American Elsewhere - By Robert Jackson Bennett Page 0,124

farting; yet then, much later, they awoke to hear a voice in the room, murmuring softly in a language they could not understand or mimic, and at first they thought they had been Visited, and were terrified, before realizing the voice was coming through the baby monitor.

Gracie has never gotten her parents to admit what they did once they heard this voice. They will not tell her what actions they took when they realized their child was no longer alone in her room, that a stranger had come into their home and was standing over her and mumbling to himself in a low, awe-filled voice. Once her mother suggested, but did not explicitly say, that they went to look, and found the room empty except for Gracie; but her father has never corroborated this, and deep in her heart Gracie is convinced her parents did not do anything at all: she is sure they cowered in their bed in the dark, afraid to provoke those who secretly maintain Wink from basements and crawl spaces and attics and dark playgrounds.

She realizes, of course, that she is quite lucky that it was he who visited her, and not one of the others. And to this day he still likes to visit her in her room, and watch her sleep. She almost finds it comforting now.

The courtship, if it could be called such a thing, was both long and erratic. There would be a shifting of sand in a park sandbox, stirring under an invisible touch; or perhaps the sound of tall grasses being parted in a nearby field, as if some huge watcher was gingerly making its way near her; or small brass trinkets would appear on her windowsill, ones of a very exotic and peculiar make. And little Gracie would tell everyone that she had an invisible friend whom she went walking with in the woods, except he wasn’t really invisible, because, after all, she could see him plain as day, and she had never seen anyone like him before, with a face like that, and so tall…

Even at that young age, Gracie noticed people turning away when she discussed her friend. They did not want to hear it. They did not want to know, to really know, what went on in their town. Eventually she learned to hold her tongue, but by then everyone knew who was visiting her, and she was permanently marked, and soon feared.

Now, standing in the diner, Gracie scribbles down another order for Chloe’s banana bourbon pie (a town favorite). She works here because she likes how the people ignore her, and how Chloe doesn’t care who she is; but that does not mean that she loves working for these people. Because over the past year Gracie has come to realize that there is a bright, vicious little coal of hate smoldering in her stomach, and it is a hate for these people, her neighbors and family and friends, all of whom are so happy to go on believing horrific, monstrous lies, all so they might claim a semblance of normality and peace. They have traded the happiness and well-being of their families, even themselves, all so they can have this quiet cup of coffee here, and their little white house, and a well-watered lawn, and a nice, gleaming car of their own.

It is not their own. Gracie knows that now. They do not own anything in Wink—their residence is only permitted. What control they think they have is all illusion. At any time one of Them could come walking into their houses, and they could do nothing about it.

Just like her. Just the way it happened to her.

She slashes at her order book with the pencil. Flakes of graphite trickle down the page.

God damn these silly people. Gracie doesn’t care anymore. There’s nothing to care about. She can’t even summon the strength anymore.

Then she stops writing, looks up. Her eyes grow wide, and she almost gasps out loud.

“Something wrong, hon?” asks one of her customers.

“Oh, no,” says Gracie. “No, no. I’m sorry. Please go on.”

Yet there is something wrong: she feels a coldness in her stomach, near her loins. It is as if she’s been penetrated by an icicle, and its chilled water is pooling in her abdomen. Her smile tautens, and she dutifully takes down the remainder of her customer’s order before she wobbles to the back and leans against a wall.

Not here, not now. She doesn’t need this here.

Though the patrons of Chloe’s