At 8

1979


I’m alone in the dark, sitting on the couch watching ‘Salem’s Lot, and I’ve never been more scared. On television, a vampire boy floats in the mist outside of another boy’s window, the vampire begging to be invited in. It’s rare to see kids die or turn evil in a movie. Usually, children are safe from the horrors. The young, evil vampire boy in the movie unsettles me. He’s been turned. Been corrupted. Ruined. Maybe children can be hurt after all. Maybe kids aren’t invincible like I had previously thought. I’d always assumed the only harm that would ever come my way would be self-inflicted, because I’m an uncoordinated klutz, but now I see things differently. I never considered the outside forces. The evil out there. Floating in the mist. Evil that sometimes looks human. Fools you. "Don’t let him in," I whisper, as the human boy stares out at the vampire boy. I can’t look. I know the worst will happen. It’s the first time in my life that I’ve thought about death. My possible, inevitable death. The first time I’ve thought Wow, I could die! A person, or a monster, could kill me.

I wish I hadn’t watched this movie alone. Wish my mother hadn’t been asked at the last minute to work a double shift at The White Tower (her tiny square box of a fast food restaurant, maximum capacity: 10), cooking and serving burgers and fries for meager tips. Wish William wasn’t spending the night with Grandma Shirley, because even though he’s only a year and a half old it’d be nice to have some company. Wish William’s father wasn’t at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. Wish Ron and Dave weren’t partying in the woods with the town’s other teenage delinquents. Wish Sheri wasn’t spending the night across the street with her best friend Traci. Hell, I even wish my dad wasn’t off doing whatever the fuck it is that he does nowadays; it’s been more than three years since he last bothered to stop by, call, drop off a Christmas present, write a letter, or just let me know he’s still alive; it sucks having a father who doesn’t care about you (and I know he doesn’t care, because if he did he’d at least send the ten dollars a week a judge told him he had to pay for child support, because of how his sperm made me and all), especially at a time like this, when I’m positive that some form of evil is about to get me. I have no one to protect me from all the wickedness in the world. All the evil in New Jersey. I’m just a kid and someone should be here to protect me.

I wish Mom still treated me like a kid. Wish she didn’t think of me so highly. She tells me how mature I am. How she knows I’ll be fine by myself. Knows I won’t get caught up in any shenanigans. And I usually am fine alone or baby-sitting William. Because I’m responsible. I don’t act like a child. I’m a good kid. I never cause my mother any trouble. I’m "the good one." I’m also, at the moment, a kid who’s heart is pounding so hard it seems ready to burst. A kid who’s scared to death. I’ve got the chills, the hair on my arms standing on end, and a feeling that there’s something outside, or maybe inside, that is going to get me. I have a feeling that I am not alone. It feels like someone is watching, and I know it’s impossible to "feel" a person’s gaze, but I do. I feel it all over me. Feel it more strongly than I feel the bitter chill creeping in from outside, because we can’t afford to use the heat very often. Because we are poor. Not starving poor, but really cold in the winter poor.

I take a moment to breathe, slowly inhale and exhale, to try to relax. Maybe I’m just being silly. What are the odds that there are vampires outside? Pretty slim. And I certainly wouldn’t let any bloodsuckers inside. They need permission to come in and suck your blood, and I’m smarter than that. If it’s zombies, I’m sure I could outrun and outsmart them. Could be ghosts, but maybe they’re friendly. Maybe they just want to say hello. Could be Satan, which would be bad because I don’t want to be possessed by the Devil; also, I don’t know any priests, and my family only goes to church on holidays, so the Catholic Church would probably let Satan go right on possessing me; they’d say something like, "Serves you right, sinner." Odds are, if I’m going to be murdered, it’ll be by a random disturbed killer who peeked in the window and noticed that I’m all alone. Shit, now I’m really scared. I’ve convinced myself that there’s a killer outside, probably holding a bloody axe, probably smiling, salivating at the golden opportunity he’s been afforded: eight-year-old boy, home alone. Oh yeah, I’m a goner. Suspicious noises emanate from all directions. I’ve nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. I am so dead. Softly, almost inaudibly, I whisper, "Please, God, just let me make it through tonight and I’ll be good for now on."

I’ve bitten off my fingernails. Bitten so far down I’ve drawn blood. My blood is a bit salty today. Must be all the fries I ate at lunch. The weird noises intensify. Sounds like footsteps upstairs. A scratching at the window. A loud creaking in the kitchen. Branches cracking in the backyard. I’m curled into a tight ball. Afraid to move. Wide eyes darting in every direction. I want someone to come home. Anyone. Before the unseen evil has its way with me. Before the axe cracks my skull open and the killer watches my liquified brains leak out. Killers like that sort of gross stuff. That’s why they kill. To see people’s brains leak out all over the floor.

Goddam it, Ervin! Stop thinking these bad thoughts. You’ll be okay. Nothing to worry about. No one is outside. Except that guy with the axe. Shut up!

I must turn on the light. In order to do that, I need to stand up and walk to the switch on the wall. I take a deep, quiet breath. Then I stand.

I hear breathing. Someone else’s breathing. In the room. I am not alone.

Then a voice, male, a raspy whisper:

"Ervin...I see you...Ervin..."

I run towards the front door. In a panic. My feet heavy like bricks. Hard to breathe. I’m about to scream when someone (something) jumps out from behind the couch and tackles me. My knees and elbows smack the hardwood floor, and I know that I am bleeding. Whatever is on top of me is twice my size. And damp. And stinky. I open my mouth to cry out for help, to scream bloody murder, but I’m so scared that I can’t even speak. Like that dream I always have where an intruder has broken into my house but I can’t yell or move because I’m paralyzed with fear. Just like that, but real. Instead of a scream, I release only a whimper. A dirty sock is shoved into my open mouth.

I know that dirty sock. I get a few just like it every Christmas.

Dave. Fucking Dave.

"Ha! I scared the shit out of you! That was so funny. Man, you should’ve seen your face." He climbs off of me, helps me up.

"That wasn’t funny," I say. "I was watching a scary movie and I was all, like, nervous. It wasn’t you that scared me. It was the movie. But you still shouldn’t have done it."

"Ah, right, sure. Don’t be such a pussy. It was a joke. And don’t tell Mom, all right? Don’t be a tattletale or else nobody will like you. Ever."

"I’m bleeding," I say, glancing down at my dirty, bloody knees.

"Shit. Sorry," he says. "I didn’t mean for that to happen."

"It’s okay. Doesn’t really hurt."

"Man, you were so scared. It was priceless."

"I wasn’t that scared."

He smiles. Gives my head a friendly pat. "You forgive me, right? I was only playing. Come on, little brother. You know I wasn’t being mean about it. Right?"

"Sure," I say. "Just don’t tell anyone I was scared."

Dave nods, shakes me hand. "Deal. So we’re cool?"

"We’re cool." My heart is still thumping, but I manage a smile. Dave was just playing a joke on me. No big deal. That’s what brothers do. We’re technically only half-brothers, but that doesn’t really matter. I wish Dave would spend more time with me, but he’s always too busy. Mostly, he seems like a stranger. Someday we’ll be close, I think. Someday, we’ll be best friends. When I’m old enough to party with him in the woods and drink beers and score with chicks. Then we’ll be inseparable.

Dave drops to his knees and says, "Climb on my shoulders and I’ll take you up to the bathroom so we can clean you cuts."

I’m hesitant. Traveling up the stairs on Dave’s shoulders does not sound like fun. It seems dangerous. Dave is a little (a lot?) drunk, a little stoned, and the steps that lead upstairs are steep, cracked, and uneven. Like the rest of the house, the stairs are in desperate need of repairs.

"Just get on," he says. "Don’t be so scared all the time. It’s no way to go through life. We gotta toughen you up. Make a man outta you. Unless you want to be a girl or something."

I take a deep breath, then climb onto his shoulders. He stands up, his fingers wrapped tightly around my ankles. I lock my arms together around his neck. Then we rise. Dave takes a wobbly first step, then another.

"Be careful, Dave. This is dangerous."

"Nah, we’re fine."

We’re halfway up the steps when Dave starts to lose his balance, and I can’t tell if he’s honestly about to fall backward and kill us both or if he’s just messing with my head. Dave is sweating, and it’s hard for me to get a good grip on him. I’m holding onto his neck with all my might, and he coughs because I’m cutting off his oxygen. He lifts one foot off the creaky wood, wobbles, sways backwards.

"Oh shit, Erv! We’re gonna fall!"

"No, Dave, stop! Let me down! Let me down! Please let me down!" Now I’m really crying. Tears dripping off my face. My cheeks burning.

"Shit! Shit! We’re not gonna make it!"

My nails dig into his skin. "Dave! Stop!"

I look over my shoulder, the bottom of the stairs far away, enough of a fall to break my neck. I’m holding onto Dave as if my life depends on it. As if we’re dangling from the top of a tall building. As if we’re adventurers holding on for dear life to the side of an active volcano as orange lava bubbles and pops below us. Me and my brother are about to fall down the steps, and we’re probably going to die.

Another voice. My other brother. "Dave, stop fucking around and let him down. You’re making him cry," my oldest brother, Ron, says. "Stop being an asshole."

Dave grabs the railing and regains his balance. "I was just having a little fun with him." He lowers himself and I climb off of Dave and run to the top of the stairs. "We were just having fun, right, Erv?"

I wipe away my tears and, sobbing, say, "No, I wasn’t having any fun."

"Just leave the kid alone," Ron says.

"Fuck you, Ron," Dave says. "Mind your business."

Oh, no. Not this. Not again.

Ron is taller than Dave, but Dave is a little stronger. Ron fights dirty, so that evens things out. What Ron lacks in sheer power, he makes up for with random objects in the room that he turns into weapons—a lamp, a glass, a chair. Ron’s sporting a mustache lately, Dave a white boy Afro. They’re both drunk and high, and in a few seconds will probably try to kill each other.

"What did you fucking say?" Ron says, standing at the bottom of the stairs, shouting up at Dave.

"I said your momma wears combat boots." Dave laughs like a maniac, knowing his laughter will piss Ron off ever further.

"Just shut up, Dave!"

"I said your girlfriend sucks a mean cock."

"Seriously, man, shut up."

"Fuckin’ make me, Smoky. Or are you the Bandit? I always get confused."

Ron shakes his head. "You’re an asshole."

"Hey, Erv, what do you think about Burt Reynolds' mustache over there?"

I shrug. Keep quiet.

Ron is fuming, seeing red. "Say one more word."

"Breaker-one-niner. This is Smoky the Mustache Man."

Dave doesn’t make a lot of sense, but he is a funny bastard. He certainly thinks so.

Ron reaches, grabs a shoe, then throws it at Dave’s head. Dave loses his smile and jumps on Ron. Then they proceed to beat the hell out of each other. I run to the closet in my bedroom. I close the door and hide in the dark. Cover my ears. Still, I hear the screaming, the cursing, the smashing of glass. I start to cry. It sounds like a madman has broken into my house and begun torturing my family. But it’s not a madman. It’s my brothers. And it doesn’t even matter who wins the fight, because the only real loser is my mother. She’ll come home to broken windows and a few more holes in the walls. To two bruised and bloody children.

I just want it to stop. And it does, after about twenty minutes of fighting, Ron and Dave go silent. All I hear is their heavy breathing. I won’t come out of the closet until my mother comes home. Because there are monsters out there. They just happen to be related to me. I’m a child and I used to think that they wouldn’t hurt me. But now I’m scared. Now I know I can be hurt. I can bleed. My youth will not save me.

"You in there, Erv?" Dave asks, tapping on the closet door.

I don’t answer.

"Come on. Just let me in. Everything’s okay out here now. Please let me in."

A voice in my head says Don't let him in. Don't ever let him in.

I listen.