pounding started to the time they went their separate ways, fewer than ten minutes had passed. The entire exchange became a moment in the past by 10:07 p.m.

  Five

  Dad hired a man whose truck boasted the clever moniker, Critter Getters. Dave Rogers, said getter of critters, arrived two days later to assess the infestation of giant squirrels. The family left out the part about the rodents being a genius bunch who were able to throw their scurrying sounds, making it sound as if they were running helter-skelter on the second floor before plummeting down the stairs. There was never any indication of the clandestine gang having fled the scene via the garage door, but the unblinking eye of the Ring camera continued its nightly alert despite Dad's daily efforts to manipulate the settings. A flash of light and a hazy fog were always detected upon playback.

  "Oh, yeah. An empty house can be taken over in the space of weeks. A shrewd gaze can establish a bona fide flop house for wildlife in two years' time. Fun fact, a group of raccoon is called a gaze," the lanky man informed the family after learning of the extended absence of hu
man life inside the house. "But I'll fix you up. Rest assured when I'm done, every entry point will be sealed up and any stowaways will be cast out. Eventually they'd take off on their own, anyway. They aren't too keen on the smells we humans and our four-legged friends produce," he noted, scratching Coraline behind her ear. "I can expedite their eviction though. They can be stubborn."

  From the family room, Hazel overheard the conversation that took place just beyond the huge French doors, on the fresh-aired safety of the back porch. Never had she given thought to the dynamics of raccoon and their wiles. Dave tipped his hat at her as he entered the house and passed by, donning his mask and setting about to rid the house of its noisy intruders. Mom followed him, maintaining six feet of distance, her mouth and nose hidden behind a mask as well.

  "Dave,” she said in a muffled voice, “I found a scorpion in the kitchen the other day!" News to Hazel. "What would I do if one of us stepped on one, or my Phineas got stung?" She trailed after the man, leaving Hazel alone again in the living room. Hazel scanned the floor in front of her, slipped off her slides and tucked her feet safely beneath her hips. She could hear Dave placate Mom as she followed him upstairs to begin his search, and couldn't contain an eye roll. A loud screech could be heard upstairs and Hazel was certain Dave had escaped Mom's inquiries. There was no way Mom would venture into a musty, infested attic space.

  Fluffy, pink tufts of fiberglass insulation clung to Dave's close-cropped, blond hair, and he wiped away a layer of sweat, taking with it two shades of his skin tone. "Well, there's nothing inside the walls. The attic is clear. Maybe they're content outside and use your roof as passage from point A to point B. They're creatures of habit; you could set a clock to their schedules."

  If Dave had hung around, waited for the sun to set, and had a chance to hear what happened on the stairs every night at 10 o'clock, he would have eaten his words. But they were not experts and reluctantly accepted his explanation. Of course, they hadn't mentioned that a beeping stopwatch announced the nightly run. Nor had they asked how vermin could trigger the motion detector outside the garage, from the roof, while remaining undetected. But he did say they were shrewd. Shrewd and undeterred, the nightly occurrence continued, never veering from its predictable course.

  Maybe their minds were too overburdened by the radical disunion of collective daily lives. The upended world was rife with unprecedented turns of events subliminally skewing their rationale, allowing them to easily accept another doubt-inspiring change. Soon, many mysterious things would relinquish the stair run to little more than a benign occurrence. Their first week in the Shrek house would prove uneventful in the face of what was to come. The worldly surprises they woke to each day were overshadowed by more ominous events ramping up within the presumed safety of their home.

  Six

  Taking the animals to the vet provided Mom and Hazel a chance to venture out, if only to watch the world from the car window and wonder how much change had been brought upon the person in the next car over at a stop light, or the student bicycling down the sidewalk. Hazel would take it, even if sitting in Mom's car outside Dr. Strom's office was as much of the outside world as she was allotted.

  Dr. Strom was a one-woman show. Her practice was previously based on the appealing lure and convenience of providing house calls. Now the parking lot was her waiting room, with limited contact preventing exposure to the virus. Each patient's caregiver was more anxious than the patient as they handed their beloved pet over to the dogged professional. It was telling that pets seemed less stressed waiting in the car than they ever had in the days of cajoling them into a waiting room sodden with scents both chemical and organic. Maybe vet waiting rooms could be avoided when the world returned to normal.

  Coraline was the first to be led away. The pup, too inexperienced to resist, willingly and gleefully allowed Dr. Strom to take her leash and followed amiably. Her trust was no doubt betrayed behind the exam room door as she was poked and prodded. She exited with a clean bill of health and with concoctions already coursing through her veins, beginning to strengthen her immune system, making it more resilient.

  "She did great!" the doctor said as the dog scurried to the sanctuary of the car.

  Phineas, more jaded and suspicious than his younger cohort, resisted to the extent that his tiny body could. He burned untold calories as the vet carried his quivering body away from the protective arms of Mom. The dog vanished behind the door. Hazel and Mom remained in the car.

  "I should have done this before this pandemic," Mom muttered, berating herself while nervously tapping the steering wheel. "I just got so busy with work. If I had known …" She trailed off, shaking her head.

  "He was eager to get out of there," said the vet, returning Phineas through the open car window. His tremors would not subside till long after the harrowing solo visit. His teeth needed cleaning, so an appointment was set. Mom handed over Bailey, the last to be examined. The cat let out a yowl of disapproval as the crate passed hands. The doctor paused briefly, providing Mom with a pamphlet of first aid tips for canine scorpion stings.

  Dr. Strom's cheerful mask could not hide her somber expression as she returned with Bailey. "Can we speak privately?" she asked as she handed the crate over. Mom got out of the car. Hazel cooed to the cat in soothing tones before focusing her attention on the impromptu conference taking place beyond the car's hood. Conversations were harder to decipher these days, even if you were one of the participants. It was impossible to glean any bits of the discussion, but there was no doubt the news was not good.

  Mom handed over her credit card and climbed back in the car. She immediately pumped out an overabundance of sanitizer, rubbing her hands together vigorously, slathering the caustic-smelling gel almost up to her elbows. She removed her mask and turned to Hazel. "Dr. Strom says Bailey doesn't have much longer," she said, her voice shaking. "Cancer, she thinks. At her age, there isn't much that can be done. She's putting her on some special food. It costs an arm and a leg; your Dad is going to flip." She opened a small, brown paper bag and removed blue prescription bottles one-by-one. "A steroid, antibiotics, pain pills," she rattled off. "The plan is to keep her comfortable. She is almost seventeen years old. She's led a pretty good life for a street rescue." A tear slipped down her face, absorbed quickly by the mask that now bearded her chin.

  Hazel was in tears before her mom finished speaking. Bailey had been a constant in her life since before her young mind had developed memories. Mom and Dad had adopted the cat before she and Holden were born. How many times had she noted the changes in the cat's appearance and mood, and the weight loss? She had flippantly written off her concerns as stress, and had been certain Bailey would rebound once they were settled. What would life be like without Bailey’s incessant meows when she wasn't fed on time? Without her loud purrs as she kneaded her way into Hazel’s lap, despite all obstacles? Hazel made a silent vow to shower Bailey with extra attention and love in her remaining days.

  Melancholy shrouded them all. Holden and Dad took the news about Bailey's decline badly, as expected. Bailey's imminent passing was another blow dealt by the cruel hand of 2020. Mom wasn't up to cooking that evening, so dinner was ordered in.

  Dad scanned the usual spots where cash was left lying around haphazardly, and left two ten-dollar bills outside. Through the safety of an app, he instructed the driver to leave their meal, take the tip, and ring the bell. There was little conversation as they ate. Everyone but Hazel retreated upstairs after tossing the paper bags and plastic utensils.

  Hazel stayed back to tend to Bailey. The cat happily accepted the prolonged petting session and inhaled the extra portion of the pricey new food. Finally tiring of the day and the coddling, Bailey gracefully leaped to the top of the dryer and curled herself into a tiny ball. She was asleep in moments. The cat never allowed herself to be closed in a room at night, no matter how comfortable the bed and how pleasant the company might be. If she found herself sequestered behind closed doors, she would cate
rwaul tirelessly until she succeeded in waking the occupant, demanding to be released. Bailey preferred to roam the house at night, a prowling sentinel.

  Over the next weeks, Hazel kept her promise and doted on the cat, probably more than the cat liked. She ordered a fluffy blanket covered in mice and paw prints from Mom's Amazon Prime account. The cat seemed appreciative of the cushion atop her perch on the dryer. The food and the medications seemed to help. Within days her fur regained its sheen. She looked fluffier, felt heavier. But even though she never showed any signs of discomfort, the light was leaving her eyes. There were no reserves of energy that allowed her to prowl the house in the dark. Never again did she pick a playful skirmish with Phineas. She had to be coaxed down from the dryer to eat. Even with these outward signs, Hazel couldn't admit that the pampering and medical regimen would soon cease to be enough to combat the stubborn opponent of age and disease.

  Seven

  As the seasons transitioned, steamy spring gave way to steamier summer, and the Shrek house began to look as if it had been lived in for some time. Everything found a place. Smiling photos hung from the walls, knickknacks rested in just the right spots, and furniture was situated comfortably. The space was sparse, since the furniture they owned was not enough to fill the grand house. Perhaps when the elusive curve was flattened and the pandemic was a thing of the past, they could spend their days browsing furniture stores and pick out things to make the house more homey, but for now they would make do. They each gravitated to different obligations to pass the time, which seemed warped and surreal as the world struggled to live with the unseen enemy.