The Last Handful of Clover - Book 2: Gifts Both Light and Dark

2.13 The Paper Sack Stuffed with Curtain Rods

June 11, 4:55 pm

Twenty minutes later, the trio had migrated to Nordstrom's, looking at ties. And as Richard watched them poring over the styles and colors, something that felt as big as a buffalo crashed into him.

He hadn't moved—the crash was all in his head. But it left him disoriented and with a feeling of anxiety that nearly drove him to his knees. He whirled around, trying to see whatever was frightening him, but there was simply nothing there—just the circular racks of clothes and his husband and his friends, hovering over a glass case and pointing at ties.

The crash came again, and this time it felt wet and cold, like tentacles wrapping around his head and squeezing. The pain was both physical and mental, and Richard actually clawed at his face and head, surprised that his fingers found nothing there. A low whimper came out of him, as if it was being squeezed out by the pressure in his chest. In a panic, he stumbled against the racks and whirled around, searching for a means of escape. But there was nowhere to run, and the panic was now at such a pitch that he couldn't even think. The fear was all around him, and the cold tentacles were coiling about his head and throat, cutting off his air.

In that instant, Richard reverted to age six, when he had often gone shopping in the stores with his mother. Back then he had loved to crawl under the hanging clothes on their racks and hide. Something in that memory now drove him down onto his hands and knees, and he skittered like a bug under the suit coats and shirts.

He's found me, Richard thought, as he cowered under the hanging clothes. It's what Billy told me would happen!

He just knew—this was the Wanderer. But Billy's description hadn't given him any warning that he would feel a presence this horrifying, this unmistakably dark and evil.

And then—as quickly as the snapping of a camera shutter—Richard was no longer in Nordstrom's. He was no longer hiding under the clothing racks like a little boy. And the fear and terror and the pressure in his skull disappeared.

Instead, it was night. The air was chilly. Above him was a wheeling blush of stars, partially obscured by rising clouds of steam. He looked down, and saw that he was chest deep in roiling, black water. The white foam rose and burst and rose again, churning like a witch's cauldron.

He knew instantly where he was. This was a memory he had cherished for more than a decade. He was back in the hot tub in Park City—the one where he and Keith had first kissed...

I can't panic. This can't be real...

"The Wanderer lies," Billy had said. And truly, this was a lie. Nothing about the scene even seemed real. The colors seemed muted and strange. The steam was rising as if it was painted on a silk curtain before him, rather than swirling from the waters. And sitting across from him, he could see the vague outlines of not one, but two men. Was it Keith and his jilted date from that evening?

As the steam cleared, and the moonlight washed over the scene, Richard could see that he was half right. One of the two was definitely Keith. His lover was young again, looking exactly the way he had when they met a decade ago. But he wasn't naked in the hot tub. He was dressed in his new suit coat, a pressed blue shirt, and a red striped tie, which floated lazily on the foam.

The man next to him was naked. But it was not his jilted date from that weekend.

Richard wasn't sure he'd ever seen a man so old. And certainly, he'd never seen one so old, who was also naked. The flesh on the man looked like wax that had partially melted and then solidified in folds of gray, spotted with flecks of brown and streaked with yellow. The man's face was pitted and cracked, like a lump of clay left out in the desert. And his long white hair, now wet and plastered tight to his bony skull, hung down in stringy clumps over his knobby shoulders.