hallucination — for a moment I thought that damned truck really was in his door-yard, big and hulking with its red paint and its rotten stake sides. I went for the brake pedal, but before my foot ever came down on it I blinked and the illusion was gone. But I knew that Uncle Otto was dead. No trumpets, no flashing lights; just that simple
knowledge, like knowing where the furniture is in a familiar room.
I pulled into his dooryard in a hurry and got out, heading for the house without bothering to get the
groceries.
The door was open — he never locked it. I asked him about that once and he explained to me, patiently, the
way you would explain a patently obvious fact to a simpleton, that locking the door would not keep the Cresswell out.
He was lying on his bed, which was to the left of the one room — his kitchen area being to the right. He lay
there in his green pants and his thermal underwear shirt, his eyes open and glassy. I don’t believe he had been dead more than two hours. There were no flies and no smell, although it had been a brutally hot day.
“Uncle Otto?” I spoke quietly, not expecting an answer — you don’t lie on your bed with your eyes open and bugging out like that just for the hell of it. If I felt anything, it was relief. It was over.
“Uncle Otto?” I approached him. “Uncle — ”
I stopped, seeing for the first time how strangely misshapen his lower face looked — how swelled and
twisted. Seeing for the first time how his eyes were not just staring but actually glaring from their sockets. But they were not looking toward the doorway or at the ceiling. They were twisted toward the little window above his bed.
I woke up last night around three and there it was, right outside my window, Quentin. It almost got me.
Squot him like a pumpkin, I heard one of the barbershop sages saying as I sat pretending to read a Life magazine and smelling the aromas of Vitalis and Wildroot Creme Oil.
Almost got me, Quentin.
There was a smell in here — not barbershop, and not just the stink of a dirty old man.
It smelled oily, like a garage.
“Uncle Otto?” I whispered, and as I walked toward the bed where he lay I seemed to feel myself shrinking, not just in size but in years… becoming twenty again, fifteen, ten, eight, six… and finally five. I saw my trembling small hand stretch out toward his swelled face. As my hand touched him, cupping his face, I looked up, and the
window was filled with the glaring windshield of the Cresswell — and although it was only for a moment, I would
swear on a Bible that was no hallucination. The Cresswell was there, in the window, less than six feet from me.
I had placed my fingers on one of Uncle Otto’s cheeks, my thumb on the other, wanting to investigate that
strange swelling, I suppose. When I first saw the truck in the window, my hand tried to tighten into a fist, forgetting that it was cupped loosely around the corpse’s lower face.
In that instant the truck disappeared from the window like smoke — or like the ghost I suppose it was. In the
same instant I heard an awful squirting noise. Hot liquid filled my hand. I looked down, feeling not just yielding flesh and wetness but something hard and angled. I looked down, and saw, and that was when I began to scream.
Oil was pouring out of Uncle Otto’s mouth and nose. Oil was leaking from the corners of his eyes like tears.
Diamond Gem Oil — the recycled stuff you can buy in a five-gallon plastic container, the stuff McCutcheon had
always run in the Cresswell.
But it wasn’t just oil; there was something sticking out of his mouth.
I kept screaming but for a while I was unable to move, unable to take my oily hand from his face, unable to
take my eyes from that big greasy thing sticking out of his mouth — the thing that had so distorted the shape of his face.