Relentless

Uncle Ewen’s new house, so I am not lost. Strangely, however, I feel I am somewhere I do not belong, and I feel alone.
    Deciding to call home, I pick up the phone. No dial tone.
    I am not afraid. I am calm. I go to Uncle Ewen and Aunt Nora’s bedroom. I try their phone, but it does not work, either.
    Descending the stairs, I am overcome by an expectation of a big discovery, whether good or bad I do not know, but something
huge
. I hesitate on the landing, but then continue to descend.
    The house is as silent as a soundless dream. Never before in the waking world have I encountered such stillness.
    When I try the phone in the living room, it proves to be out of order, like the others.
    Standing before the grandfather clock, I decide the monkey is not time, as Uncle Ewen said. Instead, the monkey is stealing time.
    Previously, the creature’s face was impish, its expression playful. Now it is a monkey from a different jungle. It seems to sneer, and in its eyes I see a threat that I cannot name.
    Backing away from the clock, I think I hear a woman laughing in the dining room. Indeed, this is my mother’s contagious laughter, but for once it does not inspire as much as a smile from me.
    In the dining room, I do not hear the laughter anymore, and there is no phone to try.
    The brass griffins still fly in the fireplace, but the logs they carried on their backs are ashes now, and embers.
    Silence settles once more, and I am unable to hear the hinges on the swinging door or even my footsteps as I go into the kitchen.
    The telephone on the wall beside the refrigerator is as useless as the previous three.
    At a kitchen window, I stare into the moonlit night. No one is in the backyard, either.
    They have all gone away.
    I wander through the house, downstairs and upstairs, and down again, feeling lost and alone. Twice, I think I hear footsteps in the distance, but when I stand quite still and listen, I hear nothing.
    Eventually, I am in Uncle Ewen’s study for the third or fourth time. Previously, I did not notice the telephone.
    Putting the receiver to my ear, I am surprised by a dial tone.
    As I will later learn, the phone-service cable was cut outside the house. But in the interest of business security, because of his sensitive financial discussions conducted by phone, my uncle Ewen required an entirely separate, dedicated private line to serve his study, and that one was overlooked.
    Using the keypad, I enter 1 plus the ten digits of our home number that I have memorized. It rings until the answering machine picks up. I hear Mother’s recorded voice.
    Following the beep, I can think of no message to leave. Although I have said nothing else, I say “Good-bye” before I hang up.
    After further thought, I dial 911.
    When the sheriffs-department operator answers, I say, “They all went away, and I’m alone here.”
    In response to her questions, I tell her my name, that I am six years old, that I am at Ewen Durant’s house, and that I have been alone since before eight o’clock the previous evening.
    According to Ewen’s desk clock, it is now 4:32 in the morning.
    Also on the desk is a framed photo of Aunt Nora, Cousin Colleen.
    “I slept some, like two hours,” I tell the operator, “but since before midnight, I been looking, nobody’s here. I didn’t take off my shoes before getting on Colleen’s bed, so I’m probably in trouble.”
    She asks me if I know where they have gone, and I say no, and she tells me a deputy will come to help me, and I say thank you, and she says not to be afraid, and I say I am not afraid, just alone.
    Leaving the house through the front door, I am surprised to see all the cars along the driveway. It leads down to the state highway, and a dozen vehicles stand one behind the other on the shoulder.
    The night is mild and full of stars, with a smell of mown grass.
    I watch moths gliding under the soft light in the porch ceiling, where one of the two bulbs is burned out. They make no sound.
    I sit on the top porch step to wait.
    I hear the approaching engine before I see the sheriffs-department cruiser far down on the highway. No siren, no flashing lights. It slows, turns onto the driveway, and comes to the head of the line of parked vehicles.
    The deputy who gets out of the cruiser reminds me of the tall motorcycle cop on that TV show,
CHiPS
, and I know he will help me as soon as I see him.
    I stand up as he approaches, and he says, “You must be Cubby,” and I say, “Yes,