Chapter Eleven #2
The guy who approached us was a tall, muscular man in his late twenties. His dark hair was buzzed short, revealing a prominent forehead and a chiseled jawline that seemed set in a perpetual scowl.
"We’re his friends," Mitchell stepped in, his tone brooking no argument. "We’re taking him home."
"Ain’t seen you around," the guy said.
I swallowed, noticing a few more men sizing us up from different sides of the bar. We may have stepped into something we didn’t expect.
Mitchell, still holding Duane up, spoke.
"Listen, man, we’re not here to stir trouble.
She’s Duane’s old friend," he gestured toward me, "and we’ve just come to visit, but didn’t expect him to be like this.
If you want to take care of him, fine. It’s not like he cares who puts him to bed right now. "
The guy chuckled but stepped aside, seeming to relent. But when I glanced over my shoulder, he was still watching—calmly, from under his brows, like a predator biding its time.
We helped Duane, who was barely able to move his legs, out of the bar and into my car. I wasn’t sure if he had driven there, but he definitely wasn’t in any shape to drive back. He would have to retrieve his car later when he sobered up.
Nick drove while I tried to keep Duane upright, but he hung in the seatbelt like someone slumped after a car crash.
He was completely out, mouth open, head lolling with every turn we took.
I didn’t want to touch him, but I kept one hand near his head, trying to steady it, half amazed he hadn’t snapped his neck yet.
Duane didn’t have any keys on him. The bartender must’ve taken them.
Luckily for us, the side door to his house was unlocked.
We stepped into a dingy, outdated kitchen that reeked of stale grease, rotting food, and a faint undercurrent of mildew.
Flies buzzed thick in the air, landing on sticky countertops and crusted-over dishes stacked in the sink.
The dusty blinds were pulled shut, dimming the already dreary room.
We moved through the clutter, our feet bumping into empty bottles, sending them across the floor like billiard balls scattering after a break.
We brought Duane into what must have once been the living room, dominated by a sagging brown couch so dulled with grime it was impossible to tell its original color.
The carpet beneath our feet was a chaotic patchwork of stains, burns, and unidentifiable blotches.
An old, bulky TV in a worn wooden stand supported a newer, sleek model, its screen dark and lifeless.
Papers were scattered everywhere, but the worst part was the state of the walls.
Strange symbols were scrawled across the paint in a shaky ballpoint pen.
Whether he had been dabbling in some bizarre occult stuff or simply losing his grip on reality, I couldn’t say.
Above the TV, a stag skull hung crookedly. Its hollow eye sockets seemed to stare straight through us. I shuddered. In the dim light, it looked disturbingly alive.
We eased Duane down onto the couch. His eyes were already fluttering shut as he slumped into the filthy cushions.
"Duane?" I called softly, taking a step forward.
He didn’t even twitch. I shook his shoulder, but there was no response.
"Is he alive?" June asked.
I gestured weakly toward his chest, where the faint rise and fall of his breathing was the only sign of life.
"Should we leave him be?" I asked, feeling frustrated. "I have no idea how to talk to him right now."
June let out a dismissive snort and stalked out of the room. Mitchell approached Duane and gave him a firm shake, commanding, "Wake up! Rise and shine, Duane!"
The guy mumbled something incoherent, his hand flailing weakly as he tried to swat Mitchell away like an annoying fly.
"Move," June said from behind, and Mitchell barely had time to jump away before she threw a whole bucket of water over him.
"What the fuck!" Duane jolted upright, water dripping from his hair and clothes. Then his hand darted under the couch and retrieved a pistol.
Mitch immediately tucked June behind his back. Nick pulled me by the arm toward the door.
Duane held the weapon shakily, sweeping it from one person to another, his gaze wild. "Who the fuck are you?"
Worried, Mitchell looked around. The neighboring houses were quite close, and we didn’t want anyone to call the police.
"Here we go again," June rolled her eyes, unimpressed and seemingly not even spooked by the firearm.
"Duane, we met at the bar, remember? I’m Nellie, Lucas’s girlfriend." I was gripping the doorframe now, ready to dive into the kitchen.
"Lucas?" he repeated, his voice groggy.
"Lucas Whitman, your friend?"
"So?"
Mitchell stepped forward, palms splayed in a calming gesture. "Hey, hey, we’re friends. Lucas is missing, and so is my sister. We’re looking for them. We want to help."
Duane finally lowered the piece and leaned over to grab another bottle of Jim Beam from somewhere behind the couch. It still had some liquor at the bottom. He finished it and threw the bottle on the floor.
"Help," he repeated with a laugh. Then bitterly to himself, "They think they can help."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean you’re so dumb," his voice slurred. "Lucas’s gone."
"Gone where?" Mitchell leaned in and took Duane’s shoulder.
Duane twitched, flickering fear or an unpleasant memory crossing his face. "A scary place."
"What scary place? Do you know what could have happened to him?"
Duane suddenly covered his eyes with his palms and started sobbing like a child. "I don’t know, I don’t know anything! Get away from me! Don’t touch me!"
Mitchell seized the opportunity, using Duane’s confusion to carefully remove the firearm from his lap. He passed it to Nick, who immediately stepped away, taking the weapon out of harm’s reach.
"Duane, you’re not in danger. Everything is fine. You’re safe."
The alcohol he’d consumed that morning finally caught up with him, and his body began to revolt. He lurched forward, vomiting onto the carpet with a miserable groan. June kicked the empty bucket she’d brought the water in towards him, but Duane ignored it, too far gone.
I looked helplessly at Mitchell. He waved us off. As we turned to leave, Duane suddenly croaked from the couch, "I told him it was a bad idea, I told him not to go..."
"Go where?"
Duane’s head lolled to the side, his eyes closing as he muttered, "Trees with eyes..."
"What trees with eyes?" I asked, but he was already out cold.
"Duane! Duane?" I shook his shoulder, trying to rouse him, but there was no response, just the stench of his vomit on the carpet.
"Leave him be." Nick touched my elbow and motioned for us to follow him out. "We’ll talk to him when he’s sober."