An armed, violent man escapes jail and flees police in Talon County, Maine, where a widespread chase stretches from Bangor to Portland. A torrential rainstorm hits the coast of Maine in a fury of blackouts as police canvas the area for Brad Rayon, who terrorizes a small community, killing anybody who gets in his way.
Several break-ins, thefts, and arsons are reported in the area, but for Ash and his boyfriend Wally, it is a series of personal threats that heightens to life-threatening attacks. With Wally at work, Ash is alone when he hears the first of many strange noises outside his house. It starts with crank calls, a heavily obscured voice calling out his name on the other end. There are knocks at the front door. He hears footsteps in the house, somebody walking around, and a large shadow filling the corner of a room.
Ash’s past is riddled with abuse and violence, and he struggles to understand what’s real and imagined. Will Ash be the fugitive’s next victim, or is the ongoing trail of dead bodies a figment of Ash’s troubled imagination?
I shake off the tingling heat crawling into my body. I walk around to the front of the couch and sit, inhaling and exhaling, slowly, methodically, until Wally breaks the spell and cuts into my musings with a concerned urgency, the fear in his voice palpable. “Are you in danger?”
“No. I’m worried the electrically might go out, though.”
“There are flashlights and candles in the middle drawer of the dining room cabinet.”
I walk into the unlit dining room. I flip on the ceiling light from the switch nearby. I stare into the ninety-foot square-inch room, glancing at the back wall, following Wally’s instructions. The cherrywood hutch is a massive hulk of wood standing in the corner, housing Wally’s mother’s stoneware dinner plates and water glasses. A stack of Wally’s hardback cookbooks sits on a wooden shelf on the opposite wall.
Below the cabinet is a deep middle drawer cluttered with years of miscellaneous objects: bottles of glue, masking tape, batteries, flashlights, and battery-operated candles.
“We’ve never had a reason to use them,” Wally says. “But we’re well stocked in case of emergencies.”
“It’s reassuring,” I say, turning off the light and heading down the long, shadowy hallway to the living room.
“You still sound frightened,” Wally says. “Look, if the power goes out, I’ll be home in a jiffy. I promise.”
“I know. I’m just a scaredy-cat.”
He is quiet, but I can hear the agitated pattern of his breathing. He says, “You don’t sound sure.”
“I’m fine,” I say. “I am. Nothing’s going to happen.”
Nothing’s going to happen.
These are the exact, unsettling words I promised my younger self when my Christopher banged my bedroom door down to get inside.
“There’s nothing to worry about,” I say.
A hush settles over the phone. When Wally returns on the line thirty seconds later, his concerns accost me like Christopher’s surprised sucker punch. “You sound as scared as I feel.”
“Don’t be. I’m not. It’s moments like these that remind me of my childhood. Hiding under my blankets from the Big Bad Wolf.”
“More reason for me to come home.”
“No need.”
“Ash, your voice. It’s scaring me.”
I part the frilly white lace curtain and stare out rain-streaked windows onto the backyard. I glimpse the silhouette of the half-shrouded tool shed standing twenty feet from the back steps. The dead vestiges of our small summer vegetable garden lie dormant like a final resting place.
Wind hammers the set of pine trees by the house, and they shake back and forth as if dancing in the dark.
“I’m going to take your word that you’re okay,” Wally says. “But if anything changes, and you start feeling strange, or the power goes out, I’ll be there in a flash.”
“Knowing that you’re there, I feel better.”
“Promise me you’ll call if you need me?”
“I promise.”
“I mean it, babes. I don’t want you to feel alone.”
“I’m not.”
“I’m taking your word for it.” Static crackles over our voices. “I’m a phone call away.”
