The Caretaker

The trail of muddy footprints led off the front stoop, tracked across the gravel driveway, and disappeared into the darkened woods. David Carnswel had no choice but to follow.

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He didn’t want to, that much went without saying. He wanted to shut the door, lock the dead bolts, crawl back into bed with his wife of four decades, and doze off to sleep like he’d never heard those three hollow knocks to begin with. But what David wanted held no weight. David needed to follow those footprints—nothing less than the survival of humanity was at stake.

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Careful not to make a sound, he stepped back into his foyer. He pulled on a pair of gum boots and an olive-green rain poncho. He wore nightclothes underneath—sweatpants and a short-sleeve tee—suboptimal attire for the weather. But he couldn’t risk rummaging around up in the bedroom for a change of clothes, it might wake his wife. And if Grace woke, she would start asking her questions:

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What are you doing up so late?

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Was somebody knocking at the door again?

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And the one that really got under his skin: Are you sure you’re feeling okay?

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Grace had long suspected David was losing it, that maybe he was in the not-so-early stages of dementia. David had suspected as much himself when the visions first struck. He’d been standing in line at Costco, shopping cart filled to the brim, when a vicious migraine thwacked into his skull like an axe into a cut of dry wood. He’d buckled over, gripping the cart for balance. A flood of nightmare imagery followed, so vivid he could almost hear it, see it playing out on the glossy concrete floors. Hallucinatory aberrations showing precisely what would happen if he failed to return home immediately. Imagery far worse than the darkest depictions of hell. He dry-heaved twice, abandoned his cart, and shoved his way through the crowds. Get home. Now.