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Hauntings

Copyright©2013byEllenDatlow

Thisisaworkofcollectedfiction.All events portrayed in this bookare fictitious andany resemblanceto real people or events is purelycoincidental. All rights reserved,including the right to reproducethisbookorportionsthereofinanyform without the expresspermission of the editors and thepublisher.

Introduction © 2013 by EllenDatlowPages 421–422 constitute anextensionofthiscopyrightpage.

Interior and cover design byElizabethStoryCover art “Voice of Shades” ©2010byValentinaBrostean

AuthorphotobyGregoryFrost

TachyonPublications145918thStreet#139SanFrancisco,CA94107(415)285-5615

www.tachyonpublications.comtachyon@tachyonpublications.com

SeriesEditor:JacobWeismanProjectEditor:JillRoberts

Book ISBN13: 978-1-61696-088-9

Book printed in the United StatesofAmericabyWorzallaFirstEdition:2013

ContentsIntroductionEllenDatlow

Eenie,Meenie,IpsateeniePatCadigan

Hunger:AConfessionDaleBailey

Cargo

E.MichaelLewis

DeltaSlyHoneyLuciusShepard

NothingWillHurtYouDavidMorrell

TheAmmoniteViolin(MurderBalladNo.4)CaitlínR.Kiernan

HauntedJoyceCarolOates

TheHave-NotsElizabethHand

ClosingTimeNeilGaiman

AnnaF.PaulWilson

Mr.FiddleheadJonathanCarroll

TheFoolyTerryDowling

TheTollPaulWalther

ThePennineTowerRestaurantSimonKurtUnsworth

DistressCallConnieWillis

TheHornStephenGallagher

EverybodyGoes

MichaelMarshallSmith

TransfiguredNightRichardBowes

HulaVilleJamesP.Blaylock

TheBedroomLightJeffreyFord

SpectralEvidenceGemmaFiles

TwoHouses

KellyLink

WhereAngelsComeInAdamL.G.Nevill

Hunger,AnIntroductionPeterStraub

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks toE.MichaelLewis,Jenny Blackford, AnnaTambour,AdamGolaski,andother friends on the web fortheir suggestions, whether Iusedthemornot.

Thank you, VeronicaSchanoes, for your gracioushelp with the introduction.

AndabigthankyoutoJacobWeisman and Jill Roberts ofTachyonPublications.

Last but not least, inaddition to thanking StefanDziemianowicz, whoselibrary is vast and whosupplied all the necessaryphotocopies, I would like todedicateHauntings toStefan,andthelibraryinhishead.

IntroductionELLENDATLOW

Death anddyinghaunts us.

We are obsessed with thequestion of what happensafter death, whether we canleave a part of ourselves in

this world, the only one weknowwell. This obsession ismanifested in the popularityof ghosts and hauntings infiction over the centuriesfrom Homer, WilliamShakespeare, Oscar Wilde,Henry James, WilliamFaulkner,andEdithWharton,through Shirley Jackson andRobert Aickman, and up tocontemporarywriters suchasPeter Straub, Joyce Carol

Oates, David Morrell, KellyLink, and the twenty othercontributors to this volume.Despite the barrenness ofdeath, the genre of the ghoststory is fertile withpossibility, blooming withlife.Ghosts are not like the

otherrevenantsthathauntourimaginations. Unlikezombies, vampires, andwerewolves, the ghost can

almost never be foughtphysically. They seek thesociety of the living, but nottoconsumeus, likevampiresand zombies, or to walkamong us unsuspected, likewerewolves, but tocommunicate with us, tobring the past into thepresent.Ghosts are persistentmemories, refusing to let usforget the people and thingsthatwehadthoughtgone,the

peopleand thingswhose losshadgrievedus,andespeciallythe people and things whoselosshadbroughtusrelief.Ghostshaunt,andsodowe

—howmanyofushave“oldhaunts” we can rememberwith nostalgia and perhapsalsoabitofdistress?Andofcourse that is because ghostsareus. Becoming a vampire,a zombie, a werewolf, theseare all fates that are inflicted

from something outside us,outside our own lives. Butghostsstaywithusbecauseofsomething in their own lives—a need for familiarcomforts, a desire forrevenge,apowerfullove.Theemotions that drive us alsocreateghosts.While the desire for

revenge is one of the mostpersistent motives for ahaunting, it is perhaps love

that is themostpoignant, forthe very notion of ghosts isone way of expressing thefantasythatthosewelovearenot really dead, that we canstill communicate with andcare for them just as we didwhen they were alive, andthattheycanstillcareforus,as well. Ghosts in thisanthology are parents hopingto protect their children, arewitnesses or perpetrators of

terrible events hoping tomakeupfortheirmisdeeds.As I put together this

anthology, I noticed againandagainhowsomanyofthestories involve children.These come in severalvarieties: a memory of achildhood experience oftrauma, a story of adangerousorcruelchild,orastory in which a terrible fatebefalls a child. Why might

this be? There are severalpossibilities. First of all,children are deeplyvulnerable, and so oftenexperience an intensity ofemotion—particularly fear—thatgreaterexperienceof lifedulls. I have neverexperienced any terror as anadultthatcancomparetohowIfeltaboutenteringthepitch-blackroomIsharedwithmyalready-sleeping sister. Dark

is harmless...but dark wasterrifying. Second, we in thefirstworld live ina fortunateage our ancestors couldscarcely dream of, one inwhichaparentcanusuallybesure that all of his or herchildrenwilllivetogrowup.Childhood mortality hasmetamorphosedfromanever-present fear to an almostunimaginable obscenity, andwhat is horror but the

bringing to life theunimaginable? Finally wecome to the dangerous child,theevilchild,inthisvolume,the ghost child who has thepower to reach across thedivision between living anddeadandthreatenthosesheorhe has left behind. Perhapsthischildisthemanifestationof the creeping adultknowledge that given howhelplesschildrensooftenare

in thisworld, and howmuchcrueltyissoofteninflictedonthem, the powerful childreally is someone we shouldfear.Hauntingsreprintssomeof

the most disturbing andchilling tales of ghosts andother hauntings publishedbetween1983and2012.Thisis by no means a definitivesurveyofrecentghostlytales,but a sampling of different

types of hauntings, and as Ido with every theme Iaddress, I’ve chosen storiesthat will broaden ourunderstanding of what ahauntingcanbe.

Eenie,Meenie,IpsateeniePATCADIGAN

Pat Cadigan has twice won theArthur C. Clarke Award, for hernovels Synners and Fools, andbeen nominated many times forjust about every other award.

Although primarily known as ascience fictionwriter (and as oneof the original cyberpunks), shealso writes fantasy and horror,which can be found in hercollections Patterns, Dirty Work,andHomebytheSea.The authorof fifteen books, including twononfiction and one young adultnovel, she currently has two newnovelsinprogress.

ShelivesinNorthLondonwithher husband, the Original ChrisFowler,andhersonRob.

In the long, late summerafternoonsinthealleybehindthe tenement where MiloSinclair had lived, thepavement smelled baked andchildren’s voices carried allover the neighborhood. Thesky, cracked by TV aerials,wasblue, theway it never isafter you’re nine years oldand in the parking lot of LaConco D’Oro Restaurant the

garlic-rich aroma of Siciliancookingwasalwaysheavyintheair.Ithadneverbeen thatway

fortheboywalkingdownthealley besideMilo. La ConcoD’Oro didn’t exist anymore;the cool, coral-tinted interiorMilohadglimpsedwhenhe’dbeen a kid now held acountry-western bar,ludicrousinasmallindustrialNew England town. He

smiled down at the boy alittle sadly. The boy grinnedback. He was much smallerthanMilo remembered beingat the same age. He alsoremembered the world beingbigger.ThefencearoundMr.Parillo’s garden had beenseveralincheshigherthanhishead. He paused at the spotwhere the garden had been,picturing it in front of thebrown and tan Parillo house

where the irascible oldgardenerhadbeenlandlordtoeleven other families. TheParillohousewasworse thanjust gone—the city waserecting a smacking newapartment house on the spot.The new building was huge,its half-finished shellspreading over to the oldparking lot where the biggerboys had sometimes playedfootball. He looked at the

newbuildingwithdistaste. Ithadanicecleanbrickfacadeand would probably hold ahundred families inplasterboard box rooms.Several yards back up thealley,hisoldtenementstood,empty now, awaiting thewrecking ball. No doubtanother erstwhile hundred-family dwelling would risethere,too.Beside Milo, the boy was

fidgeting in an innocent,patient way. Some thingsnever changed. Kids neverheld still, never had, neverwould.They’dalwaysfumblein their pants pockets andshift their weight from onefoottotheother,justthewaythe boy was doing. Milogazed thoughtfully at the topof the white-blond head. Hisownsandyhairhaddarkenedagooddeal,thoughnewgrey

was starting to lighten itagain.Carelessly, the boy kicked

atapebble.Hissneakerlacesflailed the air. “Hey,” saidMilo. “Your shoelaces cameuntied.”The boywas unconcerned.

“Yeah,theyalwaysdo.”“You could trip on ’em,

knock your front teeth out.That wouldn’t thrill yourmom too much. Here.”Milo

crouchedononekneeinfrontof the boy. “I’ll tie ’em foryousothey’llstaytied.”The boy put one sneaker

forward obligingly, almosttouchingMilo’s shoe. It wasa white sneaker with a thickrubber toe. And Milorememberedagainhowithadbeen that last long latesummer afternoon before heand his mother had movedaway.

There in the alley behindWater Street, in Water St.Lane,whenthesunhung lowand the shadows stretchedlong, they had all put theirfeetin,makingadirtycanvasrosette,MiloandSammyandStevie, Angie, Kathy, Floraand Bonnie, for Rhonda tocountout.Rhondaalwaysdidthecountingbecauseshewasthe oldest. She tapped eachfoot with a strong index

finger, chanting the formulathat would determine whowould be IT for a game ofhide-’n-seek.

Eenie,meenie,ipsateenieGoo, gah,gahgoleenieAhchee,pahchee,Liberace

OutgoesY-O-U!

Steviepulledhisfootback.He was thin like Milo buttaller and freckled all over.Protestant. His mother wasliving with someone whowasn’thisfather.TheSiciliantongueswaggedandwagged.Steviedidn’tcare.Atleasthedidn’t have an oddball namelikeMiloandheneverhadto

getupforchurchonSunday.His black high-top sneakerswere P.F. Flyers for runningfasterandjumpinghigher.

Eenie,meenie,ipsateenie...

Nobody said anythingwhileRhondachanted.Whenshe counted you, you stayedcounted and you kept quiet.

HadRhondabeen the first tosay Let’s play hide-’n-seek?Milo didn’t know. Suddenlyall of them had beenclamoring to play, all excepthim. He hated hide-’n-seek,especially just before dark,which was when they allwanted to play most. It wasthe only time for hide-’n-seek, Rhonda always said. Itwasmorefunifitwasgettingdark. He hated it, but if you

didn’tplayyoumightaswellgohome,anditwastooearlyfor that.Besides, themovingvan was coming tomorrow.Aunt Syl would be drivinghim and his mother to theairport. He might not playanything again for months.Butwhydidtheyhavetoplayhide-’n-seek?

OutgoesY-O-U!

Kathy slid her foot out ofthe circle. Shewas never IT.She was Rhonda’s sister,almosttooyoungtoplay.Shealways cried if she lost agame. Everyone let her tagthe goal so she wouldn’t cryand go home to complainRhonda’s friends werepicking on her, bringing thewrathofhermotherdownonthem.Hermotherwouldbustup the game. Milo wished

she’ddo thatnow,appearonthe street drunk in herhousedress and slippers, theway she did sometimes, andscream Rhonda and Kathyhome. Then they’d have toplay something else. Hedidn’t likeanyof themwhenthey were playing hide-’n-seek.Somethinghappened tothemwhen theywerehiding,somethingnotverynice.Justby hiding, they became

different,inawayMilocouldnever understand orduplicate. All of them hidbetter than he could, so healwaysendedupbeingfoundlast,whichmeantthathehadto be IT. He had to go lookfor them, then; he was thehunter. But not really.Searching for them in all thedark places, the deep placeswhere they crouchedbreathing like animals,

waitingtojumpoutathim,heknew they were all thehunters and hewas the prey.It was just another way forthemtohunt him.Andwhenhe found them, when theyexploded from their hidingplaces lunging at him, allpretense of his being thehunter dropped away and heran,ranlikehellandhopeditwas fast enough, back to thegoal to tag it ahead of them.

Otherwisehe’dhavetobeITall over again and the thingshe found squatting understairs and behind fencesbecame a little worse thanbefore,alittlemorepowerful.

OutgoesY-O-U!

Sammy’s sneaker scrapedthepavementashedraggeditoutofthecircle.Sammywas

plump around the edges, thebabyfathehadcarriedallhislife melting away. He woreKeds, at war with Stevie’sP.F.Flyers to seewho couldreally run faster and jumphigher. Sammy could breakyourarm.Milodidn’twanttohave to look for him. He’dnever be able to outrunSammy. He stared atRhonda’s fuzzy brown headbent over their feet with the

intentness of a jewelercounting diamonds. He triedto will her to count him outnext. Ifhecould justmake itthrough one game withouthavingtobeIT,thenitmightbe too late to play another.They would all have to gohome when the streetlightscameon.Tomorrowhewouldleave and never have to findanyofthemagain.

OutgoesY-O-U!

Bonnie. Then Flora. Theycame and went together inwhite sneakers and blueBermuda shorts, Bonnie thefollowerandFloratheleader.Youcouldtellthatrightawayby Flora’s blue cat’s-eyeglasses. Bonnie was chubby,atealotofpasta,smelledlikesauce. Flora was wiry from

fighting with her fivebrothers. She was the onewho was always saying youcould hear Milo coming amile away because of hishousekeys.Theywerepinnedinside his pocket on a GoodLuckkeychainfromPleasureIsland,andthey jingledwhenheran.Heputhishanddowndeep in his pocket andclutched the keys in hissweatyfist.

OutgoesY-O-Me!

Rhonda was safe. Now itwasjustMiloandAngie,likea duel between them withRhonda’s finger pulling thetrigger. Angie’s dark eyesstaredoutof her pointy littleface. Shewas a thin girl, allsharp angles and sharp teeth.Her dark brown hair wascaught up in a confident

ponytail. If he were IT, shewould be waiting for himmore than any of the others,small but never frightened.Milogrippedhiskeystighter.None of them were everfrightened.Itwasn’tfair.

OutgoesY-O-U!

Milo backed away, hisbreath exploding out of him

in relief. Angie pushed herface against the wall of thetenement, closing her eyesandthrowingherarmsaroundher head to show shewasn’tpeeking. She began countingtowardonehundredbyfives,loud,soeveryonecouldhear.You couldn’t stop it now.Milo turned and fled,poundingdownthealleyuntilhecaughtupwithStevieandSammy.

“Don’t follow us!” “Yourkeysarejingling!”“Milo,youalways get caught, bug off!”StevieandSammyranfaster,but he kept upwith them allthewayacrosstheparkinglotdowntoMiddleStreet,wherethey ducked into a narrowspacebetween twobuildings.Milo slipped past them soStevie was closest to theoutside.Theystoodwiththeirbacks to the wall like little

urban guerrillas, listening tothe tanky echoes of theirpanting.“She coming?” Milo

whisperedafteraminute.“How the hell should we

know, think we got X-rayvision?”“Why’d you have to come

with us, go hide by yourself,sissy-piss!”Milo didn’t move. If he

stayedwiththem,maybethey

wouldn’t change into thenasty things. Maybe they’djust want to hurry back andtagthegoalfastsotheycouldgetridofhim.Far away Angie shouted,

“Ready or not, here I come,last one found is IT!” Milopressed himself hard againstthe wall, wishing he couldmelt into it like Casper theFriendlyGhost.They’dneverfind him if he could walk

through walls. But he’dalways be able to see them,no matter where they hid.They wouldn’t make fun ofhim then. He wouldn’t needhis housekeys anymore,either, so they’d never knowwhen he was coming upbehind them. They’d bescaredinsteadofhim.“My goal one-two-three!”

Kathy’s voice was loud andmocking. She’d just stuck

near the goal again so shecouldtagittheminuteAngieturned her back. Angiewouldn’t care. She waslookingforeveryoneelseandsavingMiloforlast.“Shecoming?”Miloasked

again.Sammy’s eyes flickered

under half-closed lids.Suddenly his hand clampedontoMilo’sarm,yankinghimaroundtoStevie,whoshoved

him out onto the sidewalk.Milo stumbled, doing ahorrified little dance as hetried to scramble back intohiding. Sammy and Stevieblockedhisway.“Guesssheisn’t.Coming.”

Sammy smiled. Miloretreated,bumping into a carparked at the curb as theycame out and walked pasthim.He followed, keeping acareful distance. They went

up the streetpast thebackofMr. Parillo’s to the yardbehind the rented cottagewith the grapevine. Sammyand Stevie stopped at thedriveway.Milowaitedbehindthem.The sunlight was redder,

hot over the cool windspringing up from the east.The day was dying. Sammynodded. He and Stevieheaded silently up the

driveway to a set of coolstone steps by the side doorof the cottage. The steps ledto a skinny passage betweenthe cottage and Bonnie’sfather’sgaragethatopenedatthealleydirectlyacross fromthegoal.Theysquattedat thefootofthesteps,listening.Upahead, two pairs of sneakerspatteredonasphalt.“My goal one-two-three!”

“My goal one-two-three!”

Flora and Bonnie together.Where was Angie? Sammycrawledhalfwayup the stepsandpeekedoverthetop.“Seeher?”Miloasked.Sammy reached down and

hauled him up by his shirtcollar,holdinghimsothetopstep jammed into hisstomach.“You see her, Milo? Huh?

Shethere?”Sammysnickeredas Milo struggled out of his

graspandsliddownthesteps,landing on Stevie, whopushedhimaway.“Rhonda’s goal one-two-

three!” Angie’s voice madeSammyduckdownquickly.“Shit!”Rhondayelled.“Don’tswear!I’mtellin’!”“Oh, shut up, you say it,

too, who’re you gonna tellanyway?”“Yourmother!”“She says it, too,

tattletale!”“Swearer!”Milo crept closer toStevie

again. If he could just avoidAngie till the streetlightscameon,everythingwouldbeallright.“Shestillthere?”heasked.Steviecrawledupthesteps

and had a look. After a fewseconds he beckoned toSammy.“Let’sgo.”Sammy gave Stevie a few

moments headstart and thenfollowed.Milostoodup.“Sammy?”Sammy paused to turn,

plant one of his Keds onMilo’schest,andshove.Milojumped backward, lost hisbalance,andsatdownhardinthe dirt. Sammy grinned athim as though thiswere partof a prank theywereplayingon everyone else. When hewassureMilowouldn’ttryto

get up, he turned and wentdownthepassage.MiloheardhimandStevietagtheirgoalstogether.Heclosedhiseyes.The air was becoming

deeper, cooler, clearer.Sounds carried better now.Someone wished on the firststar.“That’s an airplane,

stupid!”“Isnot,it’sthefirststar!”And then Angie’s voice,

notsounding the leastbitoutof breath, as though she’dbeenwaitingquietlyforMiloto appear after Sammy.“Where’sMilo?”He sprang up and ran.

Sammy would tell wherethey’dbeenhidingandshe’dcome right for him. HesprintedacrossMiddleStreet,cutbetweenthenurse’shouseand the two-family placewherethecrazymanbeathis

wife every Thursday toMiddle St. Lane. Then downtoFourthStreetanduptothecornerwhereitmetMiddleablock away from the FifthStreetbridge.Theywerecallinghim.He

could hear them shouting hisname, trying to fool him intothinking the game was over,and he kept out of sightbehind the house on thecorner.Twoboyswentbyon

bikes,coastingleisurely.Milowaited until they were wellup the street before dashingacrosstotheunpavedparkingareainfrontoftheapartmenthouse where the fattestwoman in town sat on herporch and drank a quart ofCoke straight from the bottleeveryafternoon.Therewasagarbage shed next to thehouse. The Board of Healthhad found rats there once,

come up from the pollutedriver running under thebridge.Milocrouchedbehindthe shed and lookedcautiouslyupthealley.They were running back

and forth, looking, listeningforthejingleofhiskeys.“Hewas back there with us!”“Spreadout,we’llfindhim!”“Maybe he sneaked home.”“Nah, he couldn’t.”“Everybody look for him!”

They all scattered except forKathy, bored and playing alazygameofhopscotchunderastreetlight thathadn’tcomeonyet.Impulsively Milo snatched

openthedooroftheshedandsqueezed in between twooverflowing trash barrels.The door flapped shut byitself, closing him in with aripe garbagey smell and thekeening of flies. He stood

very still, eyes clenchedtightly, and his arms crossedover his chest. They’d neverthink he was in here. Notaftertherats.Thickfootstepsapproached

and stopped. Milo felt thepresence almost directly infront of the shed. Lightersteps came from anotherdirection and there was thescrapeofsandagainst rubberas someone turned around

andaround,searching.“He’s gotta be

somewhere.” Sammy. “Ididn’t think the little bastardcould run that fast.” Milocouldsense themovementofSammy’sheaddisturbtheair.The flies sang louder. “We’llgethim.He’sgonnabeIT.”“Call’olly,olly,out-free.’”

Stevie.“Nah.Then hewon’t have

tobeIT.”

“Call it and then say wehad our fingers crossed so itdoesn’tcount.”“Let’s look some more. If

we still can’t find him, thenwe’llcallit.”“He’sasissy-piss.”Theywentaway.Whenthe

footsteps faded, Milo cameout cautiously, choking fromthe smell in the shed. Hestoodlisteningtothesoundofthe neighborhood growing

quieter. Darkness flowed upfrom the east more quicklynow, reaching for the zenith,eagertospillitselfdownintothewestandblotout the lastbit of sunlight. Above thehouses a star sparkled andwinked, brightening. Milogazed up at it, wishing ashardashecould.

Star light,starbright

First star IseetonightI wish Imay, I wishImightHave thiswish...Eenie,meenie,ipsateenie...Don’t letmebeIT

Hestoodstrainingupatthestar. Just this once. If hewouldn’thavetobeIT.Ifhecould be safe. Just this once—“Angie! Angie! Down

here,quick!”HewhirledandfoundFlora

pointing at him, jumping upanddownassheshouted.No!he wanted to scream. ButFlora kept yelling for Angietohurry,hurry,shecouldstill

gethimbeforethestreetlightscame on. He fled to MiddleStreet, across Fourth to thenext block, going toward theplayground. There wasnowhere tohide thereamongthe swings and seesaws, butthere was an empty housenext to it. Without muchhope, Milo ran up the backstepsandpushedatthedoor.He found himself

sprawling belly-down on the

cracking kitchen linoleum.Blinking, he got to his feet.There was no furniture, nocurtains in the windows. Hetried to remember who hadlived there last, the womanwith the funny-looking dogsor the two queer guys? Hewent to one of the windowsand thenduckedback.Angiewas coming down thesidewalk alone, smiling toherself.Shepassedthehouse,

her ponytail bobbing alongbehind her.Milo tiptoed intothe living room, keepingclose to the wall. Shadowsspread from the corners,unpenetratedbythelastofthedaylight coming through thewindows and the three tinypanesoverthefrontdoor.Herantothedoorandpulledatitdesperately, yanking himselfback and forth like a yo-yogoingsideways.

“Milo?”He clung to the door,

holding his breath. He hadleft the back door open andshe was in the kitchen. Thefloorgroanedasshetookonestep and then another. “Iknow you’re hiding in here,Milo.”Shelaughed.Behind him were stairs

leading to the second floor.He moved to them silentlyand began to crawl upward,

feeling years of grit in thecarpet runner scraping hishandsandknees.“You’re gonna be IT now,

Milo.”He heard herwalk asfar as the entrance to thelivingroomandthenstop.Milo kept crawling. If the

streetlights went on now, itwouldn’t make anydifference. You couldn’t seethem in here. But maybeshe’dgiveupandgoaway,if

he could stay in the darkwhere she couldn’t see him.She had to see him, actuallylay eyes on him, before shecould run back and tag hisgoal.“Comeon,Milo.Comeon

out. I know you’re here.We’re not supposed to be inhere. If you come out now,I’llraceyoutothegoal.Youmightevenwin.”He knew he wouldn’t.

She’d have Sammy waitingfor him, ready to tackle himandholdhimdownsoAngiecould get to the goal first.SammywouldtacklehimandSteviewouldsitonhimwhileeveryone else stood andlaughed and laughed andlaughed. Because then he’dhave to be IT forever. Nomatterwherehewent, they’dalways be hiding, waiting tojumpoutathim, forcinghim

to find themagain and againandagainandhe’dnever getaway from them. Every timehe turned a corner, one ofthemwould be there yelling.You’reIT,you’reIT!“What are you afraid of,

Milo? Are you afraid of agirl? Milo’s a fraidycat!’Fraid of a girl, ’fraid of agirl!” She giggled. Herealizedshewasinthemiddleof the living room now. All

shehadtodowaslookuptosee him between the bars ofthe staircase railing. He puthis hand on the top step andpulled himself up veryslowly, praying the stairswouldn’t creak. His pantsrubbedthedirtyrunnerwithasandpaperysound.“Wait till I tell everyone

you’re scared of a girl. Andyou’ll still be IT, andeveryone will know.” Milo

drew back into the deepshadows on the second-floorlanding. He heard her movetothebottomofthestairsandputher footon the first step.“No matter where you go,everyone will know,” shesingsonged. “No matterwhere you go, everyone willknow.Milo’sIT,Milo’sIT.”He wrapped his arms

around his knees, pullinghimselfintoatightball.Inhis

pocket the housekeys duginto the fold betweenhis hipandthigh.“You’ll have to take your

turn sometime,Milo.Even ifyoumoveawayeveryonewillknow you’re IT. They’ll allhide from you. No one willplaywithyou.You’ll alwaysbeIT.Alwaysandalways.”He dug in his heels and

pushedhimself around to thedoorway of one of the

bedrooms. Maybe shewouldn’t be able to see himin thedarkness and she’d goaway. Then he could gohome.“I heard you. I heard you

move. Now I know whereyouare. I’mgonnafind you,Milo.” She came up the laststeps, groping in the murkyshadows.Hecould justmakeouttheshapeofherheadandherponytail.

“Got you!” She sprang athimlikeatrap.“You’reIT!”“No!”Milo kicked out. The

darkness spun around him.For several seconds he felther grabbing his arms andlegs,tryingtopullhimoutofhiding before her clutchinghands fell away and herlaughter was replaced by aseries of thudding, crashingnoises.

On hands and knees,pantinglikeadog,hecrepttothe edge of the top step andlooked down. Angie’s smallformwasjustvisiblewhereitlay at the foot of the stairs.Her legs were still on thesteps. The rest of her wasspread on the floor with herhead tilted at a questioningangle.Milowaited for her togetupcrying,Youpushedme,I’m telling! but she never

moved. Slowly he wenthalfway down the stairs,clinging to the ricketybannister.“Angie?”She didn’t answer. He

descendedtherestoftheway,careful to avoid her legs incase she suddenly came tolifeandtriedtokickhim.“Angie?”He knelt beside her. Her

eyes were open, staring

through him at nothing. Hewaited for her to blink ortwitch, but she remainedperfectly still. Milo didn’ttouchher.She’dhavedone ittome,he thought.Shewouldhave, too.She’dhavepushedhimdown the stairs toget tothe goal first. After all,Sammy had kicked him offtheotherstairssohecouldn’ttouch goal with him andStevie.Now theywere even.

Sort of. Sammyhad been onherside,afterall.Milostoodup. She wouldn’t chase himanymore and she’d nevertouchhisgoalonhim.He found his way to the

back door, remembering toclose it as he left. For a fewmomentshestoodintheyard,trying to find the star hehadwished on. Others werebeginning to come out now.But the streetlights

—something must be wrongwith them, he thought. Thecityhadforgottenaboutthem.Ormaybe therewas apowerfailure. He should havewishedfor them to come on.That would have senteveryonehome.While he stood there, the

streetlights did comeon, likeeyes opening everywhere allover the neighborhood.Milo’s shoulders slumped

withrelief.Nowhereallyhadwon. Everyone had to gohome now. The game wasover. It was over and hewouldn’thavetobeIT.He ran through the

playground, acrossWater St.Lane and up Water, gettinghome just as the final pinkglowinthewestdied.

“There.” Milo finished tyinga double bow in the boy’s

shoelaces. “Now they won’tcomeundone.”Theboyfrownedathisfeet

critically. “How’m I gonnaget’emoff?”“Like this.” Milo

demonstratedforhim.“See?”He retied thebow. “It’s easywhenyougetthehangofit.”“Maybe I’ll just leave ’em

onwhenIgotobed.”“And when you take a

bath, too?” Milo laughed.

“Sneakers in the tub’ll goover real well with yourmom.”“I won’t take baths. Just

wipeoffwithawashcloth.”Milo restrained himself

fromlookingbehindthekid’sears.Instead,hestoodupandbeganwalkingagain.Theboystayed beside him, trying towhistlebetweenhisteethandonly making a rhythmichissing noise. Milo could

have sympathized. He’dnever learned towhistleverywell himself. Even today hiswhistle had more air thantuneinit.Sammyhadbeenapretty good whistler. He’deven been able to whistlebetween his fingers like thebigger boys. Stevie hadn’tbeen able to, but Sammyhadn’t made fun of him thewayhe’dmadefunofMilo.Milo half-expected to see

SammyandStevie ashe andthe boy approached the spotwhere the garbage shed hadbeen. Now there was amodern dumpster there, butMilo imagined that the ratscould get into that easilyenough if any cared to leavethe river. Aunt Syl hadwritten his mother thatenvironmentalists had forcedthe city to clean up thepollution, making it more

livable for the rats under thebridge.But the dumpster was big

enough for someoneSammy’ssizetohidebehind.Or in. Milo shook his head.Sammy’s size? Sammy wasallgrownupnow,justlikehewas. All of them were allgrownupnow.ExceptAngie.Angiewas still the same ageshe’dbeenonthatlastday,heknewthatfora fact.Because

she’d never stopped chasinghim.It took her a long, long timeto find him because he hadbrokentheruleabout leavingthe neighborhood. Youweren’tsupposedtoleavetheneighborhood to hide. Youweren’tsupposedtogohome,either, and he had done that,too.But then he’d thought the

game was really over. He’d

thought it had ended at thebottom of the stairs in thevacant house with thedaylight’s going and thestreetlights’ coming on.Rhondahadbeenthelastonefound,theonlyonefound,soshe shouldhavebeen IT,notMilo. The next game shouldhave gone on without him.Without him and Angie, ofcourse.Hethoughtithad.Allthrough the long,dull ride to

the airport and the longer,duller flight from NewEngland to the Midwest,through the settling in at thefirst of the new apartmentsand the settling down topassableiflacklusteryears inthe new school, he thoughtthe game had continuedwithouthimandAngie.But the night came when

hefoundhimselfbackinthatdarkening empty house,

halfway up the stairs to thesecond floor.He froze in theact of reaching for the nextstep, feeling thedirt and fearandapproachofIT.Whenthefloorcreaked,he

screamed and woke himselfup before he could hear thesound of her childish,tauntingvoice.Hewasflatonhisback in bed, gripping thecovers in a stranglehold.After a few moments he sat

up andwiped his hands overhisface.The room was quiet and

dark, much darker than thehousehadbeen that last day.Hegotupwithout turningonthelightandwenttotheonlywindow. Thiswas the fourthapartment they’d had sincecoming to the Midwest, butthey’d all been the same.Small,muchsmaller than theone in the tenement, done in

plaster ticky-tacky with toofew windows. Modernhousing in old buildingsremodeled for modern livingwith the woodwork paintedwhite.At least the apartmentwasontheeighthfloor.Milopreferredlivinghighup.Youcould see everything fromhighup.Almost.Thestreet that ranpast the

buildinggleamedwetlyunderthestreetlights. Ithadrained.

He boosted the window upand knelt before the sill,listening to themoist sighingofoccasionalpassingcars.Adamp breeze puffed throughthescreen.Acrossthestreetsomething

moved just out of the brightcirclethestreetlight threwonthesidewalk.Whenthestreetlightscame

on,itwastimetogohome.A stray dog. It was

probablyjustastraydogoverthere.Inthedistance,apolicesirenwailed and then cut offsharply. Milo’s mouth wasdryashesquintedthroughthescreen.Itwastoolateforkidstobeout.But ifyoudidn’tgethome

afterthestreetlightscameon,did thatmean you never hadtogohomeever?Themovementcameagain,

but he still couldn’t see it

clearly. A shadow wasskirting the patch of light onthe pavement, dipping andweaving, but awkwardly,stiffly. Itwanted to play, butthere was no one awake toplaywith,exceptforMilo.He spread his fingers on

the windowsill and loweredhis head. It was too late forkidstobeout.Anykids.Thestreetlights—Something flashed briefly

inthelightandthenretreatedinto the darkness. Milo’ssweatyfingersslippedon thesill. The game was over. Hewasn’t IT. He wasn’t. She’dfound him but she hadn’ttagged his goal and all thestreetlightshadcomeon.Thegame was over, had beenoverforyears.Itwasn’tfair.The figure made another

jerky movement. He didn’thave to see it clearly now to

know about the funnyposition of its head, its neckstill crooked in thatquestioning angle, thelopsided but still confidentbobbing of the ponytail, thedirty-whitesneakers.Anotherpolice siren was howlingthrough the streets a fewblocks away, but it didn’tquitecoverupthesoundofalittle girl’s voice, singingsoftlybecauseitwassolate.

Eenie,meenie,ipsateenieGoo, Gah,gahgoleenieAhchee,pahchee,LiberaceOutgoesY-O-U!Eenie,meenie,ipsateenie

Goo, gah,gahgoleenie...

Hecoveredhisearsagainstit, but he could still hear itmocking him. No one wasbeing counted out, no onewould ever be counted outagainbecausehewas IT andhehadmissedhisturn.Comeout,Milo.Comeout,

come out, come out You’reIT.

He pressed his handstighteragainsthisears,but itonly shut the sound of hervoice up in his head andmade it louder. Then hewasclawingatthescreen,yelling,“I’mnot!I’mnot!I’mnotIT,the game’s over and I’m notIT!”Hiswords hung in the air,

spiraling down around him.Therewasasoftpoundingonthe wall behind the bed.

“Milo!” came his mother’smuffled, sleepy voice. “It’sfourinthemorning,whatareyouscreamingfor?”He sank down onto the

floor, leaning his headhopelessly against thewindowsill. “A, a dream,Mom,” he said, his voicehoarse and thick in his tightthroat.“Justabaddream.”The wind poured through

his hair, chilling the sweat

that dripped down to hisneck. Laughter came in withthe wind, light, careless,jeering laughter. He knewAngie was looking up at hiswindow,hersharp little teethbaredinagrin.“’Fraid of a girl,” the

laughter said. “’Fraid of agirl...”

TheboywasstaringatMilo’spants pocket and Milo

realized he’d been jinglinghis loose change withoutthinking as they walked. Hethoughtaboutgivingthekidaquarter, but his mother hadprobably warned him not totake candy or money fromstrangers. Most likely hewasn’teven supposed to talkto strangers. But most kidsweretoocuriousnotto.Theywere programmed to answerquestions from adults

anyway,soallyouhad todowas ask them something andprettysoonyouwerecarryingona regularconversation.Aslong as you didn’t make themistakeofoffering them anymoney or candy, the kidsfiguredtheyweresafe.“Housekeys,” Milo lied,

jingling the change somemore.“WhenIwasyourage,my mother pinned theminside my pocket and they

jingledwheneverIran.”“Howcomeshedidthat?”“She worked. My father

wasdead. Ihad to letmyselfin and out when she wasn’thomeandshedidn’twantmetolosemykeys.”The boy accepted that

without comment. Absentfathers were more commonnow anyway. The boyprobably knew a lot of kidswho carried housekeys, if he

wasn’tcarryinganyhimself.“She pin ’em in there

today?”“What?” Milo blinked at

him.“Your housekeys.” The

boygrinnedinsolently.Milogavehimhalfasmile.

Some things never changed.Kids still thought a joke atsomeone else’s expense wasfunny. He glanced down atthe double bows he’d tied in

the boy’s laces. Yeah, hecould picture one of thosesneakerson someotherkid’schest, kicking him off somesteps. The boy looked morelike Stevie than Sammy, butthat didn’t matter. Steviewould have done it if he’dhad the chance. Milo wassure this boy would havebeen great friends withAngie.They were past the

dumpster, almost to thecornerwhereWater St. Lanecrossed Fourth. The housewhere the fattest woman intownhadconsumedherdailyquart of Coke straight fromthe bottlewas still inhabited.Somewhere inside, a radiowas boasting that it had thehits, all the hits and nothingbutthehits.Milodidn’tthinkit would be long before thishouse stood as empty as his

oldtenement,condemnedandwaiting to fall. It wasn’tabout to collapse by itself.These old houses had beenbuilt to stay up, no matterhow tired and shabby theybecame. Endurance, thatwaswhat it was. But anythingcould reach the end of itsendurance eventually—aneighborhood, a building, aperson. Neighborhoods andbuildingshadtobetakencare

of but people could takethings into their own hands.You didn’t have to enduresomething past the pointwhen it should have ended.Notifyouknewwhattodo.Milohadn’tknownwhatto

do at first though. He foundhimself helpless again, ashelplessashe’dbeenonthoseoldstairssomanyyears ago.In the dream orwide-awake,crouched at his bedroom

window while the little-girlthing that hadn’t made ithome before dark played onthe sidewalk and called him,hewashelpless.Angiedidn’tcarethatRhondashouldhavebeen IT. Rhonda and theothers had gone home afterthe streetlights had come on,butheandAngiehadn’t.Thegame wasn’t done eventhough itwas just the twoofthemnow.

Slowlyhebegan to realizeitwas the other kids.One ofthebiggerboyswiththebikesmust have seen him climbinto the car with his motherand Aunt Syl the next dayand passed it on to anotherkid who passed it on toanother kid in a long, longgame of “Gossip” thatstretched over hundreds andhundreds of miles, withAngiefollowing,freetoleave

the neighborhood because hehad, free to stay out latebecause she had never gonehome. Angie, following himallthewaytotheMidwesttothenewneighborhood, to thenewapartmentbecauseofthenew kids at the new schoolwho had been happy to tellher where he was becauseeveryone loved a good hunt.The new kids, they were alljustSammysandSteviesand

Floras and Bonnies withdifferent names and facesanyway. They all knew hewas IT and had missed histurn. Even his mother knewsomething;shelookedathimstrangely sometimes whenshe thought he didn’t know,andhecouldfeelherwaitingfor him to tell her, explain.Buthecouldn’tpossibly.Shehadtakenherturnalongtimeago, just like all the adults,

andwhenyoutookyourturn,youforgot.Shecouldn’thaveunderstood if he hadexplained until the day hedied.Sohe’dheldoutforalong,

long timeand theymoved tonew apartments, but Angiealwaysfoundhim.Kidswereeverywhere and they alwaystold on him. And then onedayhe lookedathimselfandfoundMilostaringoutathim

fromagrown-up face,anewhidingplacefor thelittleboywith the same old fear. Andhethought,Okay;okay.We’llend it now, for you and forAngie. He was big now, andhehadn’tforgotten.Hewouldhelp little Milo still helplessinside of him, still hidingfromAngie.Hewentback.Back to the

old neighborhood, takingAngie up on her offer of a

racetothegoalatlast.

Deep summer. The feel of ithadhithimthemomenthe’dwalked down to the alleyfrom the bus stop at ThirdandWater,wheremostoftheold buildings were stillstandingall thewaydown toSt. Bernard’s Church. In thealley,thingshadchanged,buthewouldn’tlookuntilhehadwalked deliberately down to

thetenement.He knew then she must

have won. He put his faceclose to the wall and closedhis eyes. The smell of hotbakedstonewas there, three-quarters of a century of hotsummer afternoons andchildren’s faces pressedagainst the wall, leaving afaintscentofbubblegumandcandy and kid sweat. Thebuilding had stood through

the exodus of middle-classwhite families and the influxof poor white families andminorities and the onslaughtofurbanrenewal,waitingforAngie to come back andtouchitonemoretime, touchit and make him really andtruly IT. And now he washere, too,Milowashere, butgrownbigandnotveryafraidanymore, now that it wasdone.IfhehadtobeIT,ifhe

had no choice—and he’dnever had, really—he wouldbe a real IT, the biggest, thescariest, and no one wouldknowuntilitwastoolate.Counting to one hundred

by fives hadn’t taken verylong at all—not nearly aslong as he had remembered.When he’d opened his eyes,he’d found the boy hangingaround in front of the rentedcottage.

“Hi,”he’d said to theboy.“KnowwhatI’mdoing?”“No, what?” the boy had

asked.“I’m looking for some

friends.”Milo had smiled. “Iusedtolivehere.”

Nowtheystoodat theendofthe alley together and Milosmiled again to see that thehouse was still there. Butthen, he’d known that it

would be.He walked slowlydownFourthtostanddirectlyacross the street from it,staring at the stubborn frontdoor. It probably stillwouldn’topen.The redpainthad long flaked away andbeen replaced by somethingcolorless. What grass hadsurroundedtheplacehaddiedoff.Overheadthesky,almostas blue as it had been thatday, was beginning to

deepen. He listened forchildren’s voices and thesound of the bigger boys’English bikes ticking by onthe street. If he strained, hecould almost hear them. Itwas awfully quiet today, butsome dayswere like that, heremembered.“Who lives there?” he

asked theboy.“Who lives inthathousenow?”“Nobody.”

“Nobody?Nobodyatall?”“It’s a dump.” The boy

bounced the heel of his rightsneakeragainst the toeofhisleft. “I been in there,” headded,withonlyalittlebitofpride.“Haveyou.”“Yeah. It’s real stinky and

dirty. Joey says it’s haunted,butIneverseennothin’.”Milo pressed his index

finger along his mouth,

stifling the laugh thatwantedtoburstoutofhim.Haunted?Of course it’s haunted, youlittle monster—I’ve beenhaunting it myself! “Must befuntoplayin,huh?”The boy looked up at him

as though he were trying todecidewhetherhecould trustMilo with that information.“Well, nobody’s supposed togo in thereanymore,butyoucanstillgetin.”

Milonodded.“Iknow.Say,did you ever play a gamewhere you have to put yourfeet in and somebody countseverybody out and the lastoneleftisIT?”The boy shrugged. “Like

‘eenie,meenie,miney,mo’?”“Something like that.Only

we used to say it differently.I’ll show you.” Milo kneltagain, putting the toe of hisshoe opposite the boy’s

sneaker, ignoring the boy’sbored sigh. Oh, yes, he’dshow theboy. Itwouldn’t benearly as boring as the boywould think, either. The boywasaStevie.Thatmeant thatpretty soon there’d be aSammy coming along andthen maybe a Flora and aBonnieandall therestof theoneswhohadhelpedlookforhim andwhohad toldAngiewhere to find him. But he’d

give all of them a betterchancethanthey’dgivenhim.He’d do the chant for them,thewayhewasdoingnowforthe boy, starting with theboy’sfootfirst.

Eenie,meenie,ipsateenieGoo, gah,gahgoleenieAhchee,

pahchee,LiberaceOutgoesY-O-U!

Milo grinned. “Looks likeI’mIT.”Hestoodup.StillIT,he should have said. Theyhadn’t let him quit; theyhadn’t let himmiss his turn.All right. He would take itnow and keep taking it,becausehewasITanditwas

hisgamenow.“C’mon,” he said to the

boyashesteppedoffthecurbto cross the street “Let’s seeifthatoldhouseisstillfuntoplayin.”

Hunger:AConfessionDALEBAILEY

Dale Bailey lives in NorthCarolinawithhas family,andhaspublishedthreenovels,TheFallen,House of Bones, and SleepingPolicemen(withJackSlay,Jr.).His

short fiction, collected in TheResurrection Man’s Legacy andOther Stories, has won theInternationalHorrorGuildAwardandhasbeentwicenominatedforthe Nebula Award. His websiteand blog are atwww.dalebailey.com.

Me, I was never afraid of

thedark.It was Jeremy who

bothered me—Jeremy with

hisblackrubberspidersinmylunchbox, Jeremy with hisguttural demon whisper (I’mcoming to get you, Simon)just as I was drifting off tosleep, Jeremywithhis stupidVincent Price laugh (Mwah-ha-ha-ha-ha), like somecheesymadscientist,whenhefigured the jokehadgonefarenough. By the time I waswalking, Iwas already shell-shocked,flinchingeverytime

Icamearoundacorner.Irememberthistime,Iwas

fiveyearsoldandIhadfallenasleeponthesofa.Iwokeupto see Jeremy looming overme in this crazy Halloweenmaskhe’dbought:hornsandpebbledskinandabigleeringgrin,theworks.OnlyIdidn’trealize it was Jeremy, notuntil he cut loose with thatcrazy laugh of his, and bythenitwastoolate.

ThingsgotworsewhenweleftStarkville.Thenewhousewas smaller and we had toshare a bedroom. That wasfinewithme. Iwassevenbythen, and I had the kind ofcrazyloveformybigbrotherthat only little kids can feel.The thing was, when hewasn’t tormenting me,Jeremywasagreatbrother—like this one time he got aChuck Foreman card in a

packageofToppsandhe justhandeditover tomebecauseheknewtheVikingsweremyfavoriteteamthatyear.The room thing was hard

on Jeremy, though. He’dreached that stage ofadolescencewhenyourvoicehasthesealarmingcracksandyou spend a lot of timelocked in the bathroomtracking hair growthand...well, you know, you

wereakidonce,right?Sothenights got worse. I couldn’teven turn to Mom for help.Shewassickatthattime,andshehad this frayed,woundedlook.Plus,sheandDadwerealways talking in thesestrainedwhispers.Youdidn’twant to bother either one ofthemifyoucouldhelpit.Which leftme and Jeremy

alone in our bedroom. Itwasn’t much to look at, just

this high narrow room withtwin beds and an old milkcratewith a lamp on it. Outthe window you could seeonehalf-dead crab-apple tree—acrap-apple,Jeremycalledit—and a hundred feet ofcrumbling pavement and arusting 1974 El Caminowhichourneighborhaduponblocksbackwherethewoodsbegan. There weren’t anystreet lights that close to the

edge of town, so it wasalwaysdarkinthereatnight.That’swhenJeremywould

start upwith some crap he’dseeninamovieorsomething.“I heard they found a wholeshitload of bones when theydug the foundation of thishouse,” he’d say, and he’dlaunch into some nutty taleabouthowit turnedout tobean Indian burial ground, justcrazy stuff like that. After a

while,itwouldgetsoIcouldhardly breathe. Then Jeremywould unleash that crazylaugh of his. “C’mon, Si,”he’dsay,“youknowI’monlykidding.”He was always sorry—

genuinely sorry, you couldtellbythelookonhisface—but it never made anydifference the next night. Itwaslikeheforgotallaboutit.Besides,healwaysdriftedoff

to sleep, leavingme alone inthe dark to ponder openportals to Hell or parallelworlds or whatever crazystuff he’d dreamed up thatnight.The days weren’t much

better.Thehousewasonthisoldwindingroadwithwoodsononesideandthereweren’tbutafewneighbors,andnoneof themhad any kids. Itwaslike somebody had set off a

bomb that just flattenedeverybody under twenty—like one of those neutronbombs,onlyage-specific.So that was my life—

interminable days ofboredom,torturousinsomniacnights. It was the worstsummer of my life, withnothingtolookforwardtobutabrand-newschoolcomethefall. That’s why I foundmyself poking around in the

basement about a week afterwe moved in. Nobody hadbothered to unpack—nobodyhad bothered to do much ofanything all summer—and Iwas hoping to find my oldteddy bear in one of theboxes.Mr. Fuzzy had seen better

days—after six years of harduse, he literally had no hair,notasinglesolitarytuft—andI’d only recently broken the

habitofdragginghimaroundwithmeeverywhereIwent.Iknew there’d be a price topay for backsliding—JeremyhadbeenridingmeaboutMr.Fuzzy for a year—butdesperate times call fordesperatemeasures.I’d just finished rescuing

him from a box of looseLegos and Jeremy’s old StarWars action figures when Inoticed a bundle of rags

stuffed under the furnace. Iwasn’t inclined to spend anymore time than necessary inthe basement—it smelledfunny and the light slantingthrough the high dirtywindowshadahazygreenishquality, like a pond youwouldn’t want to swim in—but I found myself draggingMr. Fuzzy over toward thefurnaceallthesame.Somebodyhadjammedthe

bundle in there good, andwhen it came loose, clickingmetallically, it toppled meback on my butt. I stood,brushingmyseatoffwithonehand,Mr.Fuzzymomentarilyforgotten. I squatted toexamine the bundle, a massofgrease-stainedragstiedoffwithbrowntwine.Thewholething was only a couple feetlong.I loosened the knot and

pulled one end of the twine.Thebundleunwrapped itself,spilling a handful of rustyfoot-long skewers across thefloor. There were half adozen of them, all of themwith these big metal caps. Ishook the rag. A scalpeltumbled out, and then abunchofothercrap,everybitof it as rusty as the skewers.A big old hammer with awooden head and a wicked-

lookingcarvingknifeandoneof those tapered metal rodsbutchers use to sharpenknives. Last of all a set ofivory-handledflatware.Ireacheddownandpicked

upthefork.That’s when I heard the

stairscreakbehindme.“Mom’s gonna kill you,”

Jeremysaid.Ijumpedalittleandstolea

glance overmy shoulder.He

wasstandingatthefootofthestairs, a rickety tier ofbacklessrisers.That’swhenIremembered Mom’s warningthat I wasn’t to fool arounddownhere.Thefloorwasjustdirt,packedhardasconcrete,and Mom always worriedabout getting our clothesdirty.“Notifyoudon’t tellher,”

Isaid.“Besides, you’re messing

around with the furnace,”Jeremysaid.“No,I’mnot.”“Sureyouare.”Hecrossed

theroomandhunkereddownatmy side. I glanced over athim.Letmebehonesthere:Iwas nobody’s ideal boy nextdoor. I was a scrawny,unlovely kid, forever peeringout at the world through apair of lenses so thick thatJeremy had once spent a

sunny afternoon trying toignite ants with them. Thechangeling, my mothersometimes calledme, since Iseemed to have surfaced outof somebody else’s genepool.Jeremy, though,was blond

and handsome and alreadybroad-shouldered.Hewasthekind of kid everybodywantsto sit with in the lunchroom,quick and friendly and

capable of glamorous strokesofkindness.Hemade such agesture now, clappingme ontheshoulder.“Geez,Si,that’ssome weird-looking shit.Wonder how long it’s beenhere?”“I dunno,” I said, but I

remembered the landlordtelling Dad the house wasnearly a hundred and fiftyyears old. And hasn’t had alick of work since, I’d heard

Dadmutterunderhisbreath.Jeremy reached for one of

the skewers and I felt a littlebubble of emotion pressagainst the bottom of mythroat. He turned the thingover in his hands and let itdrop to the floor. “Beats thehelloutofme,”hesaid.“You’re not gonna tell

Mom,areyou?”“Nah.”Heseemedtothink

a moment. “Course I might

usethatscalpeltodissectMr.Fuzzy.” He gazed at mebalefully,andthenheslappedmy shoulder again. “Bettertreatmeright,kid.”AmomentlaterIheardthe

basement door slam behindme.I’dbeenclutching the fork

so tightly that it had turnedhotinmyhand.Myknucklesgrinned up at me, fourbloodless white crescents. I

feltsostrangethatIjustletittumble to the floor. Then Irewrapped the bundle, andshoved it back under thefurnace.By the time I’d gotten

upstairs, I’d put the wholethingoutofmymind.ExceptI hadn’t, not really. I wasn’tthinking about it, notconsciously, but it was thereall the same, theway all thefurniture in a room is still

there when you turn out thelights, and you can sense itthere in thedark.Or thewaypain is always there. Evenwhen they give yousomething tosmooth it out alittle, it’s always there, adeep-down ache like jaggedrocks under a swift-movingcurrent. It never goes away,pain. It’s likeastone inyourpocket.Thebundleweighedonme

in the sameway, through thelong night after Jeremyfinally fell asleep, and thenext day, and the night afterthat as well. So I guess Iwasn’t surprised, not really,whenIfoundmyselfcreepingdown the basement stairs thenext afternoon. Nobody sawmestealup tomyroomwiththe bundle. Nobody saw metuck it under my bed. Momhad cried herself to sleep in

front of the TV (shepretended she wasn’t crying,but I knew better) and Dadwas already at work. WhoknewwhereJeremywas?Then school started and

Mom didn’t cry as often, orshe did it when we weren’taround. But neither one ofthem talked very much,except at dinner Dad alwaysasked Jeremy how freshmanfootballwasgoing.Andmost

nights, justasa joke, Jeremywould start up with one ofthosecrazystoriesofhis, theminute we turned out thelight.He’dpretend therewasa vampire in the room orsomething and he’d thrasharound so that I could hearhim over the narrow spacebetween our beds. “Ahhh,”he’dsay,“Arrggh,” and, in astrangled gasp, “When itfinishes with me, Si, it’s

comingforyou.”I’dhugMr.Fuzzy tight and tell him nottobeafraid,andthenJeremywouldunleashthatnuttymadscientistlaugh.“C’mon,Si,youknowI’m

onlykidding.”One night, he said, “Do

you believe in ghosts, Si?Because as old as this houseis, I bet a whole shitload ofpeoplehavediedinit.”I didn’t answer, but I

thoughtaboutitalotoverthenext fewdays.We’d been inschool a couple of weeks atthispoint.Jeremyhadalreadymade a lot of friends. Hetalked to them on the phoneatnight.Ihadalotoftimetothink.I even askedDad about it.

“Trynot tobedense,Si,”hetold me. “There’s no suchthing as ghosts, everybodyknows that. Now chill out,

will you, I’m trying toexplain something to yourbrother.”So the answer was, no, I

didn’tbelieveinghosts.ButIalsothoughtitmightbemorecomplicated than that, thatmaybe they were likecharacters in a good book.You aren’t going to run intothem at the Wal-Mart, buttheyseemrealallthesame.Ifigured ghosts might be

something like that.ThewayI figured it, they had to bereally desperate forsomething theyhadn’t gottenenough of while they werealive, like they were jealousor hungry or something.Otherwise why would theystick around some crummyoldcemeterywhentheycouldgoontoHeavenorwhatever?So that’s what I ended uptelling Jeremy a few nights

later,afterI’dfinishedsortingitalloutinsidemyhead.“Hungry?” he said.

“Christ, Si, that’s thestupidest thing I’ve everheard.” He started thrashingaroundinhisbedandmakingthese dumb ghost noises.“Oooooooh,” he said, and,“Ooooooooh, I’m a ghost,givemeasteak.Ooooooooh,IwantabowlofCheerios.”I tried to explain that that

wasn’t what I meant, but Icouldn’tfindthewords.Iwasjustakid,afterall.“Christ, Si,” Jeremy said,

“don’t tell anybody anythingthat stupid. It’s like thatstupid bear you drag aroundeverywhere, it makes meashamedtobeyourbrother.”I knew he didn’t mean

anything by that—Jeremywas always joking around—but it hurt Mr. Fuzzy’s

feelings all the same. “Don’tcry,Mr.Fuzzy,”Iwhispered.“Hedidn’tmeananythingbyit.”A few days later, Jeremy

camehome looking troubled.I didn’t think anything aboutit at first because it hadn’tbeen a very good day fromthestart.When Jeremyand Iwent down to breakfast, weoverheardDaysayinghewastaking Mom’s car in that

afternoon, the way they hadplanned. Mom saidsomethingsolowthatneitherone of us couldmake it out,and then Dad said, “ForChrist’ssake,Mariam,there’splenty of one-car families inthe world.” He slammed hisway out of the house, and afew seconds later we heardMom shut the bedroom doorwithaclick.Neitheroneofussaidanythingafterthatexcept

when Jeremy snapped at mebecauseIwassoslowgettingmy lunch.So I knewhewasupset and it didn’t surprisemewhenhecamehomefromfootball practice that daylooking a bit down in themouth.It turned out to be

something totally different,though, because as soon aswe turned out the light thatnight, and he knewwe were

really alone, Jeremy said,“What happened to thatbundleoftools,Si?”“What bundle of tools?” I

asked.“That weird-looking shit

you found in the basementlastsummer,”hesaid.That’swhen I remembered

that I’d put the bundle undermybed.Whatacrazythingtodo,Ithought,andIwasaboutto say I’d taken them—but

Mr. Fuzzy kind of punchedme. He was so sensitive, Idon’t think he’d reallyforgivenJeremyyet.Ithoughtitover,andthenI

said,“Beatsme.”“Well, I went down the

basement this afternoon,”Jeremy said, “and they weregone.”“So?”“It makes me

uncomfortable,that’sall.”

“Why?”Jeremydidn’tsayanything

foralongtime.Acarwentbyoutside,and theheadlights liteverything up for a minute.Theshadowofthecrap-appledanced on the ceiling like amanmade out of bones, andthenthenightswallowedhimup.Thatonelittlemomentoflight made it seem darkerthanever.“I met this kid at school

today,” Jeremy said, “andwhenItoldhimwhereIlivedhe said, ‘No way, Mad DogMueller’s house?’ ‘MadDogwho?’ I said. ‘Mueller,’ hesaid. ‘Everyone knows whoMadDogMuelleris.’”“Idon’t,”Isaid.“Well, neither did I,”

Jeremysaid,“but thiskid,hetoldmethewholestory.‘Youever notice there aren’t anykids that live out that end of

town?’ he asked, and themore I thought about it, Si,the more right he seemed.Therearen’tanykids.”The thing was, he was

right.That’swhenIfigureditout, the thing about the kids.It was like one of thosepuzzleswithapicturehiddeninside all these little blots ofcolor and you stare at it andyou stare at it and you don’tsee a thing, and then you

happen to catch it from justtherightangleand—Bang!—there the hidden picture is.Andonceyou’veseenit,youcan never unsee it. I thoughtabout the neighbors, thisscrawnyguywhowasalwaystinkering with the dead ElCamino and his fat wife—neither one of them reallyold,butneitheroneofthemaday under thirty, either. Irememberhowtheystoodout

front watching us move in,andMomaskingthemif theyhad any kids, her voice kindof hopeful. But they’d justlaughed, like who wouldbringkidstoaplacelikethis?They hadn’t offered to

pitch in, either—and peoplealways offer to lend a handwhen you’re moving stuffinside.Iknow,becausewe’vemoved lots of times. I couldsee Dad getting hotter and

hotter with every trip, untilfinallyheturnedandsaidinavoice just dripping withsarcasm, “See anything thatstrikes your fancy, folks?”YoucouldtellbythelookonMom’s face that she didn’tlikethatonebit.Whenwegotinside she hissed at him likesomekindofanimalshewassomad.“Whycan’tyoueverkeep your mouth shut,Frank?”shesaid.“Ifyoukept

yourmouthshutwewouldn’tbeinthissituation.”Allofwhichwasbesidethe

point, of course. The pointwas,Jeremywasright.Therewasn’t a single kid in anyofthenearbyhouses.“See,” Jeremysaid, “I told

you. And the reason is, thisguyMadDogMueller.”“But it was some old lady

thatusedtolivehere,”Isaid.“We saw her the first day,

they were moving her to anursinghome.”“I’mnot talkingabouther,

stupid. I’m talking like ahundredyearsago,when thiswas all farm land, and thenearestneighborswerehalfamileaway.”“Oh.”I didn’t like the direction

thiswasgoing,Ihavetosay.Plus, it seemed even darker.Mostplaces,youturnoutthe

lightandyoureyesadjustandeverything turns this smokybluecolor,soithardlyseemsdarkatall.Butherethenightseemed denser somehow,weightier. Your eyes justnever got used to it, notunless there was a moon,which this particular nighttherewasn’t.“Anyway,” Jeremysaid, “I

guess he lived here with hismother for a while and then

she died and he lived herealone after that. He was apretty old guy, I guess, likeforty.Hewasablacksmith.”“What’sablacksmith?”“Godyoucanbedense,Si.

Blacksmithsmakehorseshoesandshit.”“Then why do they call

themblacksmiths?”“Idon’tknow.Iguessthey

wereblackorsomething,likebackinslaverydays.”

“Wasthisguyblack?”“No! The point is, he

makes things out of metal.That’s the point, okay? Andso I told this kid about thosetoolsIfound.”“I’m the one who found

them,”Isaid.“Whatever, Si. The point

is, when I mentioned thetools,thekidwhowas tellingmethisstuff,hiseyesbuggedout.‘Noway,’hesaystome,

and I’m like, ‘No, really,crossmyheart.Whatgives?’”Jeremy paused to take a

deep breath, and in thesilence I heard a faint click,like two pieces of metalrubbingupagainsteachother.That’s when I understoodwhat Jeremy was doing. Hewas “acting out,” which is aterm I learned when I forgotMr. Fuzzy at Dr.Bainbridge’soneday,backat

theclinicinStarkville,afterIgot suspended from school.When I slipped inside to gethim, Dr. Bainbridge wassaying, “You have tounderstand,Mariam, with allthese pressures at home, it’sonly natural that he’s actingout.”I asked Dr. Bainbridge

aboutitthenextweek,andhetold me that sometimespeoplesayanddothingsthey

don’t mean just becausethey’reupsetaboutsomethingelse. And now I figuredJeremywas doing it becausehe was so upset about Momand stuff. He was trying toscare me, that’s all. He’devenfoundthelittlebundleoftools under my bed and hewasover there clicking themtogether.I’dhavebeenmadifI hadn’t understood. If Ihadn’t understood, I might

have even been afraid—Mr.Fuzzy was, I could feel himshiveringagainstmychest.“Did you hear that?”

Jeremysaid.“I didn’t hear anything,” I

said, because I wasn’t goingtoplayalongwithhisgame.Jeremydidn’t answer right

away. So we lay there, bothofuslistening,andthistimeIreally didn’t hear anything.But it seemed even darker

somehow, darker than I’deverseenourlittlebedroom.Iwiggledmyfingersinfrontofmy face and I couldn’t see athing.“I thought I heard

something.” This time youcouldhearthefaintest tremorin his voice. It was a reallyfine job, he was doing. Icouldn’t help admiring it.“And that would be bad,”Jeremy added, “because this

Mueller, he was crazy as ashithouserat.”I huggedMr. Fuzzy close.

“Crazy?”Isaid.“Crazy,” Jeremy said

solemnly. “This kid, he toldme that all the farms aroundthere,thefarmershadaboutazillionkids.Everybodyhadatonofkidsinthosedays.Andone of them turned upmissing. No one thoughtanything about it at first—

kidswerealwaysrunningoff—but about a week lateranother kid disappears. Thistime everybody got worried.It was this little girl andnobodycould figureoutwhyshe would run off. She wasonlylikesevenyearsold.”“Shewasmyage?”“That’s right, Si. She was

justyourage.”Then I heard it again: this

odd little clicking like

Grandma’s knitting needlesused to make. Jeremy musthave reallygiven thatbundleashake.“Shit,” Jeremy said, and

nowhesoundedreallyscared.Somebody ought to havegiven him an Oscar orsomething.Heswitchedonthelight.It

wasatouchofgenius,that—his way of saying,Hey, I’mnotdoinganything!,whichof

coursemeanthewas.Istared,but the bundle was nowherein sight. I figured he musthave tucked it under thecovers,butitwashardtotellwithout my glasses on.Everything looked all blurry,even Jeremy’s face, blinkingat me over the gap betweenthe beds. I scooched downunderthecovers,holdingMr.Fuzzytight.“It was coming from over

there,” he said. “Over therebyyourbed.”“I didn’t hear anything,” I

said.“No, I’m serious, Si. I

heardit,didn’tyou?”“You better turn out the

light,” I said, just to prove Iwasn’t afraid. “Mom’ll bemad.”“Right,” Jeremy said, and

thewayhesaid it,youcouldtellheknewitwas an empty

threat.Momhad toldme shewas sick when I’d knockedon her bedroom door afterschool.Iopenedthedoor,butit was dark inside and shetoldmetogoaway.Theroomsmelled funny, too, like thestinging stuff she put on myknee the time Jeremyaccidentally knocked medown in the driveway. I justneed to sleep, she said. I’vetaken somemedicine to help

mesleep.And then Jeremy came

home andmade us someTVdinners. “She must havepassedout in there,”he said,andthatscaredme.ButwhenI said maybe we should callthe doctor, he just laughed.“Trynottobesodenseallthetime,okay,Si?”We just waited around for

Dad after that. But Jeremysaidhewouldn’tbesurprised

if Dad never came homeagain,thewayMomhadbeenso bitchy lately. Maybe hewasright,too,becausebythetimewewentuptobed,Dadstillhadn’tshownup.So Jeremy was right.

Nobody was going to mindthelight.Webothhadalookaround.

Theroomlookedprettymuchthe way it always did.Jeremy’strophiesgleamedon

the little shelf Dad had builtforthem.Abugsmacked thewindow screen a few times,like it really wanted to getinside.“You sure you didn’t hear

anything?”“Yeah.”Jeremy looked atme for a

minute. “All right, then,” hesaid,andturnedout the light.Another car passed and thecrap-apple man did his little

jigon the ceiling. The housewas so quiet I could hearJeremy breathing these longevenbreaths.IsangasongtoMr.Fuzzywhile Iwaited forhim to start up again. It wasthis song Mom used to singwhen I was a baby, the oneabout all the pretty littlehorses.And then Jeremy started

talkingagain.“Nobody got suspicious,”

he said, “until the third kiddisappeared—a little boy, hewas about your age too, Si.And then someone happenedto remember that all thesekids had to walk by thisMueller guy’s house on theirway to school. So a few ofthe parents got together thatnightandwentdownthere toseeifhehadseenanything.”It had gotten colder. I

wished Jeremy would shut

thewindow and Iwas goingto say something, but he justplowed on with his stupidstory. “Soon as he answeredthedoor,”Jeremysaid,“theycould tell something waswrong. Itwas all dark inside—there wasn’t a fire oranything—anditsmelledbad,like pigs or something. Theycouldhardlyseehim,too,justhiseyes,allhollowandshinyintheshadows.Theyaskedif

he’dseen the kids and that’swhen thingsgot reallyweird.He said he hadn’t seenanything, but he was actingall nervous, and he tried toclose the door. One of themenhelduphis lanternthen,and they could see his face.He hadn’t shaved and helookedrealthinandtherewasthis stuff smeared over hisface. It looked black in thelight,likepaint,onlyitwasn’t

paint.Youknowwhat itwas,Si?”I’d heard enough of

Jeremy’sstories tobeabletomakeaprettygoodguess,butI couldn’t seem to make mymouth say the word. Mr.Fuzzywasshakinghewassoscared. He was shaking realhard, and he was mad, too.He was mad at Jeremy fortryingtoscaremelikethat.“Itwas blood, Si,” Jeremy

said.That’s when I heard it

again, a whisper of metalagainst metal like the soundthe butcher makes at thegrocery store when he’sputtingtheedgeonaknife.Jeremy gasped. “Did you

hearthat?”Andjustlikethatthesound

diedaway.“No,”Isaid.Weweresilent,listening.

“What happened?” Iwhispered, because I wantedhimtofinishit.Ifhe finishedhe could do his dumb littlemadscientistlaughandadmithemadeitallup.“Heran,”Jeremysaid.“He

ran through the house and itwas all dark and he wentdown the basement, downwhere you found those rustyoldtools.Onlyitwasn’trust,Si.Itwasblood.Becauseyou

know what else they founddownthere?”I heard the whisper of

metal again—shir shir shir,thatsound thebutchermakeswhenhe’sputtingtheedgeona knife and his hands aremoving so fast the blade isjust a blur of light. ButJeremy had already startedtalkingagain.“They found the missing

kids,”hesaid,but it sounded

sofaraway.All I couldhearwas that sound in my head,shir shir shir. “They weredead,” Jeremy was saying,“andprettysoonhewasdead,too.Theykilledtheguyrightonthespot,hedidn’tevengeta trial. They put him downthe same way he’d killedthosekids.”I swallowed. “How was

that?”“He used those long nails

onthem,thoseskewerthings.Heknockedthemontheheador somethingand then,whilethey were out, he justhammered those things rightthrough them—wham whamwham—so they were pinnedtothefloor,theycouldn’tgetup.Andthenyouknowwhathedid?”Onlyhedidn’twaitforme

to answer, he couldn’t wait,he just rolled on. He said,

“Mueller used the scalpel onthem, then. He just rippedthem open and then—”Jeremy’s voice broke. It wasamasterful touch. “And thenhe started eating, Si. Hestarted eating before theywereevendead—”Jeremybrokeoffsuddenly,

and now the sound was soloud it seemed to shake thewalls—SHIR SHIR SHIR—and the room was so cold I

could see my breath foggingupthedark.“Christ, what’s that

sound?” Jeremy whimpered,and then he started makingmoaningsoundswaydowninhis throat, thewayhealwaysdid,likehewantedtoscreambuthewastooafraid.Mr. Fuzzy was shaking,

just shaking so hard, and Ihave to admit it, right then IhatedJeremywithahatredso

pure I could taste it, like anold penny under my tongue.The darkness seemed heavysuddenly, an iron weightpinningmetomybed.Itwascold,too.Itwassocold.I’veneverbeensocoldinmylife.“Christ, Si,” Jeremy

shrieked. “Stop it! Stop it!STOPIT!”Mr.Fuzzywasstillshaking

in my arms, and I hatedJeremy for that, I couldn’t

help it, but I tried to makemyself get up anyway, Ireally tried. Only the darkwas too thick and heavy. Itseemedtoflowoverme, likeconcrete that hadn’t quiteformedup,bindingmetomymattress with Mr. Fuzzycoweringinmyarms.Jeremy’s whole bed was

shaking now. He wasgrunting and wrestlingaround. I heard apop, like a

piece of taut rubber givingway, and a metallic whamwhamwham. There was thisliquidy gurgle and Jeremyactually screamed, this longdesperate scream from thebottom of his lungs. I reallyhad toadmire the jobhewasdoing, asmuch as I couldn’thelp being mad. He’d nevertaken it this far. It was likewatchingamasterattheverypeak of his form. There was

another one of those liquidythumpsandthenthesoundofthe hammer and then thewhole thing happened againand again. It happened somanytimesI lost track.AllIknew was that Jeremy hadstopped screaming, but Icouldn’t remember when.The only sound in the roomwas this muffled thrashingsound,andthatwentonforalittlewhile longerand then it

stopped, too. Everything juststopped.Itwassostill.Therewasn’t

anysoundatall.The dark lay heavyonmy

skin,pinningmedown.Itwasall I could do to open mymouth, to force theword out—“Jeremy?”Iwaited then. Iwaited for

the longest time to hear thatstupidVincentPrice laughof

his,tohearJeremytellingmehe’d gotten me this time, hewas only joking, Mwah-ha-ha-ha-ha.Butthelaughnevercame.Whatcameinsteadwasthe

sound of someone chewing,the sound of someone whohadn’thadamealinagesjusttuckingrightinandhavingatit, smacking his lips andslurping and everything, anditwentonandonandon.The

whole time I just lay there. Icouldn’tmoveatall.It must have gone on for

hours.Idon’tknowhowlongitwenton.AllIknowis thatsuddenly I realized it wassilent,Icouldn’thearathing.I waited some more for

Jeremy to make that stupidlaugh of his. And then afunny thing happened. Iwasn’t lying inmy bed afterall. I was standing up

betweenthebeds,bythemilkcrate we used for a nightstand, and Iwas tired. Iwasso tired. My legs ached likeI’d been standing there forhours. My arms ached, too.Every part of me ached. Iachedallover.I kept having these crazy

thoughts, too. About ghostsand hunger and how hungryMadDogMuellermust havebeen, after all those years

downin thebasement.Abouthowmaybehe’dspentallthattime waiting down there,waitingfortherightpersontocome along, someone whowasjustashungryashewas.They were the craziest

thoughts,but Icouldn’tseemto stop thinking them. I juststoodtherebetweenthebeds.My face was wet, too, mywhole face, my mouth andeverything. Imust havebeen

crying.I just stood there waiting

for Jeremy to laugh thatstupidmad scientist laugh ofhis and tell me it was all agame. And I have to admitsomething: Iwasscared, too.Iwassoscared.Butitwasn’tthedarkIwas

scaredof.Godhelpme,Ididn’twant

toturnonthelight.

CargoE.MICHAELLEWIS

E.Michael Lewis studied creativewriting at theUniversityofPuget

Sound. He loves to write ghoststories. His story “Lost andFound” premiered as an e-bookfrom Samhain Publications thisyear.Otherstoriescanbefoundin

Exotic Gothic 4, The Horror

Anthology of Horror Anthologies,All Hallows, and on various

websites.He’s also on Facebook.Mr.Lewisisalifelongnativeofthe

Pacific Northwest, wherehe liveswithhistwosons.

Of “Cargo,” hewrites: “Of thenine hundred peoplewhodied in

the JonestownMassacre, nearly athird of themwere under the age

ofeighteen.Thisstoryisdedicatedtothefamilieswholostlovedonesat Jonestown, and to the

servicemen and -women whobrought them home.” He iscurrentlyundercontracttowritea

screenplaybasedonthisstory.

November1978

Idreamtofcargo.Thousandsof crates filled the airplane’shold, all made of unfinishedpine, the kind that drivesslivers through work gloves.They were stamped withunknowable numbers andbizarreacronymsthatglowed

fiercely with dim red light.They were supposed to bejeep tires, but some were aslarge as a house, others assmall as a spark plug, all ofthem secured to pallets withbinding like straitjacketstraps. I tried to check themall, but therewere toomany.Therewasa lowshufflingasthe boxes shifted, then thecargo fell on me. I couldn’treach the interphone to warn

the pilot. The cargo presseddownonmewitha thousandsharp little fingers as theplanerolled,crushingthelifeout ofme even aswe dived,even as we crashed, theinterphoneringingnowlikeascream.Buttherewasanothersound too, from inside thecrate next to my ear.Something struggled insidethe box, something soddenand defiled, something that I

didn’twanttosee,somethingthatwantedout.It changed into the sound

of a clipboard being rappedon the metal frame of mycrew house bunk. My eyesshot open. The airman—newin-country, by the sweatlining his collar—stood overme, holding the clipboardbetween us, trying to decideif I was the type to rip hishead off just for doing his

job. “Tech Sergeant Davis,”hesaid,“theyneedyouontheflightlinerightaway.”I sat up and stretched. He

handedme the clipboard andattachedmanifest:aknocked-down HU-53 with flightcrew,mechanics,andmedicalsupport personnel boundfor...somewherenew.“TimehriAirport?”“It’s outside Georgetown,

Guyana.” When I looked

blank, he went on, “It’s aformer British colony.Timehri used to be AtkinsonAirForceBase.”“What’sthemission?”“It’s some kind of mass

med-evac of ex-pats fromsomewhere calledJonestown.”Americans in trouble. I’d

spent a good part of my AirForce career flyingAmericans out of trouble.

That being said, flyingAmericansoutoftroublewasahellofalotmoresatisfyingthan hauling jeep tires. Ithankedhimandhurried intoacleanflightsuit.I was looking forward to

another PanamanianThanksgiving at Howard AirForce Base—eighty-fivedegrees, turkey and stuffingfrom the mess hall, footballonArmedForcesRadio, and

enough time out of flightrotation to get good anddrunk. The in-bound hopfrom thePhilippineswentbythe numbers and both thepassengers and cargo werefreeandeasy.Nowthis.Interruptionwassomething

yougrewaccustomed toasaLoadmaster. The C-141StarLifter was the largestfreighter and troop carrier inthe Military Air Command,

capable of carrying seventythousand pounds of cargo ortwo hundred battle-readytroops and flying themanywhere in the world. Halfaslongasafootballfield,thehigh-set, swept-back wingsdrooped batlike over thetarmac. With an upswept T-tail, petal-doors, and a built-in cargo ramp, the StarLifterwasunmatchedwhenitcameto moving cargo. Part

stewardess and part movingman,myjobasaLoadmasterwastopackitas tightandassafeaspossible.With everything onboard

and my weight and balancesheets complete, the sameairman found me cussing upthe Panamanian ground crewforleavingascuffmarkontheairframe.“Sergeant Davis! Change

in plans,” he yelled over the

whine of the forklift. Hehandedmeanothermanifest.“Morepassengers?”“New passengers. Med

crewisstayinghere.”Hesaidsomething unintelligibleaboutachangeofmission.“Whoarethesepeople?”Again, I strained to hear

him. Or maybe I heard himfine and with the sinking inmy gut, I wanted him torepeatit.Iwantedtohearhim

wrong.“Graves registration,” he

cried.That’s what I’d thought

he’dsaid.Timehri was your typicalthird world airport—largeenough to squeeze down a747,butstrewnwithpotholesand sprawling with rustedQuonsethuts.Thelowlineofjungle surrounding the fieldlooked as if it had been

beaten back only an hourbefore.HelicoptersbuzzedupanddownandUSservicemenswarmed the tarmac. I knewthenthatthingsmustbebad.Outside the bird, the heat

rising from the asphaltthreatenedtomeltthesolesofmy boots even before I hadthewheel chocks inplace.AgroundcrewofAmericanGIsapproached, anxious tounload and assemble the

chopper. One of them, barechested with his shirt tiedaround hiswaist, handed meamanifest.“Don’tgetcomfy,”hesaid.

“As soon as the chopper’sclear,we’re loadingyouup.”Henoddedoverhisshoulder.I looked out over the

shimmeringtaxiway.Coffins.Rows and rows of dullaluminum funerary boxesgleamed in the unforgiving

tropical sun. I recognizedthem from my flights out ofSaigonsixyearsago,myfirstas Loadmaster. Maybe myinsides did a little flipbecause I’d had no rest, ormaybe because I hadn’tcarrieda stiff ina fewyears.Still, I swallowed hard. Ilooked at the destination:Dover,Delaware.

The ground crew loaded a

fresh comfort pallet when Ilearned we’d have twopassengers on the outboundflight.The first was a kid, right

outofhighschoolbythelookof it, with bristle-black hair,and too-large jungle fatiguesthatwerestarched,clean,andshowed the rank of AirmanFirst Class. I told him,“Welcomeaboard,”andwenttohelphimthrough thecrew

door, but he jerked away,nearlyhittinghisheadagainstthe low entrance. I think hewouldhaveleaptbackiftherehad been room.His scent hitme, strong and medicinal—VicksVapoRub.Behind him a flight nurse,

crispandprofessionalinstep,dress, and gesture, alsoboardedwithout assistance. Iregarded her evenly. Irecognized her as one of a

batch I had flown regularlyfromClark in thePhilippinestoDaNangandbackagaininmy early days. A steel-eyed,silver-haired lieutenant. Shehadbeenveryspecific—morethan once—in pointing outhow any numbskull highschool dropout could do myjob better. The name on heruniform read Pembry. Shetouched the kid on his backand guided him to the seats,

butifsherecognizedme,shesaidnothing.“Take a seat anywhere,” I

told them. “I’m TechSergeant Davis. We’ll bewheels up in less than a halfan hour so make yourselfcomfortable.”The kid stopped short.

“Youdidn’t tellme,”he saidtothenurse.The hold of a StarLifter is

most like the inside of a

boilerroom,withalltheheat,cooling, and pressure ductsexposed rather than hiddenaway likeon an airliner.Thecoffins formed two rowsdown the length of the hold,leaving a center aisle clear.Stackedfourhigh,therewereone hundred and sixty ofthem.Yellowcargonetsheldthem in place. Looking pastthem, we watched thesunlight disappear as the

cargohatchclosed,leavingusinanawkwardsemidarkness.“It’s the fastestway to get

you home,” she said to him,her voiceneutral.“Youwanttogohome,don’tyou?”His voice dripped with

fearfuloutrage.“Idon’twanttoseethem.Iwanta forwardfacingseat.”If the kid would have

lookedaround,hecouldhaveseen that there were no

forwardfacingseats.“It’s okay,” she said,

tugging on his arm again.“They’regoinghome,too.”“I don’t want to look at

them,”he said as shepushedhim to a seat nearest one ofthe smallwindows.Whenhedidn’t move to strap himselfin,Pembrybentanddiditforhim.Hegrippedthehandrailsliketheoh-shitbaronarollercoaster.“Idon’twanttothink

aboutthem.”“I got it.” I went forward

and shut down the cabinlights.Nowonlythetwinredjump lights illuminated thelongmetalcontainers.WhenIreturned, I brought him apillow.The ID label on the kid’s

loose jacket read“Hernandez.” He said,“Thank you,” but did not letgoofthearmrests.

Pembry strapped herself innext to him. I stowed theirgear and went through myfinalchecklist.

Once in the air, I brewedcoffeeontheelectricstoveinthe comfort pallet. NursePembry declined, butHernandez took some. Theplastic cup shook in hishands.“Afraidofflying?”Iasked.

It wasn’t so unusual for theAir Force. “I have someDramamine...”“I’m not afraid of flying,”

he said through clenchedteeth.Allthewhilehelookedpast me, to the boxes liningthehold.Nextthecrew.Noonebird

was assigned the same crew,like in the old days. TheMAC took great pride inhaving men be so

interchangeable that a flightcrew who had never metbefore could assemble at aflight line and fly anyStarLifter to the ends of theEarth. Each man knew myjob,likeIknewtheirs, insideandout.I went to the cockpit and

found everyone on stations.The second engineer satclosest to the cockpit door,hunched over

instrumentation. “Four isevening out now, keep thethrottle low,” he said. Irecognized his hangdog faceandhisArkansasdrawl,butIcould not tell from where. Ifigured after seven years offlyingStarLifters,Ihadflownwith just about everybody atone time or another. HethankedmeasIset theblackcoffeeonhistable.HisflightsuitnamedhimHadley.

Thefirstengineersatinthebitchseat, the one usuallyreserved for a “BlackHatter”—mission inspectorswere the bane of all MACaircrews. He asked for twolumps and then stood andlooked out the navigator’sdomeatthebluerushingpast.“Throttle low on four, got

it,” replied the pilot. Hewasthe designated AircraftCommander,butbothheand

theco-pilotweresuchtypicalflight jocks that they couldhave been the same person.They took their coffee withtwo creams each. “We’retryingtooutflysomeclearairturbulence, but it won’t beeasy.Tell your passengers toexpectsomeweather.”“Will do, sir. Anything

else?”“Thank you, Load Davis,

that’sall.”

“Yes,sir.”Finally time to relax. As I

went to have a horizontalmoment in the crew berth, IsawPembrysnoopingaroundthecomfortpallet.“AnythingIcanhelpyoufind?”“Anextrablanket?”I pulled one from the

storage cabinet between thecooking station and thelatrine and gritted my teeth.“Anythingelse?”

“No,” she said, pulling apiece of imaginary lint fromthe wool. “We’ve flowntogetherbefore,youknow.”“Havewe?”She raised an eyebrow. “I

probablyoughttoapologize.”“Noneed,ma’am,”Isaid.I

dodged around her andopened the fridge. “I couldserveanin-flightmeallaterifyouare...”Sheplacedherhandonmy

shoulder, like she had onHernandez, and itcommanded my attention.“Youdorememberme.”“Yes,ma’am.”“I was pretty hard on you

duringthoseevacflights.”I wished she’d stop being

sodirect.“Youwerespeakingyour mind, ma’am. It mademeabetterLoadmaster.”“Still...”“Ma’am, there’s no need.”

Why can’twomen figure outthat apologies only makethingsworse?“Verywell.” The hardness

of her face melted intosincerity, and suddenly itoccurred to me that shewantedtotalk.“How’syourpatient?”“Resting.” Pembry tried to

act casual, but I knew shewantedtosaymore.“What’shisproblem?”

“Hewasoneof thefirst toarrive,” she said, “and thefirsttoleave.”“Jonestown? Was it that

bad?”Flashback to our earlier

evac flights. The old look,hard and cool, returnedinstantly. “We flew out ofDoveronWhiteHouseordersfive hours after they got thecall.He’s aMedicalRecordsSpecialist, six months in the

service, he’s never beenanywherebefore,neversawadayoftraumainhislife.Nextthing he knows, he’s in aSouthAmericanjunglewithathousanddeadbodies.”“Athousand?”“Count’snotinyet,butit’s

headed that way.” Shebrushed thebackofherhandagainst her cheek. “Somanykids.”“Kids?”

“Whole families. They alldrank poison. Some kind ofcult, theysaid.Someone toldme the parents killed theirchildren first. I don’t knowwhatcouldmakeapersondothattotheirownfamily.”Sheshook her head. “I stayed atTimehri to organize triage.Hernandezsaidthesmellwasunimaginable. They had tospray the bodies withinsecticide and defend them

from hungry giant rats. Hesaid they made him bayonetthe bodies to release thepressure. He burned hisuniform.” She shuffled tokeep her balance as the birdjolted.Something nasty crept

down the back of my throatasItriednottovisualizewhatshe said. I struggled not togrimace. “The AC says itmay get rough. You better

strapin.”Iwalkedherbacktoher seat. Hernandez’s mouthgaped as he sprawled acrosshis seat, looking for all theworld like he’d lost a barfight—bad. Then I went tomybunkandfellasleep.

AskanyLoadmaster:aftersomuchtimeintheair,theroarof engines is something youignore. You find you cansleep through just about

anything. Still, your mindtunes in andwakes up at thesound of anything unusual,liketheflightfromYakotatoElmendorfwhena jeepcameloose and rolled into a crateof MREs. Chipped beefeverywhere.You can bet theground crew heard from meon that one. So it should notcomeasashockthatIstartedatthesoundofascream.On my feet, out of the

bunk, past the comfort palletbefore I could think. Then Isaw Pembry. Shewas out ofher seat and in front ofHernandez, dodging hisflailing arms, speakingcalmly and below the enginenoise.Nothim,though.“I heard them! I heard

them! They’re in there! Allthosekids!Allthosekids!”I put my hand on him—

hard.“Calmdown!”

He stopped flailing. Ashamedexpressioncameoverhim.Hiseyesrivetedmine.“Iheardthemsinging.”“Who?”“The children! All the...”

Hegaveahelplessgesturetotheunlightedcoffins.“You had a dream,”

Pembrysaid.Hervoiceshooka little. “I was with you thewholetime.Youwereasleep.You couldn’t have heard

anything.”“Allthechildrenaredead,”

he said. “All of them. Theydidn’tknow.Howcould theyhave known they weredrinking poison?Whowouldgivetheirownchildpoisontodrink?”Iletgoofhisarmandhe looked at me. “Do youhavekids?”“No,”Isaid.“Mydaughter,”hesaid,“is

ayear-and-a-halfold.Myson

is threemonths.You have tobe carefulwith them, patientwith them.Mywife is reallygoodatit,y’know?”Inoticedfor the first time how sweatcrawled across his forehead,the backs of his hands. “ButI’mokaytoo,Imean,Idon’treally know what the fuckI’mdoing,butIwouldn’thurtthem. I hold themand I singto them and—and if anyoneelse tried to hurt them...”He

grabbed me on the arm thathad held him. “Who wouldgivetheirchildpoison?”“It isn’t your fault,” I told

him.“They didn’t know it was

poison. They still don’t.” Hepulledmecloserandsaidintomy ear, “I heard themsinging.”I’llbedamnedifthewords he spoke didn’t makemyspineshiver.“I’llgocheckitout,”Itold

him as I grabbed a flashlightoffthewallandstarteddownthecenteraisle.There was a practical

reason for checking out thenoise. As a Loadmaster, Iknew that an unusual soundmeant trouble. I had heard astory about how an aircrewkept hearing the sound of acat meowing fromsomewhere in the hold. Theloadmaster couldn’t find it,

but figured it’d turnupwhenthey off-loaded the cargo.Turnsoutthe“meowing”wasa weakened load brace thatbuckled when the wheelstouchedrunway,freeingthreetons of explosive ordnanceandmaking the landing veryinteresting. Strange noisesmeant trouble, and I’d havebeenafoolnottolookintoit.I checked all the buckles

and netting as I went,

stooping and listening,checkingforsignsofshifting,frayingstraps,anythingoutofthe ordinary. I went up onesideanddowntheother,evenchecking the cargo doors.Nothing. Everything wassound,myusualbestwork.I walked up the aisle to

face them. Hernandez wept,head in his hands. Pembryrubbed his back with onehand as she sat next to him,

like my mother had done tome.“All clear, Hernandez.” I

put theflashlightbackonthewall.“Thanks,” Pembry replied

for him, then said to me, “IgavehimaValium,heshouldquietdownnow.”“Justasafetycheck,”Itold

her. “Now, both of you getsomerest.”Iwentback tomybunk to

find it occupied by Hadley,the second engineer. I tookthe one below him butcouldn’t fall asleep rightaway.Itriedtokeepmymindfarawayfromthereasonthatthecoffinswereinmybirdinthefirstplace.Cargowas theeuphemism.

From blood plasma to highexplosives to secret servicelimousines to gold bullion,you packed it and hauled it

because itwas your job, thatwas all, and anything thatcould be done to speed youonyourwaywasimportant.Just cargo, I thought. But

whole families that killedthemselves...Iwasglad togetthem the hell out of thejungle, back home to theirfamilies—butthemedicswhogot there first, all those guysontheground,evenmycrew,we were too late to do any

more than that. I wasinterested inhavingkids in avague, unsettled sort ofway,and it pissed me off to hearabout anyone harming them.But these parents did itwillingly,didn’tthey?Icouldn’trelax.Ifoundan

old copy of the New YorkTimes folded into the bunk.Peace in the Middle East inour lifetimes, it read.Next tothe article was a picture of

President Carter and AnwarSadat shaking hands. I wasjust about to drift offwhen Ithought I heard Hernandezcryoutagain.I dragged my ass up.

Pembrystoodwithherhandsclutched over her mouth. Ithought Hernandez had hither, so I went to her andpeeled her hands away,lookingfordamage.There was none. Looking

overhershoulder,IcouldseeHernandezrivetedtohisseat,eyes glued to the darknesslikeareversecolortelevision.“What happened? Did he

hityou?”“He—he heard it again,”

she stammered as one handrose to her face again. ‘You—you ought to go checkagain. You ought to gocheck...”The pitch of the plane

shiftedandshefell intomealittle,andasIsteadiedmyselfby grabbing her elbow shecollapsed against me. I methergazematter-of-factly.Shelooked away. “Whathappened?”Iaskedagain.“I heard it too,” Pembry

said.My eyes went to the aisle

ofshadow.“Justnow?”“Yes.”“Was it like he said?

Children singing?” I realizedIwasonthevergeofshakingher. Were they both goingcrazy?“Children playing,” she

said. “Like—playgroundnoise, y’know? Kidsplaying.”I wracked my brain for

some object, or somecollection of objects, thatwhen stuffed into a C-141StarLifter and flown thirty-

nine thousand feet over theCaribbean, would make asoundlikechildrenplaying.Hernandez shifted his

positionandwebothbroughtour attention to bear on him.He smiled a defeated smileandsaidtous,“Itoldyou.”“I’llgocheckitout,”Itold

them.“Let them play,” said

Hernandez. “They just wantto play. Isn’t that what you

wantedtodoasakid?”I remembered my

childhood like a jolt, endlesssummers and bike rides andskinned knees and cominghome at dusk to my mothersaying,“Look how dirty youare.” I wondered if therecovery crews washed thebodies before they put theminthecoffins.“I’ll find outwhat it is,” I

toldthem.Iwentandgot the

flashlightagain.“Stayput.”Iusedthedarknesstoclose

offmysight,givememoretohear. The turbulence hadsubsided by then, and I usedmy flashlight only to avoidtrippingon thecargonetting.Ilistenedforanythingneworunusual. It wasn’t one thing—it had to be a combination—noises like that just don’tstop and start again. Fuelleak?Stowaway?Thethought

of a snake or some otherjungle beast lurking insidethosemetalboxesheightenedmywhole state of being andbroughtbackmydream.Nearthecargodoors,Ishut

off my light and listened.Pressurized air. Four Prattand Whitney turbofanengines. Fracture rattles.Cargostrapsflapping.And then, something.

Something came in sharp

after a moment, at first dullandsweeping,likenoisefromthe back of a cave, but thenpure and unbidden, likesounds to a surprisedeavesdropper.Children. Laughter. Like

recessatgradeschool.I opened my eyes and

flashed my light around thesilver crates. I found themwaiting, huddled with me,almostexpectant.

Children, I thought, justchildren.I ran past Hernandez and

Pembrytothecomfortpallet.Ican’ttellyouwhattheysawin my face, but if it wasanything like what I saw inthe little mirror above thelatrine sink, I would havebeen at once terrified andredeemed.Ilookedfromthemirrorto

the interphone. Any problem

with the cargo should bereported immediately—procedure demanded it—butwhat could I tell the AC? Ihadanurgetodropitall,justeject the coffinsand call it aday.IfItoldhimtherewasafire in the hold, we woulddropbelow ten thousand feetsoIcouldblowtheboltsandsend the whole load to thebottom of the Gulf ofMexico,noquestionsasked.

Istoppedthen,straightenedup, tried to think.Children, Ithought. Not monsters, notdemons, just the sounds ofchildren playing. Nothingthatwillgetyou.Nothingthatcan get you. I tossed off theshiver that ran through mybodyanddecidedtogetsomehelp.At the bunk, I found

Hadley still asleep. A dog-eared copy of a paperback

showing two women lockedin a passionate embrace laylike a tent on his chest. Ishookhis armandhe satup.Neither of us said anythingforamoment.He rubbed hisface with one hand andyawned.Thenhelookedrightatme

and I watched his face archinto worry. His next actionwas to grab his portableoxygen. He recovered his

game face in an instant.“Whatisit,Davis?”I groped for something.

“Thecargo.” I said. “There’sa...possibleshiftin thecargo.Ineedahand,sir.”His worry snapped into

annoyance. “Have you toldtheAC?”“Nosir,”Isaid.“I—Idon’t

want to trouble him yet. Itmaybenothing.”His face screwed into

something unpleasant and Ithought I’d havewords fromhim, but he let me lead thewayaft.Justhispresencewasenough to revive my doubt,myprofessionalism.Mywalksharpened,myeyeswidened,my stomach returned to itsplaceinmygut.IfoundPembrysittingnext

to Hernandez now, bothtogether in a feignedindifference. Hadley gave

themadisinterestedlookandfollowed me down the aislebetweenthecoffins.“What about the main

lights?”heasked.“They don’t help,” I said.

“Here.” I handed him theflashlightandaskedhim,“Doyouhearit?”“Hearwhat?”“Justlisten.”Again, only engines and

thejetstream.“Idon’t...”

“Shhh!Listen.”His mouth opened and

stayed there for a minute,then shut. The enginesquietedandthesoundscame,dripping over us like watervapor, the fog of soundaround us. I didn’t realizehowcoldIwasuntilInoticedmyhandsshaking.“What in the hell is that?”

Hadleyasked.“Itsoundslike—”

“Don’t,” I interrupted.“Thatcan’tbeit.”Inoddedatthemetal boxes. “You knowwhat’s in thesecoffins,don’tyou?”He didn’t say anything.

The sound seemed to filteraround us for a moment, atonceclose,thenfaraway.Hetriedtofollowthesoundwithhislight.“Canyoutellwhereit’scomingfrom?”“No.I’mjustgladyouhear

ittoo,sir.”The engineer scratched his

head, his face drawn, like heswallowed something fouland couldn’t lose theaftertaste. “I’ll be damned,”hedrawled.All at once, as before, the

sound stopped, and the roarofthejetsfilledourears.“I’ll hit the lights.” I

moved away hesitantly. “I’mnotgoingtocalltheAC.”

His silence wasconspiratorial. As I rejoinedhim,Ifoundhimexaminingaparticular row of coffinsthroughthenetting.“You need to conduct a

search,”hesaiddully.I didn’t respond. I’d done

midaircargosearchesbefore,but never like this, not evenon bodies of servicemen. Ifeverything Pembry said wastrue, I couldn’t think of

anything worse than openingoneofthesecaskets.Webothstartedatthenext

sound. Imagine a wet tennisball.Now imagine the soundawettennisballmakeswhenit hits the court—a sort ofdull THWAK—like a birdstriking the fuselage. Itsoundedagain,andthistimeIcould hear it inside the hold.Then, after a buffet ofturbulence, the thump

sounded again. It cameclearly from a coffin atHadley’sfeet.Not a serious problem, his

face tried to say. We justimaginedit.Anoisefromonecoffin can’t bring a planedown,hisfacesaid.Therearenosuchthingsasghosts.“Sir?”“Weneedtosee,”hesaid.Blood pooled in my

stomach again. See, he had

said.Ididn’twanttosee.“Get on the horn and tell

theACtoavoidthechop,”hesaid. I knew at that momenthewasgoing tohelpme.Hedidn’t want to, but he wasgoingtodoitanyway.“What are you doing?”

Pembry asked. She stood byas I removed the cargonetting from the row ofcaskets while the engineerundid the individual straps

around that one certain row.Hernandezsleptheadbowed,the downers having finallytakeneffect.“We have to examine the

cargo,” I stated matter-of-factly. “The flight may havecaused the load to becomeunbalanced.”She grabbed my arm as I

wentby.“Wasthatallitwas?Ashiftingload?”There was a touch of

desperation in her question.TellmeIimaginedit,thelookonherfacesaid.TellmeandI’ll believe you, and I’ll gogetsomesleep.“Wethinkso,”Inodded.Hershouldersdroppedand

her face peeled into a smiletoo broad to be real. “ThankGod. I thought I was goingcrazy.”I patted her shoulder.

“Strapinandgetsomerest,”I

toldher.Shedid.Finally, I was doing

something. As Loadmaster, Icould put an end to thisnonsense.SoIdidthework.Iunstrapped the straps,climbed the other caskets,shoved the top one out ofplace, carried it, secured it,removedthenextone,carriedit, secured it, and again. Thejoyofeasyrepetition.Itwasn’tuntilwegottothe

bottom one, the noisy one,thatHadleystopped.HestoodtherewatchingmeasIpulledit out of place enough toexamine it. His stance waslevel,butevenso it spokeofrevulsion, something that,among swaggeringAir Forceveterans and over beers, hecould conceal. Not now, nottome.Ididacursoryexamination

of the deckwhere it had sat,

of the caskets next to it, andsaw no damage or obviousflaws.A noise sounded—a moist

“thunk.” From inside. Weflinched in unison. Theengineer’s cool loathing wasimpossible to conceal. Isuppressedatremble.“We have to open it,” I

said.The engineer didn’t

disagree, but like me, his

body was slow to move. Hesquatted down and,with onehand firmly planted on thecasket lid, unlatched theclasps on his end. I undidmine,findingmyfingersslickon the cold metal, andshaking a little as I pulledthem away and braced myhandonthelid.Oureyesmetin one moment that held thelast of our resolve. Together,weopenedthecasket.

First, the smell: a mash ofrotten fruit, antiseptic, andformaldehyde, wrapped inplastic with dung and sulfur.Itstungournostrilsasitfilledthehold.Theoverhead lightsilluminated two shiny blackbody bags, slick withcondensation and waste. Iknew these would be the

bodies of children, but itawed me, hurt me. One baglay unevenly concealing theother, and I understood atoncethattherewasmorethanone child in it. My eyesskimmed the juice-soakedplastic, picking out thecontour of an arm, the traceof a profile. A shape coilednear the bottom seam, awayfrom the rest. It was the sizeofababy.

Then the plane shiveredlikeafrightenedponyandthetopbagslidaway to reveal ayoung girl, eight or nine atthemost,half inandhalfoutof the bag. Wedged like amad contortionist into thecorner, her swollen belly,showing stab wounds frombayonets, had bloated again,and her twisted limbs werenow as thick as tree limbs.Thepigment-bearingskinhad

peeled away everywhere buther face, which was as pureandasinnocentasanycherubinheaven.Her face was really what

drove it home, what reallyhurtme.Hersweetface.Myhandfixed itself to the

casket edge in painfulwhiteness, but I dared notremove it. Something caughtin my throat and I forced itbackdown.

A lone fly, fat andglistening, crawled frominsidethebagandflewlazilytowards Hadley. He slowlyrose to his feet and bracedhimself, as if against a bodyblow.Hewatched it rise andflitaclumsypaththroughtheair. Then he broke themomentbysteppingback,hishandsflailingandhittingit—Iheardtheslapofhishand—and letting a nauseous sound

escapehislips.When I stood up, my

templesthrobbedandmylegsweakened. I held onto anearby casket, my throatfilledwithsomethingrancid.“Close it,” he said like a

man with his mouth full.“Closeit.”My arms went rubbery.

After bracingmyself, I liftedone legandkicked the lid. Itrangoutlikeanartilleryshot.

Pressure pounded into myears like during a rapiddescent.Hadleyputhishandsonhis

haunches and lowered hishead, taking deep breathsthrough his mouth. “Jesus,”hecroaked.I saw movement. Pembry

stood next to the line ofcoffins,her facepulled up insourdisgust.“What—is—that—smell?”

“It’sokay.”IfoundIcouldworkonearmand triedwhatI hoped looked like an off-handed gesture. “Found theproblem. Had to open it upthough.Gositdown.”Pembry brought her hands

up around herself and wentbacktoherseat.I found that with a few

more deep breaths, the smelldissipatedenoughtoact.“Wehave to secure it,” I told

Hadley.He looked up from the

floor and I saw his eyes asnarrow slits. His hands werein fists and his broad torsostood fierce and straight. Atthe corner of his eyes,wetness glinted. He saidnothing.It became cargo again as I

fastened the latches. Westrained to fit it back intoplace.Inamatterofminutes,

the other caskets werestowed, the exterior strapswere in place, the cargonettingdrapedandsecure.Hadley waited for me to

finish up, then walkedforwardswithme.“I’mgoingto tell theACyousolved theproblem,”hesaid,“andtogetusbacktospeed.”Inodded.“Onemore thing,”hesaid.

“Ifyouseethatfly,killit.”

“Didn’tyou...”“No.”I didn’t knowwhat else to

say,soIsaid,“Yes,sir.”Pembry sat in her seat,

nose wriggled up, feigningsleep.Hernandez sat upright,eyelids half open. Hegestured for me to comecloser,benddown.“Did you let them out to

play?”heasked.I stood over him and said

nothing. In my heart, I feltthat same pang I did as achild, when summer wasover.Whenwe landed inDover,

a funeral detail in full dressoffloaded every coffin,affordingfullfuneralrightstoeachperson.I’mtoldasmorebodies flew in, the formalitywas scrapped and only asolitary Air Force chaplainmet the planes. By week’s

end I was back in Panamawithastomachfullof turkeyand cheap rum. Then it wasoff to the Marshall Islands,delivering supplies to theguidedmissile base there. Inthe Military Air Command,thereisnoshortageofcargo.

DeltaSlyHoney

LUCIUSSHEPARD

LuciusShepard’s short fictionhaswontheNebulaAward,theHugoAward, the International HorrorGuild Award, the NationalMagazine Award, the Locus

Award, the Theodore SturgeonAward, and the World FantasyAward.

Shepard’s most recent book isTheDragonGriaule,which bringstogether fivepreviously publishedstories and one new short novelabouta6,000footdragon.

Forthcoming is another shortfiction collection, FiveAutobiographies, and two novels,tentatively titled The PiercefieldsandTheEnd ofLifeAsWeKnowIt.

There was this guy I knew

at Noc Linh, worked thecorpse detail, guy name ofRandall J. Willingham, askinny red-haired Southernboywithaplagueof frecklesandeyesblueaspokerchips,and sometimes when he gothigh, he’d wander up to theoperations bunker and startspoutingallkindsofshitoverthe radio, telling about his

hometown and his dog, hisopinion of the war (he wasagainst it), and what it waslike making love to hisgirlfriend, talking real prettyand wistful about her ways,the things she’d whisper andhowshe’ddrawherkneesuptighttoherchesttolethimgoindeep.Therewassomethingpure and peaceful in hisvoice, his phrasing, andlistening to him, you could

feel the war draining out ofyou, and soon you’d beremembering your own girl,yourowndogandhometown,notwithheartsicklongingbutwith joy in knowing you’dhad at least that muchsweetness of life. For manyof us, his voice came to bethe oracle of our luck, oursurvival, and even the brasswho tried to stop hisbroadcasts finally realized he

wasdoingadamnsightmoregoodthananymoraleofficer,and it got to where anytimethe war was going slow andthere was some free air,they’d call Randall up andask if he felt in themood todoalittletalking.The funny thing was that

except for when he had amike in his hand, you couldhardly drag a word out ofRandall.Hehadbeena loner

from day one of his tour,limiting his conversation to“Hey” and “How you?” andsuch, and his celebrity statuscaused him to become evenless talkative. This was bestexplainedbywhathe toldusonceover theair:“Youmeetol’ Randall J. on the street,and you gonna say, ‘Why,thatcan’tbeRandallJ.!Thatdumb-lookin’ hillbillycouldn’t recite the swearin’-

in-oath, let alone be thehottest damn radiopersonality in SouthVietnam!’Andyou’dberightonthemoney,’causeRandallJ. don’t go more’n doublefigures for IQ, and he ain’tgot the imagination of astump, and if you stoppedhimtosay‘Howdy,’chancesare he’d be stuck for aresponse. But lemme tell ya,whenheputshisvoiceintoa

mike,ol’Randall J.becomesone with the airwaves, andthe light that’s been darkinside him goes bright, andhis spirit streams out alongThunder Road and past theNapalm Coast, mixin’ withthe ozone and changin’ intoRandall J. Willingham, theHigh Priest of the SoulfulTruth and theHolyGhost oftheSixty-CycleHum.”Thebasewassituatedona

gentlyinclinedhillsetamongother hills, all of which hadonce been part of theMichelin rubber plantation,but now were almostcompletely defoliated,transformedintodustybrownlumps.Nearlyseventhousandmen were stationed there,living in bunkers and tentsdotting the slopes, and theonlybuildingwithanydegreeof permanence was an

outsized Quonset hut thathoused the PX; it stood justinside thewireat thebaseofthehill.IwaspartoftheMPcontingent,andIguessIwasthe closest thingRandall hadtoafriend.Weweren’treallytight,but being from a smallSouthern town myself, theson of gentry, Iwas familiarwith his type—fey, quietfarmboys whosevulnerabilities rundeep—and

I felt both sympathy andresponsibility for him. Mysympathy wasn’t misplaced:nobody could have had aworse job, especially whenyoutookintoaccountthefactthathistopsergeant,abeady-eyed, brush-cut, tackle-sizedArmy lifer named AndrewMoon,hadchosenhimforhiswhippingboy.EverymorningI’d pass the tin-roofed shedwhere the corpses were off-

loaded(it,too,wasjustinsidethewire, but on the oppositesideof thehill fromthePX),and there Randall would be,laboring among body bagsthat were piled around likehuge black fruit, with Moonhovering in the backgroundand scowling. I alwaysmadeit a point to stop and talk toRandallinordertogivehimabreak from Moon’s tyranny,and though he never

expressed his gratitude orsaid very much aboutanything, soon he began tocall me by my Christianname,Curt, insteadofbymyrank. Each time I made toleave, I would see the straincome back into his face, andbefore I had gone beyondearshot, I would hear Moonrevilinghim. I believe itwasthose days of staring intostomachcavities,intocharred

hearts and brains, andMoonall the while screaming athim...Ibelievethatwaswhathad squeezed the poetry outof Randall and birthed hisradiosoul.I tried to get Moon to

lighten up. One afternoon Ibearded him in his tent andaskedwhyhewasmistreatingRandall.OfcourseIknewtheanswer.MenlikeMoon,menwho have secured a little

power and grown bloatedfrom its use, they don’t needan excuse for brutality;there’s so much meannessinside them, it’s bound toslopoverontosomebody.But—thinking I could handlehim better than Randall—Iplanned to divert hismeanness, set myself up ashis target, and this seemed agoodwaytoopen.Hedidn’tbite,however;he

just lay on his cot, squintingupatmeandnoddingsagely,as if he saw through mycharade. His jowls werespeckled with a few days’growth of stubble, hairssparse and black as pigbristles. “Y’know,” he said,“I couldn’t figure why youwerebuddyin’uptothatfool,so I had a look at yourrecords.” He gruntedlaughter.“NowIgotit.”

“Oh?” I said, maintainingmycool.“You got quite a heritage,

son! All that noble Southernblood,allthemdeadgeneralsand senators. When I seenthat, I said tomyself, ‘Don’tget on this boy’s case tooheavy,Andy.He’s just tryin’to be like his great-grandaddy, doin’ a kindnessnowand then for the darkiesand the poor white trash.’

Ain’tthatright?”I couldn’t deny that a

shadow of the truth attachedto what he had said, but Irefused to let him rankleme.“My motives aren’t inquestionhere,”Itoldhim.“Well, neither are

mine...’least not by anyonewho counts.” He swung hislegs off the cot and sat up,glowering at me. “You gotsomenicedutyhere,son.But

you go fuckin’ with me, I’llhaveyourasswalkin’pointinQuanh Tri ’fore you canblink.Understand?”I felt as if I had been

dippedinicewater.Iknewhecould do as he threatened—any man who’s made topsergeant has alsomade somepowerful friends—and IwantednopartofQuanhTri.He saw my fear and

laughed.“Goon,getout!”he

said,andasIsteppedthroughthe door, he added, “Come’roundtheshedanytime,son.I ain’t got nothin’ againstnoblesse oblige. Fact is, Ilovetowatch.”And I walked away,

knowing that Randall waslost.

In retrospect, it’s clear thatRandall had broken underMoon’s whip early on, that

his drifty radio spiels weresymptomatic of hisdissolution. In another timeand place, someone mighthave noticed his condition;butinVietnameverythinghedidseemedanormalreactionto the craziness of the war,perhaps even a bit morerestrained than normal, andwe would have thought himreally nuts if he hadn’t actedweird. As it was, we

considered him a flake, butnotwrappedsotightthatyoucouldn’tpokefunathim,andI believe it was thismisconception that broughtmatterstoahead....Yet I’m not absolutely

certainofthat.Severalnightsaftermytalk

withMoon, Iwasonduty inthe operations bunker whenRandalldidhisbroadcast.Healwayssignedoffinthesame

distinctive fashion, trying tocontact the patrols of ghostsheclaimedwerehaunting thefree-fire zones. Instead ofusing ordinary call signs likeCharlieBakerAble,hewouldinvent others that suited thecountry lyricism of his style,names such as Lobo AngelSilver and Prairie DawnOmega.“DeltaSlyHoney,”hesaid

that night. “Do you read?

Over.”Hesat amoment, listening

to static filling in fromnowhere.“I know you’re out there,

Delta Sly Honey,” he wenton. “I can see you clear,walkin’thehighcountrynearBlack Virgin Mountain,movin’ through twists of foglikebattlesmokeandfeelin’alittle afraid, ’cause thoughyou gone from the world,

there’saworldoffear’tweenhereand thehereafter. Comebackatme,DeltaSlyHoney,and tell me how it’s goin’.”Hestoppedsending for abit,and when he received noreply, he spoke again.“Maybe you don’t think I’dunderstand your troubles,brothers. But I truly do. Iknow your hopes and fears,and how the spell of toomuch poison and fire and

flyin’ steel warped thechemistry of fate and madeyouwanderoff into thewarsof the spirit ’stead of findin’rest beyond the grave. Mysoul’s trackin’ you as youmove higher and highertowardthepeaceattheendofeverything, passin’ throughmortar bursts throwin’ upthick gouts of silence, withangelsliketracersleadin’youon,listenin’tothecoldwhite

song of incoming stars....Come on back at me, DeltaSly Honey. This here’s yourgood buddy Randall J.,earthbound at Noc Linh. Doyouread?”There was a wild burst of

static, and then a voiceanswered,saying,“RandallJ.,Randall J.! This is Delta SlyHoney.Readin’youloudandclear.”I let out a laugh, and the

officers sitting at the far endof the bunker turned theirheads, grinning. But Randallstared in horror at the radio,as if it were leaking blood,not static. He thumbed theswitch and said shakily,“What’s your position, DeltaSly Honey? I repeat.What’syourposition?”“Guess you might say our

position’s kinda relative,”came the reply. “But far as

you concerned,man, we justdown the road. There’s aplaceforyouwithus,RandallJ.Wewaitin’foryou.”Randall’s Adam’s apple

worked, and he wetted hislips. Under the hot bunkerlights, his freckles stood outsharply.“Y’know how it is when

you’repinneddownbyfire?”the voice continued. “Lyin’flat with the flow of bullets

passin’ inches over yourhead?And you start thinkin’howeasy it’dbe just to raiseupandgetitoverwith....Youeverfeellikethat,RandallJ.?Most times you keep flat,’cause things ain’t badenough to make you go thatroute. But the way thingsbeengoin’foryou,man,whatwith stickin’ your hands intodeadmeatnightandday—”“Shutup,”saidRandall,his

voicetightandsmall.“—and that asshole Moon

fuckin’ with your mind,maybe it’s time to consideryouroptions.”“Shut up!” Randall

screamed it, and I grabbedhim by the shoulders. “Takeiteasy,” I toldhim.“It’s justsome jerkoffputtin’youon.”Heshookmeoff; thevein inhistemplewasthrobbing.“Iain’t tryin’ tomesswith

you, man,” said the voice.“I’m just layin’ it out,showin’ you there ain’t noreal options here. I know allthemcrazythoughtsthatbeenflappin’ ’round in your head,and I know how hard youbeen tryin’ to control ’em.Ain’t no point in controllin’’emanymore,RandallJ.Youbelong to us now. All yougottadoistotakealittlewalkdown the road, and we be

waitin’.Wegotsomeserioushumpin’ ahead of us, man.Out past the Napalm Coast,up beyond the highcountry...”Randallboltedforthedoor,

but I caught him and spunhimaround.Hewasbreathingrapidly through his mouth,and his eyes seemed to beshiningtoobrightly—liketheway an old light bulb willflare up right before it goes

dark for good. “Lemme go!”he said. “I gotta find ’em! Igotta tell ’em it ain’t mytime!”“It’sjustsomeoneplayin’a

goddamn joke,” I said, andthen it dawned on me. “It’sMoon, Randall! You knowit’shimputtin’ somebodyuptothis.”“I gotta find ’em!” he

repeated, and with morestrength than I would have

given him credit for, hepushedme away and ran offintothedark.

He didn’t return, not thatnight, not the next morning,andwereportedhimAWOL.Wesearchedthebaseandthenearbyvilles tonoavail, andsincethecountrysidewasrifewith NLF patrols andVC, itwaslogical toassumehehadbeenkilledorcaptured.Over

the next couple of days,Moon made frequent publicdenials of his complicity inthejoke,butnooneboughtit.He took to walking aroundwith his holster unlatched, awary expression on his face.Though Randall hadn’t hadany real friends,many of ushad been devoted to hisbroadcasts, and among thosedevotees were a number ofmen who...well, a civilian

psychiatristmighthavecalledthem unstable, but in truththey were men who hadchosen to exalt instability, toritualize insanity as a meansof maintaining theirequilibrium in an unstablemedium: it was likely someof them would attemptreprisals. Moon’s best hopewas that something woulddivert their attention, butthree days after Randall’s

disappearance, a peculiartransmission came intooperations; like all Randall’sbroadcasts, itwaspipedoverthePA,andthusMoon’sfatewassealed.“Howdy, Noc Linh,” said

Randall or someone whosounded identical to him.“This here’s Randall J.Willingham on patrol withDeltaSlyHoney, speakin’ toyoufrombeyondtheNapalm

Coast. We been humpin’through rain and fogmostofthe day, with no sign of theenemy, just a few demonstwistin’upfromthegrayandfadin’ when we come near,and now we all hunkereddownbytheradio,restin’fortomorrow.Y’know, brothers,Iusedtobescaredshitlessofwakin’ up here in the bignothin’,butnowit’sgoneandhappened, I’m findin’ it ain’t

sobad.’LeastIgotthefeelin’I’m headed someplace,whereas back at Noc Linh Iwas just spinnin’ round andround,andclosetolosin’mymind. I hated ol’ SergeantMoon,andIhatedhimworseafter he put someone up tohasslin’meon theradio. Butnow, though I reckon he’sstill pretty hateful, I can seehe was actin’ under theinfluenceofahigheragency,

one who was tryin’ to helpme get clear of NocLinh...which was somethin’that had to be, nomatter if Ihad to die to do it. Seems tome that’s the nature of war,that all the violence has theeffectof lettin’ a littlemagicseepintotheworldbywayofcompensation....”To most of us, this

broadcast signaled thatRandall was alive, but we

also knew what it portendedfor Moon. And therefore Iwasn’t terribly surprisedwhenhesummonedmetohistentthenextmorning.Atfirsthe tried to play sergeant,ordering me to ally myselfwithhim;butseeing that thisdidn’t work, he begged formyhelp.Hewasamess:red-eyed, unshaven, an eyelidtwitching.“I can’t do a thing,” I told

him.“You’re his friend!” he

said.“Ifyoutell’emIdidn’thave nothin’ to do with it,they’llbelieveyou.”“Thehelltheywill!They’ll

thinkIhelpedyou.”Istudiedhim a second, enjoying hisanxiety.“Whodidhelpyou?”“I didn’t do it,

goddammit!” His voice hadrisentoashout,andhehadtostruggle to keep calm. “I

swear!Itwasn’tme!”It was strange, my mental

set at thatmoment. I found Ibelieved him—I didn’t thinkhimcapableofmanufacturingsincerity—andyet Isuddenlybelieved everything: thatRandall was somehow bothdeadandalive,thatDeltaSlyHoney both did and did notexist, that whatever washappening was an event inwhich all possibility was

manifest, in which truth andfalsity had the same valence,in which the real and theillusory wereundifferentiated. And at thecenter of this complexcircumstance—a bulky,sweating monster—stoodMoon.Innocent,perhaps.Butguiltyofaseminalcrime.“I can make it good for

you,” he said. “Hawaii...youwant duty in Hawaii, I can

arrangeit.Hell,IcangetyoushippedStateside.”He struck me then as a

hideous genie offering threewishes, and the fact that hehad the power to make thisoffer infuriated me. “If youcando all that,” I said, “youain’t got a worry in theworld.” And I strode off,feeling righteous in myjudgment.Two nights later while

returning to my hooch, Ispotted a couple of menwearing tiger shortsdragginga large and apparentlyunconscious someone towardthebarrierofconcertinawirebesidethePX—IknewithadtobeMoon.Idrewmypistol,sneaked along the back wallof the PX, and when theycame abreast I stepped outand told them to put theirburden down. They stopped

but didn’t turn loose ofMoon. Both had blackenedtheir faces with greasepaint,andtothishadaddedfancifuldesigns incrimson,blue,andyellow that gave them thelookofsavages.Theycarriedcombatknives,andtheireyeswere pointed with thereflected brilliance of theperimeter lights. Itwas a hotnight, but it seemed hotterthere beside them, as if their

crazinesshadaradiantvalue.“This ain’t none of youraffair,Curt,”saidthetallerofthe two; despite his badgrammar,hehadasoft,well-modulated voice, and Ithought I heard a trace ofamusementinit.I peered at him, but was

unable to recognize himbeneath the paint. Again ItoldthemtoputMoondown.“Sorry,” said the tall guy.

“Man’s gotta pay for hiscrimes.”“He didn’t do anything,” I

said. “You know damn wellRandall’sjustAWOL.”The tall guy chuckled, and

theotherguysaid,“Naw,wedon’tknowthata-tall.”Moongroaned, tried to lift

hishead,thenslumpedback.“Nomatterwhat he did or

didn’t do,” said the tall guy,“the man deserves what’s

comin’.”“Yeah,” saidhispal. “And

ifitain’tuswhatdoesit,it’llbesomebodyelse.”I knew he was right, and

theideaofkillingtwomentosaveathirdwhowasdoomedinanyevent justdidn’t stackup. But though my sense ofduty was weak where Moonwas concerned, it hadn’tentirely dissipated. “Let himgo,”Isaid.

The tall guy grinned, andthe other one shookhis headas if dismayed by mystubbornness. They appearedwholly untroubled by thepistol, possessed of anirrational confidence. “Bereasonable, Curt,” said thetall guy. “This ain’t gettin’younowhere.”I couldn’t believe his

foolhardiness. “You seethis?” I said, flourishing the

pistol. “Gun, y’know? I’mgonnafuckin’shootyouwithit,youdon’tlethimgo.”Moon let out another

groan,andthetallguyrappedhim hard on the back of theheadwiththehiltofhisknife.“Hey!” I said, training the

pistolonhischest.“Look here, Curt...” he

began.“Who the hell are you?” I

stepped closer, but was still

unable to identify him. “Idon’tknowyou.”“Randalltoldus’boutyou,

Curt. He’s a buddy of ours,ol’ Randall is. We’re withDeltaSlyHoney.”Ibelievedhimforthatfirst

split second.Mymouthgrewcottony, and my handtrembled. But then I essayeda laugh. “Sure you are!Nowputhisassdown!”“That’s what you really

want,huh?”“Damn right!” I said.

“Now!”“Okay,” he said. “You got

it.” And with a fluid stroke,hecutMoon’sthroat.Moon’s eyes popped open

astheknifeslicedthroughhistissues, and that—not thebloodspillingontothedust—was the thing that froze me:those bugged eyes in whichan awful realization dawned

and faded. They let him fallfacedownward. His legsspasmed, his right handjittered. For a long moment,stunned,Istaredathim,attheblood puddling beneath hishead,andwhenIlookedupIfound that the twomenweresprinting away, about toround the curve of the hill. Icouldn’t bringmyself to fire.Mixed in my thoughts werethe knowledge that killing

them served no purpose andthefearthatmybulletswouldhave no effect. I glanced leftandright,behindme,makingsure that no one waswatching,andthenranuptheslopetomyhooch.Undermycotwas abottle

of sour mash. I pulled it outandhadacoupleofdrinks tosteadymyself; but steadinesswas beyond me. I switchedon a battery lamp and sat

cross-legged, listening to thesnores of my bunkmate.Lying onmy duffel bagwasan unfinished letter home,one I had begun nearly twoweeksbefore; IdoubtednowI’deverfinishit.WhatwouldI tell my folks? That I hadmore or less sanctioned anexecution? That Iwas losingmy fucking mind? Usually Itold them everything wasfine,butafterthesceneIhad

just witnessed, I felt I wasforeverpastthatsortofblitheinvention. I switched off thelampand lay in thedark, thebottle resting onmy chest. Ihad a third drink, a fourth,andgradually lostbothcountandconsciousness.

Ihadaweek’sR&RcomingandItookit,hopingdebauchwould shore me up. But Ispent much of that week

attempting to justify myinaction in terms of theinevitable and thesupernatural, and failing inthatattempt.Yousee,nowasthen, if pressed for anopinion,Iwouldtellyouthatwhat happened at Noc Linhwasthesadconsequenceofajoke gone sour, of a wartwisted into a demonicexercise. Everything wasexplicable in that wise. And

yet it’s conceivable that thesupernatural was involved,that—as Randall hadsuggested—alittlemagichadseeped into the world. InVietnam, with all its horrorand strangeness, it wasdifficult to distinguishbetween the magical and themundane, and it’s possiblethatthousandsofsupernaturalevents went unnoticed assuch, obscured by the

poignanciesofdeathandfear,becoming quirky memoriesthat years later might passthroughyourmindwhileyouwere washing the dishes orwalking the dog, and giveyou a moment’s pause, aneerie feeling that wouldalmost instantly be groundaway by the mills of theordinary.ButI’mcertainthatmyqualificationisduetothefact that Iwant there tohave

been some magic involved,anything to lessen myculpability, to shed a lessdamning light on theperversity and viciousness ofmybrothers-in-arms.OnreturningtoNocLinh,I

found that Randall had alsoreturned. He claimed to besuffering from amnesia andwould not admit to havingmade the broadcast that hadtriggered Moon’s murder.

The shrinks had decided thathewasbuckingforaSectionEight, had ordered him putbackonthecorpsedetail,andas before, Randall could beseenlaboringbeneaththetin-roofed shed, transferring thecontents of body bags intoaluminum coffins. On thesurface, little appeared tohave changed. But Randallhadbecomeapariah.Hewasinsulted andwhispered about

and shunned. Whenever hecame near, necks wouldstiffen and conversationsdie.IfhehadoffedMoonhimself,hewouldhavebeencheered;but the notion that he hadusedhisinfluencetohavehisdirty work jobbed out didn’taccord with the prevailingconcept of honorablevengeance.ThoughItriednotto, I couldn’t help feelingbadly toward him myself. It

wasweird. Iwould approachwith the best of intentions,butbythetimeIreachedhim,myhackleswouldhave risenand I would walk on inhostile silence, as if he wereexuding a chemical that hadevoked my contempt. I didget close enough to him,however, to see that themadbrightness was missing fromhiseyes;Ihadthefeelingthatall his brightness was

missing,thatwhateverqualityhad enabled him to do hisbroadcasts had been suckeddry.One morning as I was

passing the PX,whose shinysurfaces reflected adynamitedwhiteglareofsun,I noticed a crowd of menpressing through the frontdoor, apparently trying tocatch sight of somethinginside.Ipushedthroughthem

andfoundoneof thecanteenclerks—aleankidwithblackhair and a wolfish face—engagedinbeatingRandalltoapulp.Ipulledhimoff,threwhim intoa table, andkneeledbeside Randall, who hadcollapsed to the floor. Hischeekboneswere lumpedanddiscolored; blood pouredfrom his nose, trickled fromhis mouth. His eyes metmine,andI feltnothingfrom

him: he seemed muffled,vibeless, as if heavilysedated.“Theyouttogetme,Curt,”

hemumbled.All my sympathy for him

was suddenly resurrected.“It’s okay, man,” I said.“Sooner or later, it’ll blowover.” I handed him mybandanna, and he dabbedineffectuallyattheflowfromhis nose. Watching him, I

recalled Moon’scategorization ofmymotivesfor befriending him, and Iunderstood now thatmy truemotives had less to do withour relativesocialstatus thanwith my belief that he couldbe saved, that—after monthsof standing by helplesslywhile the unsalvageablemarched to their fates—Ithought I might be able toeffectsomesmallgoodwork.

This may seem altruistic tothe point of naïveté, andperhaps it was, perhaps thebrimstone oppressiveness ofthewarhad from the residueof old sermons heard anddisregarded provoked somevainChristian reflex; but theneed was strong in me,nonetheless, and I realizedthat I had fixed on it as aprerequisite to my ownsalvation.

Randall handed back thebandanna.“Ain’tgonnablowover,” he said. “Not withtheseguys.”I grabbed his elbow and

hauledhimtohisfeet.“Whatguys?”He looked around as if

afraid of eavesdroppers.“DeltaSlyHoney!”“Christ, Randall! Come

on.” I tried to guide himtoward the door, but he

wrenchedfree.“Theyout togetme!They

say I crossed over and theytook care of Moon forme...andthenIgotawayfrom’em.”Hedughisfingersintomy arm. “But I can’tremember, Curt! I can’tremembernothin’!”Myfirstimpulsewastotell

him to drop the amnesia act,but then I thought about thepainted men who had

scraggedMoon: if theywereafter Randall, he was in bigtrouble. “Let’s get youpatched up,” I said. “We’lltalkaboutthislater.”He gazed at me, dull and

uncomprehending. “Yougonnahelpme?”heasked inatoneofdisbelief.I doubted anyone could

help him now, and maybe, Ithought,thatwasalsopartofmymotivation—thedesire to

know the good sin of honestfailure. “Sure,” I told him.“We’llfigureoutsomethin’.”Westartedforthedoor,but

on seeing the men gatheredthere, Randall balked. “Whatyou want from me?” heshouted, giving a flailing,awkward wave with his leftarm as if to make themvanish. “What the fuck youwant?”They stared coldly at him,

andthosestareswerelikebadanswers. He hung his headand kept it hung all the waytotheinfirmary.

That night I set out to visitRandall, intending to advisehim to confess, a tactic Iperceived as his one hope ofsurvival. I’d planned to seehimearly in the evening, butwas called back on duty anddidn’t get clear until well

aftermidnight.The basewasquiet and deserted-feeling.Only a few lights picked outthe darkened slopes, and hadit not been for the heat andstench, it would have beeneasy to believe that the hillwithitsilluminatedcaveswasaplace ofmild enchantment,inhabited by elves and notfrightened men. The moonwas almost full, and beneathit the PX shone like an

immense silver lozenge.Thoughithadclosedanhourbefore, its windows were lit,and—MPinstinctsengaged—I peered inside. Randall wasbacked against the bar,holdingaknifetotheneckofthe wolfish clerk who hadbeaten him, and ranged in aloose circle around him,standing among the tables,were five men wearing tigershorts, their faces painted

with savage designs. I drewmypistol,easedaroundtothefront, and—wanting myentrance to have shock value—kickedthedooropen.The five men turned their

headstome,butappearednotat all disconcerted. “How’sshe goin’, Curt?” said one,and by his soft voice Irecognized the tall guy whohadslitMoon’sthroat.“Tell’emtoleavemebe!”

Randallshrilled.I fixedmygazeon the tall

guy and with gunslingermenace said, “I’m notmessin’withyoutonight.Getout now or I’ll take youdown.”“Youcan’thurtme,Curt,”

hesaid.“Don’t gimme that ghost

shit! Fuck with me, andyou’llbehumpin’withDeltaSlyHoneyforreal.”

“Even if you were right’boutme,Curt,Iwouldn’tbescared of dyin’. I was deadwhere it counts halfwaythroughmytour.”Ascuttlingatthebar,andI

sawthatRandallhadwrestledthe clerk to the floor. Hewrapped his legs around theclerk’swaistinascissorsandyanked his head back by thehair to expose his throat.“Leave me be,” he said.

Every nerve in his face wasjumping.“Lethimgo,Randall,”said

the tall guy. “We ain’t afterno innocent blood. We justwant you to take a littlewalk...tocrossbackover.”“Getout!”Itoldhim.“You’re workin’ yourself

inrealdeep,man,”hesaid.“This ain’t no bullshit!” I

said.“Iwillshoot.”“Lookhere,Curt,”hesaid.

“S’pose we’re just plain ol’ordinary grunts. You gonnashoot us all? And if you do,don’t you think we’d havefriends who’d take it hard?Any way you slice it, youbookin’ yourself a silver boxandairfreighthome.”Hecameasteptowardme,

and I said, “Watch it, man!”He came another step, hisdevil mask split by a fiercegrin. My heart felt hot and

solid in my chest, no beats,and I thought, He’s a ghost,hisfleshissmoke,thepaintacolor in my eye. “Keepback!”Iwarned.“Gonnakillme?”Againhe

grinned. “Go ahead.” Helunged, a feint only, and Isqueezedthetrigger.Thegunjammed.WhenIthinknowhowthis

astounded me, I wonder atmy idiocy. The gun jammed

frequently.Itwasanabsolutepiece of shit, that weapon.But at the time its failureseemed a magicalcoincidence, a denial of thelaws of chance. And addingto my astonishment was thereaction of the other men:they made no move towardRandall, as if no opportunityhadbeenprovided,nodangerpassed. Yet the tall guylooked somewhat shaken to

me.Randall let out a mewling

noise,andthatsoundenlistedmy competence. I edgedbetweenthetablesandtookastand next to him. “Let meget the knife from him,” Isaid.“Nopointinbothof’emdyin’.”The tall guy drew a deep

breath as if to settle himself.“Youreckonyoucandothat,Curt?”

“Maybe. If you guys waitoutside,hewon’tbeasscaredandmaybeIcangetit.”They stared at me,

unreadable.“Gimmeachance.”“Weain’tafternoinnocent

blood.” The tall guy’s tonewas firm, as if this werepolicy.“But...”“Just a coupla minutes,” I

said.“That’sallI’maskin’.”Icouldalmosthearthetick

of the tall guy’s judgment.“Okay,” he said at last. “Butdon’t you go tryin’ nothin’hinkey, Curt.” Then, toRandall. “We be waitin’,RandallJ.”As soon as they were out

the door, I kneeled besideRandall. Spittle flecked theclerk’s lips, and whenRandall shifted the knife atad, his eyes rolled up intoheaven. “Leaveme be,” said

Randall.Hemighthavebeentalking to the air, the walls,theworld.“Giveitup,”Isaid.Hejustblinked.“Let him go and I’ll help

you,” I said. “But if you cuthim, you on your own. Thathowyouwantit?”“Un-unh.”“Well,turnhimloose.”“Ican’t,”hesaid,acatchin

hisvoice.“I’mallfrozeup.If

I move, I’ll cut him.” Sweatdripped into his eyes, and heblinkedsomemore.“How ’bout I take it from

you? Ifyoukeep real still, ifyou lemmeease itouttayourhand,maybewe canwork itthatway.”“I don’t know.... I might

messup.”The clerk gave a long

shuddery sigh and squeezedhiseyesshut.

“Yougonnabefine,”Isaidto Randall. “Just keep youreyesonme,andyougonnabefine.”I stretched out my hand.

The clerk was trembling,Randall was trembling, andwhen I touched the blade itwassofullofvibration,itfeltalive, as if all the energy inthe room had beenconcentrated there. I triedpulling it away from the

clerk’s neck, but it wouldn’tbudge.“You gotta loosen up,

Randall,”Isaid.I tried again and, gripping

the blade between myforefinger and thumb,managed to pry it an inch orso away from the line ofblood it had drawn. Myfingers were sweaty, themetalslick,andthebladefeltlike it was connected to a

spring, that any second itwould snap back and bitedeep.“Myfingersareslippin’,”I

said, and the clerkwhimpered.“Ain’tmyfaultiftheydo.”

Randall said this pleadingly,as if testing the waters, thepotentials of his guilt andinnocence, and I realized hewassettingmeupthewayhehadMoon’s killers. It was a

childlikeattemptcomparedtothe other, but I knew to hismind it would work out thesame.“The hell it ain’t!” I said.

“Don’tdoit,man!”“It ain’t my fault!” he

insisted.“Randall!”Icouldfeelhisintentinthe

quiverof theblade.Withmyfree hand, I grabbed theclerk’supperarm,andas the

knifeslipped,I jerkedhimtotheside.Thebladeslicedhisjaw,andhescreeched;butthewoundwasn’tmortal.I plucked the knife from

Randall’s hand, wanting tokill him myself. But I hadinvested too much in hissalvation. I hauled him erectand over to the window; Ismashedout the glasswith achair and pushed himthrough.Then I jumped after

him.As I came tomy feet, Isaw the painted men closingin from the front of the PXand—still towing Randallalong—I sprinted around thecornerof thebuildingandupthe slope, calling for help.Lights flicked on, and headspopped from tent flaps. Butwhen they spotted Randall,theyduckedbackinside.Iwas afraid, butRandall’s

abject helplessness—his eyes

rolling like a freaked calf’s,his hands clawing at me forsupport—helped to steadyme.Thepaintedmenseemedto be everywhere. Theywould materialize frombehind tents, out of bunkermouths, grinning madly andwaving moonstruck knives,and send us veering off inanother direction, back andforthacrossthehill.Timeandagain, I thought they had us,

and on several occasions, itwas only by a hairsbreadththat I eluded the slash of ablade that looked to bebearing a charge of winkingsilverenergyonitstip.Iwaswearing down, stumbling,gasping,andIwascertainwecouldn’t last much longer.But we continued to evadethem, and I began to sensethat theywere innohurry toconclude the hunt; their

pursuit had less an air offrenzy than of a ritualharassment, and eventually,as we staggered up to themouth of the operationsbunker and—I believed—safety,Irealizedthattheyhadbeen herding us. I pushedRandall inside and glancedback from the sandbaggedentrance.The fivemenstoodmotionless a second, perhapsfifty feet away, then melted

intothedarkness.

I explained what hadhappened to theMP on dutyin the bunker—a heavysetguy named Cousins—andthough he had no love forRandall,hewasadutifulsortand gave us permission towait out the night inside.Randall slumped downagainst the wall, resting hisheadonhisknees,thepicture

ofdespair.ButIbelievedthathis survival was assured.With the testimony of theclerk, I thought the shrinkswould have no choice but tosend him elsewhere forexamination and possibleinstitutionalization. I feltgood, accomplished, andpassed the night chain-smoking, bullshitting withCousins.Then,towarddawn,avoice

issued from the radio. Itwasgreatly distorted, but itsounded very much likeRandall’s.“Randall J.,” it said. “This

here’s Delta Sly Honey. Doyouread?Over.”Randall looked up,

hearkening to the spit andfizzleofthestatic.“I know you out there,

Randall J.,” the voice wenton. “I can see you clear,

sitting with the shadows ofthe bars upon your soul andbloodonyourhands.Ain’tnovirtuous blood, that’s true.But it stains you alla same.Comebackatme,Randall J.Wegottatalk,youandme.”Randall let his head fall;

withafinger,hetracedalineinthedust.“What’s the point in

keepin’ this up, Randall J.?”said the voice. “You left the

bestpartofyouoverhere,thesoulfulpart,andyoucan’tgoon much longer without it.Time to take that little walkfor real, man. Time to getclear of what you done andpasson towhatmustbe.Wewaitin’ for you just north ofbase, Randall J. Don’t makeuscomeforyou.”It was in my mind to say

something to Randall, tobreak the disconsolate spell

the voice appeared to becastingoverhim;butIfoundIhadnothinglefttogivehim,that I had spent my fund ofaltruism and was mostlyweary of the wholebusiness...as he must havebeen.“Ain’t nothin’ to be ’fraid

of out here,” said the voice.“Only thewind and the graywhispers of phantom Charlieand the trail leadin’ away

fromtheworld.There’sgoodcompany for you, Randall J.Gottaman here used to be apoet,andhe’lltellyoustories’bout the Wild North Kingand the Woman of Crystal.Gotanotherfella,guyusedtolive in Indonesia, and he’sfulla tales ’bout watchin’tigers come out on thehighwaystoshitandcitiesofmendressed likewomenandislands where dragons still

live. Then there’s this kidfromOpelika,claimstoknowsome of your people downthatway, andwhen he talks,you can just see that ol’farmboymoonheavin’upbigand yellow over the barns,shinin’ the blacktop so itlooks like polished jet, andyou can hear crazy musicleakin’ from the DixielandCafé and smell the perfumedheat steamin’ off the young

girls’ breasts.Don’tmake uswaitnomore,Randall J.Wegotworktodo.Maybeitain’tmuch, just breakin’ trail andwalkin’ point and keepin’ asharp eye out fordemons...but it sure as hellbeats shepherdin’ the dead,now,don’tit?”Alongpause.“You come on and take thatwalk, Randall J.We’ll makeyouwelcome,Ipromise.Thishere’sDeltaSlyHoney.Over

andout.”Randall pulled himself to

his feet and took a falteringfew steps toward the mouthof the bunker. I blocked hispathandhesaid,“Lemmego,Curt.”“Look here, Randall,” I

said. “I might can get youhomeifyoujusthangon.”“Home.” The concept

seemedtoamusehim,asifitwere something with the

dubious reality of heaven orhell.“Lemmego.”Inhiseyes, then, I thought

I could see all his brokenparts, a disjointed shifting oflights and darks, andwhen Ispoke I felt I was givingtongue to a vast consensus,one arrived at without eitherballots or reasonablediscourse.“If I letyougo,” Isaid,“bebestyoudon’tcomebackthistime.”

He stared at me, his facegoneslack,andnodded.Hardly anybody was

outside, yet I had the ideaeveryonewaswatchingus aswe walked down the hill;under a leaden overcast, thebase had a tense, mutedatmosphere such as musthave attended rainy dawnsbeneath the guillotine. Thesentries at the main gatepassed Randall through

without question. He went afew paces along the road,then turned back, his facepaleasastarinthehalf-light,andIwondered ifhe thoughtweweredrivinghimofforifhe believed he was beingcalledtoabetterworld.Inmyheart I knew which was thecase.Atlasthesetoutagain,quickly becoming a shadow,then the rumor of a shadow,thengone.

Walkingbackupthehill,Itriedtosortoutmythoughts,to determine what I wasfeeling, and it may be atestamenttohowcrazyIwas,howcrazyweallwere, thatIfelt less regret foraman lostthan satisfaction in knowingthat some perverted justicehad been served, that theworldofthewar—tippedoff-center by this unmilitaryengagement and our focus

upon it—could now go backtospinningtrue.That night there was fried

chicken in the mess, andvanilla ice cream, andafterward a movie about amore reasonable war, full ofvillainous Germans withDracula accents and heroicgrunts who took nothing butflesh wounds. When it wasdone, I walked back to myhoochandstoodoutfrontand

had a smoke. In the northernsky was a flickering orangeglow, one accompanied bytherumbleofartillery.Itwas,Irealized,justaboutthistimeof night that Randall hadcustomarily begun hisbroadcasts. Somebody elsemust have realized this,because at that moment thePA was switched on. I halfexpected to hear Randallgiving the news ofDeltaSly

Honey, but there was onlystatic, sounding like thecrackling of enormousflames. Listening to it, I feltdisoriented, completelyvulnerable, as if some hugeblack presence were on theverge of swallowing me up.Andthenavoicedidspeak.Itwasn’tRandall’s,yetithadasimilar countrified accent,andthoughthewordsweren’tquite as fluent, they were

redolent of his old raps,lending a folksycomprehensibility to thevastness of the cosmos, thestrangeness of thewar. I hadnoideawhetherornotitwasthevoicethathadsummonedRandall to take his walk, nolonger affecting an imitation,yet I thought I recognized itssoft well-modulated tones.But none of that mattered. Iwas so grateful, so relieved

by this end to silence, that Iwent into my hooch and—armedwithlies—satdowntofinish my interrupted letterhome.

NothingWillHurtYou

DAVIDMORRELL

David Morrell is the criticallyacclaimed author of First Blood,the novel in which Rambo wascreated. He holds a Ph.D. inAmerican literature from Penn

State andwas a professor in theEnglish department at theUniversityofIowa.HisnumerousNewYorkTimesbestsellersincludethe classic spy trilogy TheBrotherhood of theRose (the basisfor the only televisionmini-seriesto premiere after a Super Bowl),The Fraternity of the Stone, andThe League of Night and Fog. AnEdgar, Anthony, and Macavitynominee, Morrell is the recipientof three Bram Stoker Awardsfrom the Horror WritersAssociation as well as theprestigious lifetime Thriller

Master Award from theInternational Thriller Writers’organization. He was alsonominatedfortwoWorldFantasyAwards. His writing book, TheSuccessful Novelist, discusses whathehas learnedinhisfourdecadesasanauthor.

You can find out more aboutDavid and his work at:http://www.davidmorrell.net/.

Later the song would have

agonizing significance for

him.“Ican’tstophearing it,”Chad would tell hispsychiatrist and fight tocontrol his rapid breathing.His eyes would ache. “Itdoesn’t matter what I’mdoing, meeting a client,talkingtoapublisher,readinga manuscript, walkingthrough Central Park, evengoingtothebathroom,Ihearthat song! I’ve tried mydamnedest not to. I hardly

sleep,butwhenImanageto,Iwake up, feeling I’ve beenhummingitallnight.”Chad vividly remembered

thefirsttimehe’dheardit.Hecould date it exactly:Wednesday, April 20, 1979.He could give the timeprecisely: 9:46 p.m., becausealthoughhe’dfoundthesongpoignant and the singer’sperformance outstanding,he’d felt an odd compulsion

toglanceathiswatch.ItmusthavebeenatougherdaythanI realized, he’d thought. Sotired. Nine forty-six. Is thatall?SweeneyTodd:TheDemon

Barber of Fleet Street.Stephen Sondheim’s musicalhad opened on Broadway inMarch, a critical success,tickets impossible to get,except that Chad had aplaywright client with

contacts in the productioncompany.WhenChad’swife,Linda, broke one of theirmarriage’s rules and gaveChad a surprise birthdayparty, the client (pretendingto be amagician) pulled twotickets from behind Chad’sear.“Happyforty-second,oldbuddy.”But Chad remembered the

precise date he saw themusical not because it had

anything to do with hisbirthday. Instead, he had adeeper reason. The demonbarber of Fleet Street. Comein for a shave and a haircut,have your throat slit, getdumped down a chute,ground up into hamburger,andbaked intoMrs.Lovett’srenowned, ever-popular,scrumptious, how-do-you-get-that-distinctive-tastemeatpies.

Can’t eat enough of them.To startle the audience, adeafening whistle shrilledeach timeSweeneyslashedathroat. Blood spurted. Andone of Mrs. Lovett’s waiterswas an idiot kid who hadn’tthe faintest ideaofwhatwasgoing on, but he hadmisgivings that somethingwaswrong.He confessedhisfears to Mrs. Lovett, whothought of him fondly asher

son. She promised that she’dprotect him. She sang thatnothing would hurt him—amagnificent performance byAngela Lansbury of a tunethat forever after wouldtorture Chad, its title: “NotWhileI’mAround.”A liltingheartbreaking song in themidst of multiple murdersandcannibalism.After the show, Chad and

Linda had trouble finding a

taxi and didn’t get back totheir Upper East Sideapartment until almostmidnight. They felt sodisturbed by the plot yetelatedby themusic that theydecided tohavesomebrandyand discuss their reactions totheshow,andthat’swhenthephone rang. Scowling, Chadwondered who in hell wouldbe calling at such an hour.Immediatelyhesuspectedone

ofhisnervous,nottomentionimportant, authors withwhomhe’dbeenhavingtenseconversations all weekbecause of a publisher’sunfavorable reaction to theauthor’s new manuscript.Chad tried to ignore thephone’spersistent jangle.Letthe answering machine takeit, he thought. At once, heangrilypickedupthephone.A man’s gravelly voice,

made faint by the hiss of along-distance line, soundedtense. “This is LieutenantRaymond MacKenzie. I’mwith the New Haven policeforce. I know it’s late. Iapologize if I woke you,but...There’s been anemergency,I’mafraid.”What Chad heard next

made him quiver. Inresponse, he insisted, “No.You’rewrong.There’sgotto

besomemistake.”“Don’t I wish.” The

lieutenant’s voice becamemoregravelly.“Youhavemydeepestsympathy.Timeslikethis, I hate my job.” Thelieutenantgaveinstructions.Chad murmured

complianceandsetdown thephone.Linda,who’d been staring,

demandedtoknowwhyChadwassopale.

When Chad explained,Linda blurted, “No! DearGod,itcan’tbe!”Urgency canceled

numbness. They each threwclothes into a suitcase,hurried from their apartmentto the rental garage threeblocks away where theystoredtheirtwo-year-oldFord(they’d bought the car at thesametimethey’dboughttheircottage in Connecticut, so

they could spend weekendsneartheirdaughter),andspedwithabsolutelynomemoryofthe drive (except that theykept repeating, “No, it’simpossible!”) to New Havenand Lieutenant MacKenzie,whose husky voice, it turnedout, didn’t match his short,thinframe.Denial was reflexive,

insistent, stubborn. Evenwhen the lieutenant

sympathetically repeated andre-repeatedthattherehadnotbeen a mistake, when heregretfully showed themStephanie’spurse,herwallet,her driver’s license,when heshowed them a statementfrom Stephanie’s roommatethat shehadn’t comeback tothedormitorylastnight...evenwhen Chad and Linda wentdown to the morgue andidentified the body, or what

wasleftofthebody,althoughit hadn’t been Stephanie’sface thatwasmutilated...theystill kept insisting, no, thishad to be someone wholooked like Stephanie,someone who stoleStephanie’s purse, someonewho...somemistake!Nothing would hurt him,

AngelaLansburyhadsungtotheboyhercharacter thoughtofasasoninSweeneyTodd,

and the night before whenChad had listened to thelilting near-lullaby, he hadbeen briefly reminded of hisown and only child, dearsweet Stephanie, when shewas a tot andhe had read toher at bedtime, had sungnursery rhymes to her, andhadtaughthertopray.“Now I lay me down to

sleep,” his beloved daughterhad obediently repeated. “I

pray the Lord my soul tokeep. If I shoulddiebefore Iwake,IpraytheLordmysoulto take.... Daddy, is there abogeyman?”“No, dear. It’s just your

imagination. Go to sleep.Don’t worry. Daddy’s here.Nothingwillhurtyou.”“Not While I’m Around,”

thesonghadbeencalled.Buttwo years earlier StephaniehadgonetoNewHaven,fora

B.A. in English at Yale, andlast night there had been abogeyman, and despiteChad’s long-ago promise, hehadnotbeenaroundwhenthebogeyman very definitelyhurtStephanie.“When did it...” Chad

struggled to breathe as hestared at LieutenantMacKenzie. “What time didshe...”“The body was discovered

at just before eleven lastnight. Based on heat lossfrom the brain, the medicalexaminer estimates the timeof death between nine-thirtyandtenp.m.”“Nineforty-six.”The lieutenant frowned.

“Moreorless.It’sdifficulttobethatprecise.”“Sure.” Chad bit his lip,

tastingtears.“Nineforty-six.”He remembered the odd

compulsion he’d felt toglance at his watch theprevious night when AngelaLansbury had sung thatnothingwouldhurtherfriend.Whilethebogeymankilled

Stephanie.Chad knew. He was

absolutelycertain.Nineforty-six.ThatwaswhenStephaniehaddied.He’dfeltthetugofherdeathasifalittlegirlhadjerkedatthesleeveofhissuit

coat.“Daddy, is there a

bogeyman?”“NotwhileIcanhelpit.”Chad must have said that

outloud.Because the lieutenant

frowned, asking, “What? I’msorry, sir. I didn’t quite hearwhatyoujustsaid.”“Nothing.” Sobbing

uncontrollably,holdingLindawhosefeatureswereraw-red,

drippingwithtears,contortedwith grief, Chad felt theterrible urge to ask thelieutenant to take him downto themorgue again—just sohe could see Stephanie onemoretime,evenifshelookedlike,evenifher...All he wanted was to see

her again! Stephanie! No, itcouldn’t be! Jesus, notStephanie!Numbness. Denial.

Confusion.Chadlatertriedtoreconstructtheconversations,remembering them through ahaze.Nomatterhowoftenhewas given details, he neededmore and more clarification.“Idon’tunderstand.Whatthehellhappened?Haveyouanyclues? Witnesses? Have youfound thesonofabitchwhodidthis?”Thelieutenantlookedbleak

as he explained. Stephanie

had gone to the universitylibrary the previousafternoon. A friend had seenher leave the library at six.On her way back to thedormitory, someone musthave offered her a ride orasked her to help him carrysomething into a building orsomehow grabbed herwithout attracting attention.The usual method was toappeal to the victim’s

sympathybypretendingtobedisabled. However it wasdone,shehaddisappeared.Afterward, the killer had

stoppedhiscaratthesideofaroadoutsideNewHaven anddumped Stephanie’s bodyinto a ditch. The absence ofblood at the scene indicatedthat themurder had occurredatanother location. The roadwas far from a highway. Atnight, all thekiller had todo

wasdrivealongtheroaduntilthere weren’t any headlightsbefore or behind him, thenstop and rush to open thetrunkandgetridofthebody.Twenty seconds later, he’dhavebeenbackonhisway.Thelieutenantsighed.“It’s

onlycoincidencethatacaronthat road last night happenedto have a flat tire where thekiller leftyourdaughter. Thedriver’safarmerwholivesin

the area. He switched on hisflashlight,walked around thecar to check his tire, and hislightpickedupyourdaughter.Pure coincidence, but clues,yes, because of thatcoincidence, this time we’vegot some. Tire tracks at theside of the road. It rainedyesterday afternoon. Anytracks in the dirtwould haveto be fresh. Forensics got averyclearsetofimpressions.”

“Tire tracks? But theywon’tidentifythekiller.”“What can I say, Mr.

Dolan?Atthemoment, thosetiretracksareallwe’vegot—andbelieveme, they’remorethan any other police forceinvolved in thesekillingshasmanaged to get, except ofcourse for the consistentmarksonthevictims.”Plural. On that point, at

least, Chad didn’t need an

explanation. One look atStephanie’sbody,atwhatthebastardhaddonetoherbody,andChadhadknownwhothekiller was. Not the bastard’sname, of course. Buteverybody knew hisnickname.Oneofthosecheaptabloids at the supermarketcheckoutcounterhadgivenitto him. The Biter. Andreputable newspapers hadstooped to the tabloid’s level

by repeating it. Because inaddition to raping andstrangling his victims(eighteensofar,allCaucasianfemales, attractive, blond, intheir late teens, in college),the killer left bite marks onthem,policereportsrevealed.The published detailswere

sketchy. Chad had grimlyimagined teeth impressionsonaneck,anarm,ashoulder.Butnothinghadpreparedhim

for the horrors done to hisdaughter’s corpse, for thekiller didn’t merely bite hisvictims.Hechewedon them.Hegnawedhugepieces fromtheir arms and legs. Hechomped holes in theirstomachs, bit off theirnipples,nippedofftheirlabia.The son of a bitch was acannibal! Multiple murdersand...SweeneyTodd.

Nothingwillhurtyou.Imagining Stephanie’s

lonely panic, Chad moaneduntilhescreamed.In a stupor, he and Linda

struggled through thenightmare of arranging for afuneral,waitingforthepoliceto release the body, andcollecting their daughter’sthings from her dormitoryroom. On her desk, theyfound a half-finished essay

about Shakespeare’s sonnets,a page still in the typewriter,a quotation never completed:“Shall I compare thee to asummer’s...” On a shelfbeside her bed, they pickedup textbooks, sections ofthem underlined in red, thatStephanie had been studyingfor final exams she wouldnever take. Clothes,keepsakes, her radio, herWinnie-the-Pooh bear.

Everything filled a suitcaseand threeboxes.So little.Soeasily removed. Now you’rehere, now you aren’t, Chadbitterlythought.Oh,Jesus.“I’m sorry, Mr. and Mrs.

Dolan,” Stephanie’sroommate said. She hadfreckles and wore glasses.Her long red hair hung in aponytail. She lookeddevastated. “I really am.Stephaniewaskindandsmart

and funny. I liked her. I’mgoing to miss her. She wasspecial. It just isn’t fair.Gosh,I’msoconfused.IwishI knew what to say. I’veneverknownanyoneclose tomewhodiedbefore.”“I understand,” Chad said

bleakly. His father had diedfromaheartattackat theageof seventy, but that deathhadn’t struck Chad with theoverwhelming shock of this

death.Afterall,hisfatherhadbattled heart disease forseveralyears,andthemassivecoronaryhadbeeninevitable.He’d passed away,succumbed,joinedhisMaker,whatever euphemism hid thefact best and gave the mostcomfort. But what hadhappened to Stephanie wascruelly, starkly, brutally thatshe’dbeenmurdered.DearGod,itcouldn’tbe!

Chad and Linda carriedStephanie’s things to the car,returned to thepolicestation,and badgered LieutenantMacKenzie until he finallygave them directions to theroad and the ditch whereStephaniehadbeenfound.“Don’t tortureyourselves,”

the lieutenant tried to tellthem, but Chad and Lindawerealreadyoutthedoor.Chaddidn’t knowwhat he

expected to find or feel orachieve by seeing the spotwhere the killer had parkedanddumpedStephanie’sbodylike a sack of garbage. As itturned out, he and Lindaweren’t able to get closeanyhow—apoliceofficerwasstandingwatchoverasectionof the side of the road and aportion of the ditch, bothenclosedbyamakeshiftfenceof stakes linking yellow tape

labeled police crime scene:donot enter.On the grass atthe bottom of the ditch, theoutlineofStephanie’stwistedbody had been drawn withwhitespraypaint.Lindawept.Chad felt sick and hollow.

At the same time, his heartand profoundly his soulswelled with rage. Thebastard. The...Whoever didthis, when they find

him...Chad imaginedpunching him, stabbing him,choking him until his tonguebulged, and at onceremembered that Stephaniehad been choked. He leanedagainst the car and couldn’tstopsobbing.Finally, after seemingly

endless bureaucratic delays,they were given theirdaughter.Followingahearse,they made the solemn drive

back to New York for thefuneral.AlthoughStephanie’sface had not been mutilated,Chad and Linda refused toallowapublicviewingofherremains. Granted, mourningfriendsandrelativeswouldn’tbe able to see the obscenemarks on her body beneathher burial clothes, but Chadand Linda would see thosemarks—in theirminds—as ifthe burial clothes were

transparent. More, Chad andLinda couldn’t tolerateinflicting upon Stephanie theindignity of being forced tolieinhergraveforalleternitywith that monster’s filthymarks on her. She had to becremated. Purified. Madeinnocent again. Ashes toashes.Cleansedwithfire.Each day,Chad andLinda

drove out to the cemetery tovisither.Thetripbecamethe

event around which theyscheduled their otheractivities. Not that they hadmany other activities. Chadhad no interest in readingmanuscripts,meetingauthors,and dealing with publishers,althoughhis friends said thatthe thing to dowas get backon track, distract himself,immerse himself in hisliteraryagency.Buthisworkdidn’t matter, and he spent

more and more of each daytaking long walks throughCentral Park. He had dizzyspells. He drank too much.For her part, Linda quitteaching piano, sequesteredherself in the apartment,studied photographs ofStephanie, stared into space,and slept a great deal. Theysold the cottage inConnecticut, which they’dbought and gone to each

weekend only so they couldbeclosetoStephanieinNewHaven if she had wanted tovisit. They sold their Ford,which they’d needed only togettothecottage.Nothingwillhurtyou.The

bittersweet song constantly,faintly,echoed in the darkestchambersofChad’smind.Hethought he’d go crazy as hetrembled from stress andobeyed the compulsion to

visitplacesheassociatedwithStephanie: the playground ofthe grade school she’dattended,herhighschool,thezoo at Central Park, thejoggingtrackaroundthelake.Heconjured imagesofher—different ages, differentheights, different hair andclothes styles—ghostlymental photographs, eeriedouble exposures in whichthen and now coexisted. A

little girl, she giggled on aswinginaneighborhoodparkthathad longagobecomeanapartment building. I can’tstand this! Chad thought inmentalrageandimaginedtheblessedrelease thathewouldfeel if he hurled himself infront of a speeding subwaytrain.What helped him was that

Stephanietoldhimnotto.Oh,he knew that her voice was

only in his mind. But shesounded so real, and hertender voice made him feelless tormented.He heard hersoclearly.“Dad, think of Mother. If

youkillyourself,you’llcauseher twice the pain she hasnow.She needs you. Formysake,helpher.”Chad’s legs felt unsteady.

Heslumpedonachair in thekitchen, where at three a.m.

he’dbeenpacing.Nothingwillhurtyou.“Oh,baby,I’msorry.”“You couldn’t have saved

me, Dad. It’s not your fault.You couldn’twatch over meall the time. It could havehappened differently. I couldhave been killed in a trafficaccident a block from ourapartment. There aren’t anyguarantees.”“It’sjustthatImissyouso

damnedmuch.”“And I miss you, Dad. I

love you. But I’m not reallygone. I’m talking to you,aren’tI?”“Yes...AtleastIthinkso.”“I’mfaraway,butI’malso

insideyou,andwheneveryouwanttotalk,wecan.Allyouhavetodoisthinkofme,andI’llbethere.”“Butit’snotthesame!”“It’s the best we can do,

Dad. Where I am is...bright!I’m soaring! I’m ecstatic!You mustn’t feel sorry forme.You’vegottoacceptthatI’m gone. You’ve got toaccept that your life isdifferent now.You’ve got tobecome involved once more.Stop drinking. Stop skippingmeals. Start readingmanuscripts again. Answeryourclients’phonecalls.Getin touch with publishers.

Work.”“ButIdon’tcare!”“You’ve got to! Don’t

throw your life away justbecauseIlostmine!I’llneverforgiveyouif...”“No, please, sweetheart.

Please don’t get angry. I’lltry.Ipromise.Iwill.I’lltry.”“Formysake.”Sobbing, Chad nodded as

thespeckoflightfaded.But Angela Lansbury’s

voice continued echoingfaintly.Nothingwillhurtyou.Nomatterhowhardhe tried,Chad couldn’t get the songfrom his mind. The more heheard it, the more a lurkingimplication in the lyricsbegan to trouble him, a half-sensed deeper meaning, darkand disturbing, felt but notunderstood,afurtherhorror.TheBiter’snextvictimwas

foundbyahikeron thebank

of a stream near Princeton.That was three months later.Although the victim, a co-edwho worked for theuniversity’slibraryduringthesummer,hadbeenmissingfortwo weeks and exposed toscavenging animals and theblistering sun, her remainsweresufficientlyintactforthemedicalexaminertoestablishthe cause of death asstrangulation and to

distinguish between animaland human bite marks. Thatinformationwasallthepolicerevealed to the press, butChad now knew what “bitemarks” meant, and heshuddered, remembering thechunks that the killer hadgnawed from Stephanie’sbody.By then, Linda had started

takingstudentsagain.Chad—true to his promise to

Stephanie—had forcedhimselftopayattentiontohisauthors and their publishers.But now the news of theBiter’s latest victimthreatened to tear away thefragile control that he andLindahadmanagedtoimposeon their lives. Compulsively,he wrote a letter to themurderedgirl’sparents.

We mourn for your

daughter as we mournfor our own. We praythat they’re at peaceandbegGodforjustice.May this monster becaught before he killsagain. May he bepunished to the limitsofhell.

In truth, Chad didn’t needtopray thatStephaniewasatpeace.Heknewshewas.She

told him so whenever hestumbled sleeplessly into thekitchen at two or three a.m.and found her speck of lighthovering, waiting for him.Nonetheless Chad’s rageintensified. Each morning hemusteredamotive to get outof bed, hoping that todaywould be the day when theauthorities caught themonster.Whattheyfoundinstead,in

September, soon after thestartofthefallsemester,wasthe Biter’s next victim,maggot-ridden, in a stormdrain near Vassar College.Chad urgently phonedLieutenant MacKenzie,demanding to know if theVassar police had found anyclues.“Yes.” MacKenzie’s voice

sounded even more gravelly.“It rained again. The Vassar

police found the same tiremarks.” He exhaled wearily.“Mr. Dolan, I understandyour despair. Your anger.Your need for revenge. Butyouhaveto letgo.Youhavetogetonwithyourlife,whilewe do our job. Every policedepartment involved in thesekillings has formed anetwork. I promise you,we’re doing everything wecan to compare information

and—”Chad slammed down the

phoneandscribbledalettertothe parents of the Biter’slatestvictim.

Weshareyourloss.Weweep as you do. Ifthere’saGodinheaven—as opposed to thisDevil out of hell—ourbeautiful children willnothavediedunatoned.

Their brilliantlyspeeding souls will begranted justice.Thedesecrations inflictedupon their innocentbodieswillbeavenged.

Chad never receivedresponses from those otherparents. It didn’t matter. Hedidn’t care. He’d done hisbest to console them, but ifthey were too overwhelmed

by sorrow to muster thestrengthtocomforthimashestrained to comfort them,well, that was all right. Heunderstood. The main thingwas, he’d assured them thathe wouldn’t rest until themonsterwaspunished.Each day, he made phone

calls to all the policedepartments in the areaswhere theBiterhaddisposedof his victims. Canceling

lunches with publishers,postponing meetings withauthors, leaving manuscriptsunread,Chadconcentratedonquestioning homicidedetectives. He demanded toknow why they weren’ttrying harder, why theyhadn’t achieved results, whytheyhadn’t trackeddownthebastard, allowing his victimsto rest with the knowledgethat their abuser would be

punished, at the same timepreventing other potentialvictims from suffering hisbrutality.Just before Thanksgiving,

the Biter’s next target—thesame profile: female, lateteens,Caucasian,blond—wasdiscoveredinaDumpsterbinbehind a restaurant a milefrom Wellesley College.Sure, Chad thought. ADumpster bin. The monster

treated her the same way hedid Stephanie and all hisothervictims.Likegarbage.Hewroteanotherletter,but

again he didn’t receive ananswer. The parents must betoo stunned to react, heconcluded. Whatever, itdoesn’tmatter.Ididmyduty.I sharedmy grief. I let themrealize they’renot alone. I’mtheir and my daughter’sadvocate.

New Year’s Eve. Anothervictim. Dartmouth College.More phone calls todetectives. More letters toparents. More visions inChad’s kitchen at three a.m.A speck of brilliant light. Atendervoice.“You’re out of control,

Dad! Please! I’m beggingyou. Get on with your life.Shave! Take a bath! Changeyour clothes! Most of your

authors have left you!Mother’s leftyou! I’mafraidforyou.”Chad shook his head.

“Your mother...What? Sheleftme?”With a shudder, Chad

realized that Linda hadpacked several suitcasesand...Dear God. Heremembered now. Linda hadshouted, “It’s been too long!It’s bad enough to grieve for

Stephanie! But to watch youdo this to yourself? It’s toodamnedmuch!Don’tdestroymy life while you destroyyours.”Ah.Ofcourse.So be it, Chad dismally

thought.SheneedsacomfortIcan’tgiveher.Godwilling,she’ll find it with someoneelse.Vengeance. Retribution.

With greater fury, Chadpursued his mission. Morephone calls, more franticletters.And then a breakthrough.

What the detectives hadn’ttoldChad—butwhat he nowlearned—was that the tiretracks left by his daughter’sdesecraterhadbeenidentifiedlast year, back in April, asstandard equipment on aparticularmodelofAmerican

van. Not only Stephanie’scorpsenearYalebutthelatervictim near Vassar had beenlinkedwith the tire tracksonthat year and model of van.BecausetheBiter’snumeroustargets had all been studentsatcollegesanduniversitiesinNewEngland, the authoritieshad concentrated their searchinthatarea.When a blond, attractive,

female student narrowly

escapedbeingdragged insidea van as she strolled towardher dormitory at BrownUniversity,thelocalpolice—braced for the threat—ordered roadblocks aroundtheareaandstoppedthetypeof van that they’d beenseeking.Thehandsome,ingratiating

male driver complied toocalmly. His responses weretoo respectful, not at all

curious. On a hunch, anofficer asked the driver toopenthebackofthevan.The driver’s eyes

narrowed.Chilled by the intensity of

his gaze, the policemangrasped his revolver andrepeatedhisrequest.Whatheand his teamdiscovered...after the driverhesitated, after they took hiskeys...werestacksofboxesin

therearofthevan.And behind the boxes, a

bound, gagged, unconsciousco-ed.That night, the police

announced the suspectedBiter’s arrest, and Chadshoutedintriumph.Finally! A textbook

salesman. The bastard’sdistrict was New Englandcolleges. He stalked eachcampus. He studied his

varietyofquarry,reducedhischoices, selected his finaltarget,and...Chad imagined the Biter’s

enticement. “These boxes ofbooks. They’re too heavy.I’ve sprained my left wrist.Wouldyoumind?Couldyouhelp me? I’d reallyappreciate...Thank you. Bythe way, what’s yourmajor?Nokidding?English?Whatacoincidence.That’smymajor.

Here. In the back. Help mewith this final box. Youwon’t believe the firsteditionsI’vegotinthere.”Rape, torture, cannibalism,

andmurderwerewhathehadinthere.Step in farther. Nothing’s

goingtohurtyou.But now the bastard had

finallybeencaught.Hisnamewas Richard Putnam. Thealleged Biter, the media

carefullycalledhim,althoughChad had no doubt ofPutnam’s guilt as he studiedthe television images of themonster. The unafraidexpression. The unemotionaleyes. The handsome suspectshould have been sweatingwith fear, blustering withindignation, but instead hegazeddirectlyatthecameras,disturbingly confident. Asociopath.

Chad phoned policemenanddistrictattorneys towarnthem not to be fooled byPutnam’s calm manner. Hewroteletterstotheparentsofevery victim, urging them tomakesimilarcalls.Eachnightat three a.m. as hewanderedthrough his clutteredapartment, he always foundStephanie’s brilliant lighthoveringinthekitchen.“At last they found him,”

she said. “At last you cangive up your anger. Sleep.Eat. Rest. Distract yourself.Work.It’sover.”“No, itwon’tbeoveruntil

thesonofabitchispunished!Iwanthim tosuffer!To feeltheterroryoudid!”“But he can’t feel terror.

He can’t feel anything.Exceptwhenhekills.”“Believe me, sweetheart,

when the court finds him

guilty, when the judgepronounceshis sentence, thatsociopath will suddenly findhe can definitely feelemotion!”“That’s what I’m afraid

of!”“I don’t understand!Don’t

youwantrevenge?”“I’m speeding so

brilliantly. I don’t have timeto...I’mafraid.”“Afraidaboutwhat?”

Stephanie’s radiant lightfaded.“Whatareyouafraidof?”Nothingwillhurtyou.The

song kept echoing in Chad’smind. While he hadn’t beenabletoprotecthisdaughterashe had promised when shewas a child, he could do hisutmost to guarantee he wasthere to make sure that themonster suffered. Calls topolice departments revealed

that the various states inwhich the murders hadoccurred were eachdemandingtoputtheBiterontrial. The result wasbureaucratic chaos,arguments about which citywouldhavethefirstchancetoprosecute.Astheauthoritiespersisted

in quarreling, Chad’sfrustration compelled him tovisit the parents of each

victim, to convince them toform a group, to conductnews conferences, to insistthat jurisdictional egos beignored in favor of thestrongestevidenceinanyonecity,topleadforjustice.It gave Chad intense

satisfactiontobelievethathiseffortsproducedresults—andeven greater satisfaction thatNew Haven was selected asthe site of the trial, that

Stephanie’smurderwouldbethe crime against which theBiterwasinitiallyprosecuted.By then, a year had passed.As part of his divorcesettlement,Chadhadsoldhisco-op apartment inManhattan, splitting theproceeds with Linda. HemovedtocheaperlodgingsinNew Haven, relying on theincome he received from histen percent of royalties that

his former authors wererequired to pay him forcontractsthathe’dnegotiated.SuccessfulSure.BeforeStephaniewas...Nothingwillhurtyou?Wrong!Ithurtslikehell!Eachdayat the trial,Chad

satinthefrontrow,fartothesidesohecouldhaveadirectview of Putnam’sunemotional, this-is-all-a-

mistake, confident profile.Damn you, show fear, showremorse, show anything,Chadthought.Butevenwhenthedistrictattorneypresentedphotographs of the horrorsdone to Stephanie, themonster did not react. Chadwanted to leap across thecourtroom’s railing and clawPutnam’seyesout.Ittookallhisself-controlnot toscreamhislitanyofmentalcurses.

Thejurydeliberatedfortendays.Whydidtheyneedsolong?They finally declared him

guiltyAnd yet again themonster

showednoreaction.Nor did he reactwhen the

judge pronounced themaximum punishmentConnecticut allowed: life inprison.But Chad reacted. He

shrieked, “Life in prison?Changethelaw!Thatsonofabitch deserves to beexecuted!”Chad was removed from

the courtroom. Outside,Putnam’s lawyer made aspeechaboutamiscarriageofjustice, vowing to demand anew trial, to appeal to ahighercourt.Thusbeganadifferentkind

of horror, the complexities

and loopholes in the legalsystem.Another year passed.The monster remained inprison, yes, but what if ajudge decided that a furthertrial was necessary, thatPutnamwasobviouslyinsaneand should have pleadedaccordingly?Ayearinprisonfor what he’d done toStephanie?Ifhewasreleasedona technicality or sent to amental institution where he

would pretend to respond totreatment and perhapseventually be pronounced“cured”...He’dkillagain!At three a.m., in Chad’s

gloomy New Havenapartment, he raised hishaggardfacefromwherehe’dbeen dozing at the kitchentable. He smiled towardStephanie’sspeckoflight.“Hi,dear.It’swonderfulto

see you. Where have youbeen?HowI’vemissedyou.”“You’ve got to stop doing

this!”“I’mgettingevenforyou.”“You’re making me

scared!”“For me. Of course. I

understand. But as soon as Iknow that he’s punished, I’llputmylifeinorder.IpromiseI’llcleanupmyact.”“That’snotwhat Imean! I

don’t have time to explain!I’m soaring so fast! Sobrilliantly! Stop what you’redoing!”“Ican’t.Howcanyourest

inpeaceifheisn’t—”“I’mafraid!”Putnam’s appeal was

denied. But that was anotheryear later. In the meantime,Chad’s former wife, Linda,had married someone else,and Chad’s percentage of

royalties from his pastauthors dwindled. He wasforced to move to moreshabbylodgings.Hebegantowithdraw money—with taxpenalties—from his pension.He now had a beard. Lesstrouble. No necessity toshave. So what if hisunwashed hair drooped overhisears?Therewasnoonetoimpress. No authors. Nopublishers.Noone.

ExceptStephanie.Where inGod’s namewas

she?She’d abandoned him.

Why?While Stephanie’s murder

had officially been solved,others attributed to the Biterhad not. Putnam refused toadmitthathe’dkilledanyone,and the authorities—furiousabout Putnam’s stubbornness—decided to put pressure on

him to close the books onthose other crimes, to forcehim to confess. Before he’dbeenabooksalesmaninNewEngland, he’d worked inFlorida. A blond, attractiveco-ed had been murderedyearsbeforeatFlorida’sstateuniversity. The killer hadused a knife instead of histeeth to mutilate the victim.There wasn’t any obviousreason to link the Biter with

that killing. But a search ofthat Florida city’s recordsrevealed that Putnam hadreceivedaparkingticketnearwhere the victim haddisappeared as she left theuniversity’s library. Further,Putnam’s rare blood typematched the type derivedfromthesementhatthekillerhadleftwithinthevictim,justasthesementhatthemonsterhad left within Stephanie

contained Putnam’s bloodtype.Yearsago,thatevidencecould not have been used incourt because of limitationsin forensic technology. Butnow...Putnam was arrested for

the co-ed’s murder. Hislawyer had insisted onanother trial. Well, themonster would get one. InFlorida.Wherethemaximumpenaltywasn’t life in prison.

Itwasdeath.Chad moved to the

outskirts of Florida StateUniversity. His pension andhis portion of royalties fromcontracts he’d negotiatedincreasingly declined. Hisclothesbecamemoreshabby,his appearance moreunkempt, his frame moregaunt.At somehazypoint inthe intervening years, hisformerwife,Linda,diedfrom

breast cancer. He mournedforherbutnotashemournedforStephanie.TheFloridatrialseemedto

take forever. Again Chadcame to stare at themonster.Again he endured thecomplexities of the legalsystem. Again the evidencepresented at the trial madehimshudder.But finally Putnam was

foundguilty,andthistimethe

judge—Chadcheeredandhadto be evicted from thecourtroom again—sentencedthe monster to death in theelectricchair.Anti-death-penalty groups

raised a furor. Theypetitioned Florida’s SupremeCourt and the state’sgovernor to reduce thesentence. For his part, Chadbarraged the media and theparentsof theBiter’svictims

with phone calls and letters,urging them to use all theirinfluence to insist that thejudge’ssentencebeobeyed.Richard Putnam finally

showed a reaction.Apparently now convincedthathislifewasindanger,hetried to make a deal. Hehinted about other homicideshe’d committed, offering toreveal specifics and solvemurders in other states in

exchange for a reducedsentence.Detectives from numerous

states came to questionPutnam about unsolveddisappearances of co-eds. Intheend,after theylistenedindisgust to his explicitdescriptions of torture andcannibalism, they refused toask the judge to reduce thesentence. There were fourstaysofexecution,butfinally

Putnamwasshaved,placedinan electric chair, andexterminated with twothousand volts through hisbrain.Chad was with the pro-

death-sentence advocates inthe darkness of a midnightrainoutsidetheprison.Alongwiththem,heheldupasign:burn,putmanburn.ihopeoldsparky makes you suffer asmuch as stephanie did. The

execution occurred onschedule. At last, after somany years, Chad felttriumphant. Vindicated. Atpeace.Butwhenhereturnedtohis

cockroach-infested,one-roomapartment,whenatthreea.m.he drank cheap red wine invictory, he blinked in furthertriumph.BecauseStephanie’slightagainappearedtohim.Chad’sheartthundered.He

hadn’t seen or spoken to herinsomanyyears.Despitehisefforts on her behalf, he hadthought that she hadabandonedhim.Hehadneverunderstood why. After all,she had promised that shewould be there whenever heneeded to talk to her. At thesame time, she had alsodemanded that he stop hisefforts topunishthemonster.Hehadneverunderstoodthat,

either.Butnow,inhorror,hedid.“Iwarnedyou,Dad!Itried

to stop you!Why didn’t youlisten?I’msoafraid!”“I got even for you! You

canfinallyrestinpeace!”“No!Nowitstartsagain!”“Whatdoyoumean?”“He’s free! He’s coming

forme!Don’tyouremember?I told you he doesn’t feelemotionexceptwhenhekills!

And now that he’s beenreleased,hecan’twaittodoitagain!He’scomingforme!”“But you said you’re

soaring so brilliantly! Howcanhecatchuptoyou?”“Two thousandvolts!He’s

like a rocket! He’s grinning!He’s reaching out his arms!Help me, Daddy! Youpromised!”Based on the note Chad

left, his psychiatrist

concluded that Chad’s finalact made perfect, irrationalsense.Chadbledprofuselyashestruggledover thebarbed-wire fence. His hands weremangled. That didn’t matter.Nor did his fear of heightsmatterasheclimbedthehightower while guards shoutedfor him to stop. All thatmattered was that Stephaniewas in danger. What choicedidhehave?Except tograsp

thehigh-voltagelines.To be struck by twenty

thousandvolts.Tentimesthepower that had launched theBiter toward Stephanie.Chad’s body burst intoflames, but his agony meantnothing. The impetus of hissoulmeanteverything.Keepspeeding,sweetheart!

Asfastasyoucan!But I’ll speed faster! The

monster won’t catch you!

Nothingwillhurtyou!NotwhileIcanhelpit.

TheAmmoniteViolin

(MurderBalladNo.4)

CAITLÍNR.KIERNAN

CaitlínR.Kiernanistheauthorofseveralnovels, includingLowRedMoon, Daughter of Hounds, andThe Red Tree, which wasnominated for both the ShirleyJackson and World Fantasyawards. Her latest novel, TheDrowning Girl: A Memoir, waspublishedin2012.Since2000,hershorter tales of the weird,fantastic, andmacabre have beencollected in several volumes,

including Tales of Pain andWonder; From Weird and DistantShores;ToCharlesFort,WithLove;Alabaster;A is for Alien; and TheAmmonite Violin & Others. Aretrospective of Kiernan’s earlywriting, Two Worlds and InBetween: The Best of Caitlín R.Kiernan (Volume One) waspublished in 2012 bySubterraneanPress.

ShelivesinProvidence,RhodeIsland, with her partner Kathryn.She is currently working on her

next two novels, Blood OrangesandBlueCanary.Caitlínblogs at:http://greygirlbeast.livejournal.com/.

Ifhewereevertotrytowritethisstory,hewouldnotknowwhere to begin. It’s that sortof a story, so fraught withunlikely things, so perfectlyturned and filled with suchwicked artifice andcontrivances that readers

would look away, unable tosuspend their disbelief evenforapage.Buthewill nevertry to write it, because he isnot a poet or a novelist or amanwhowrites short storiesfor the newsstand pulpmagazines.He is a collector.Or,ashethinksofhimself,aCollector.Hehasneverdaredto think of himself as TheCollector,asheisnotwithoutan ounce or two ofmodesty,

and there must surely bethose out there who are farbetter than he, shadow men,and maybe shadow women,too, haunting a busy,forgetful world that is onlyaware of its phantoms whenone or another of them slipsupandisexposedtoflashingcameras and prison cells.Then people will stare, andmaybe, for a time, there ishorror and fear in their dull,

wet eyes, but they soonenoughforgetagain.Theyarebusy people, after all, andthey have lives to live, andjobstoshowupforfivedaysaweek, andbills to pay, andsecret nightmares all theirown,andintheirworldthereis very little time forphantoms.Helivesinasmallhousein

asmalltownnearthesea,fortheonlytime theCollector is

evertrulyatpeaceiswhenheis in the presence of the sea.Even collecting has neverbroughthim to that completeand utter peace, the quietwhich finally fills himwhenever there is only thecrash of waves against agranitejettyandthesaltwatermists to breathe in and holdin his lungs like opiumfumes.Hewouldlovethesea,were she a woman. And

sometimes he imagines herso, a wild and beautifulwomanclothedallinblueandgreen, trailing sand andmussels in her wake. Hergrey eyes would containhurricanes, and her voicewould be the lonely toll ofbell buoys and the cries ofgulls and a December windscrapingitselfrawagainsttheshore. But, he thinks, werethe sea but a woman, and

were she his lover, then hewould have her, as he is aCollector and must have allthose thingshe loves,so thatno one else might ever havethem.Hemust draw them tohimandkeep themsafe froma blind and busy world thatcannot even comprehend itsphantoms.Andhavingher,hewouldloseher,andhewouldnever again know the peacewhichonlyshecanbring.

Hehastwospecialties,thisCollector. There are somewho are perfectly contentwith only one, and he hasnever thought any less ofthem for it. But he has two,because, so long as he canrecall, there has been thistwinfascination,andheneversawthepointinforsakingonefortheother.Not ifhemighthave them both and yet be aricher man for sharing his

devotion between the two.They are his two mistresses,and neither has evercondemned his polyamorousheart.Likethesea,whoisnothis mistress but only hisconstant savior, theyunderstandwhoandwhatandwhyhe is, and that hewouldbe somehow diminished,perhapsevenundone,wereheforced to devote himselfwhollytotheoneortheother.

Thefirstofthetwoishisvastcollection of fossilizedammonites,gatheredupfromthe quarries and ocean-sidecliffs and the stony, barrenplaces of half the globe’snations. The second are allthe young women he hasmurdered by suffocation,always by suffocation, forthatishowtheseawouldkill,howtheseadoeskill,usually,and in taking life he would

everpay tributeandhonor tothatfirstmotheroftheworld.ThatfirstCollector.Hehasneverhadtoexplain

hiscollectingofsuffocations,of the deaths of suffocatedgirls, as it is such acommonplace thing and asecretcollection,besides.Buthe has frequently found itnecessary to explain to someacquaintance or another,someonewho thinks that she

or he knows the Collector,about the ammonites. Theammonites are not a secretand, it would seem, neitherare they commonplace. It issimple enough to say thatthey are mollusks, asubdivision of theCephalopoda, kin to theoctopus and cuttlefish andsquid, but possessingexquisite shells, not unlikeanother living cousin, the

chamberednautilus. It is lesseasy to say that they becameextinct at the end of theCretaceous, along with mostdinosaurs, or that they firstappear in the fossil record inearlyDevonian times, as thisonly leads to the need toexplain the Cretaceous andDevonian.Often,whenaskedthat question, What is anammonite?, he will changethe subject. Or he will

sidestep the truth of hiscollection, talking only ofmathematics and thegeometry of the ancientGreeks and how one arrivesat the Golden Curve.Ammonites, he knows, areone of the sea’s manyexquisite expressions of theGolden Curve, but he doesnot bother to explain thatpart, keeping it back forhimself. And sometimes he

talks about the horns ofAmmon, an Egyptian god ofthe air, or, if he is feelingespecially impatient andannoyed by the question, helimits his response to adescriptionoftheAmmonitesfrom the Book of Mormonand how they embraced thegod of the Nephites and socame to know peace. He isnot aMormon, of course, ashe has use of only a singly

deity,whoistheseaandwhokindlygrantshimpeacewhenhe can no longer bear theclamor in hishead or the farmore terrible clamor ofmankind.Onthishazywinterday,he

has returned to his smallhouse fromavery longwalkalong a favorite beach, astherewasagreatneedtoclearhis head. He has made asteaming cup of Red Zinger

teawithafewdropsofhoneyand sits now in the roomwhichhasbecomethegalleryforthebestofhisammonites,oakshelvesandglassdisplaycasesfilledwiththeirgracefulplanispiral or heteromorphcurves, a thousand fragilearagonite bodies transformedby time and geochemistryinto mere silica or pyrite orsomeotherpermineralization.Hesitsathisdesk,sippinghis

teaandglancingoccasionallyat somebelovedspecimenoranother—thisonefromSouthDakota or that one from thebanks of the Volga River inRussia or one of the manythathavecomefromWhitby,England. And then he looksback to the desktop and theviolincaselyingopeninfrontofhim,crimsonsilktocradlethisnewestandperhapsmostprecious of all the items

whichhehasyetcollected inhis lifetime, the singlemiraculous piece whichbelongsstrictlyinneitheronegallery nor the other. Thepiecewhichwill at last forma bridge, he believes,allowing his two collectionsto remain distinct, but alsoaffordingatangibletransitionbetweenthem.The keystone, he thinks.

Yes,youwillbemykeystone.

But he knows, too, that theviolinwillbesomethingmorethan that, thathehasdevisedit to serve as something fargrander than a tokenunification of the two halvesof his delight. It will be atool, a mediator or go-betweeninanactwhichmay,hehopes,transcendcollectingin its simplest sense. It hasonly just arrived today,special delivery, from the

Belgian luthier to whom theCollector had hesitantlyentrusteditsbirth.“Itmust be done precisely

as I have said,” he told theviolin-maker, four monthsago,when he flew toHottonto hand-deliver a substantialportionof thematerials fromwhich the instrument wouldbeconstructed.“Youmaynotdeviateinanysignificantwayfromtheseinstructions.”

“Yes,” the luthier replied,“I understand. I understandcompletely.” A man whoappreciates discretion, theBelgian violin-maker, sothere were no inconvenientquestions asked, no pryinginquiries as to why, andwhat’s more, he’d evenknown something aboutammonitesbeforehand.“No substitutions,” the

Collector said firmly, just in

case it needed to be statedonelasttime.“No substitutions of any

sort,”repliedtheluthier.“And the back must be

carved—”“I understand,” the violin-

maker assured him. “I havethesketches,andIwillfollowthemexactly.”“Andthepegs—”“Will be precisely as we

havediscussed.”

And so the Collector paidthe luthier half the price ofthe commission, the otherhalf due upon delivery, andhetookasixa.m.flightbackacross the wide Atlantic toNew England and his smallhouse in the small townnearthe sea. And he has waited,hardly daring to half-believethat the violin-maker would,infact,getitallright.Indeed—for men are ever at war

with their hearts and mindsand innermost demons—some infinitesimal scrap oftheCollectorhas evenhopedthattherewouldbeamistake,themosttriflingportionofhisplan ignored or the violinfinished and perfect but thenlost in transit and so thewholeplotruined.Foritisnosmall thing, what theCollector has set in motion,andhavingalwaysconsidered

himselfaverywiseandsoberman, he suspects that heunderstands fully theconsequenceshewouldsuffershould he be discovered bylesser men who have noregard for the ocean and herneeds. Men who cannot seethefleshandbloodphantomswalkingamongtheminbroaddaylight, much less bebothered to pay tithes whicharelongoverduetoagoddess

who has cradled them all,each and every one, throughthe innumerable twists andturns of evolution’s crucible,for three andahalf thousandmillionyears.But there has been no

mistake, and, if anything, theviolin-maker can be faultedonly in the completesublimationofhiscrafttothewillofhiscustomer.Ineveryway,thisistheinstrumentthe

Collectoraskedhimtomake,andthevarnishgleamsfaintlyin the light from the displaycases.Thetopiscarvedfromspruce, and four smallammoniteshavebeensetintothe wood—Xipherocerasfrom Jurassic rocks exposedalong the Dorset Coast atLyme Regis—two inlaid onthe upper bout, two on thelower. He found the fossilshimself,manyyearsago,and

they are as perfectlypreservedanexampleoftheirgenus as he has yet seenanywhere, for any price. Theviolin’s neck has beenfashioned from maple, as isso often the tradition, and,likewise, the fingerboard isthe customary ebony.However, the scrollhas beenformed from a fifthammonite, and the Collectorknowsitisafarmoreperfect

logarithmic spiral than anyvolute that could have everbeenhackedoutfromablockofwood.Inhismind,thefiveammonitesformthepointsofa pentacle. The luthier usedmaple for the back and ribs,andwhen theCollector turnsthe violin over, he’s greetedby the intricate bas-relief herequested, faithfullyreproduced from his owndrawings—a great octopus,

the ravenous devilfish of somany sea legends, and themaze of its eight tentaclesmakes a looping, tangledinterweave.Asforthepegsandbridge,

the chinrest and tailpiece, allthese have been carved fromthe bits of bone he providedthe luthier. They seem nomore than antique ivory, thestolentusksofanelephantora walrus or the tooth of a

sperm whale, perhaps. TheCollector also provided thedriedgut for the five strings,and when the violin-makerpointed out that they wouldnot be nearly so durable asgoodstrandedsteel, that theywouldbemuchmorelikelytobreak and harder to keep intune, the Collector told himthat the instrument would beplayedonlyonceandsothesematters were of very little

concern. For the bow, theluthier was given strands ofhairwhich theCollector toldhimhadcomefromthetailofa gelding, a fine grey horsefrom Kentucky thoroughbredstock. He’d even ordered aspecial rosin, and so the sapof an Aleppo Pine wassupplemented with a vial ofoilhe’dleftinthecareoftheviolin-maker.Andnow,fourlongmonths

later, the Collector isrewarded for all hispainstakingdesigns,rewardedor damned, if indeed there issome distinction between thetwo, and the instrument heholds is more beautiful thanhe’deverdared to imagine itcouldbe.The Collector finishes his

tea, pausing for amoment tolick the commingled flavorsof hibiscus and rosehips,

honey and lemon grass fromhis thin, chapped lips. Thenhe closes the violin case andlocks it, before writing asecond, final check to theBelgian luthier. He slips itinto an envelope bearing theviolin-maker’s name and theaddressoftheshopontheruede Centre in Hotton; thecheck will go out in themorning’s mail, along withother checks for the gas,

telephone, and electric bills,and a handwritten letter onlilac-scented stationery,addressed to a Brooklynviolinist. When he is donewith these chores, theCollectorsitsthereatthedeskin his gallery, one handresting lightly on the violincase, his face marred by anunaccustomed smile and hiseyes filling up with thegluttonous wonder of so

manypreciousthingsbroughttogetherinoneroom,contentin thecertainknowledge thatthey belong to him and willneverbelongtoanyoneelse.

The violinist would neverwritethisstory,either.Wordshave never come easily forher. Sometimes, it seems shedoesnoteventhinkinwords,but only in notes of music.When the lilac-scented letter

arrives, she reads it severaltimes, then doeswhat it asksof her, because she can’timaginewhat else shewoulddo.Shebuysa ticketand thenext day she takes the trainthrough Connecticut andRhode Island andMassachusetts until, finally,shecomestoasmalltownonarockyspitoflandverynearthe sea. She has never caredfor the sea, as it has seemed

always to her some awful,insolublemystery,notsoverydifferent from the awful,insoluble mystery of death.Even before the loss of hersister, the violinist avoidedthe sea when possible. Sheloathes the taste of fish andlobsterandofclams,and thesmelloftheocean,too,whichreminds her of raw sewage.She has often dreamt ofdrowning,andofslimythings

withbulgingblackeyes,eyesas empty as night, that haveslithered up from abyssaldepthstodragherbackdownwith them to lightless plainsofsiltanddiatomaceousoozeor to the ruins of haunted,sunken cities. But those areonlydreams,and theydoheronly the bloodless harm thatcomes from dreams, and shehas lived long enough tounderstandthatshehasworse

thingsthantheseatofear.She takes a taxi from the

train depot, and it ferries herthrough the town and over amurkyriverwindingbetweenemptywarehousesandrottingdocks, a few fishing boatsstrandedatlowtide,andthento a small house painted thecolorofsunflowersorcanaryfeathers. The address on themailbox matches the addresson the lilac-scented letter, so

she pays the driver and heleaves her there. Then shestands in the driveway,watching the yellow house,which has begun to seem adisquieting shade of yellow,or a shade of yellow madedisquieting because there issomuchofitallinoneplace.It’s almost twilight, and sheshivers, wishing she’dthought to wear a cardiganunder her coat, and then a

porch light comes on andthere’samanwavingtoher.He’s the man who wrote

theletter,shethinks.Themanwhowantsmetoplayforhim,and for some reason she hadexpected him to be a lotyounger and not so fat. Helooks a bit like CaptainKangaroo, this man, and hewavesandcallshernameandsmiles. And the violinistwishesthatthetaxiwerestill

waitingtheretotakeherbackto the station, that she didn’tneed the money the fat manin the yellow house hadofferedher,thatshe’dhadthegoodsensetostayin thecitywhereshebelongs.Youcouldstill turnandwalk away, shereminds herself. There’snothing at all stopping youfrom just turning rightaround and walking awayandneveroncelookingback,

and you could still forgetabout this whole ridiculousaffair.Andmaybethat’strue,and

maybe it isn’t, but there’smore than amonth’s rent onthe line, and thewaywork’sbeen lately, a few studentsand catch-as-catch-can, shecan’t afford to find out. Shenods and waves back at thesmilingmanontheporch,themanwhotoldhernottobring

her own instrument becausehe’dprefertohearherplayaparticular one that he’d justbrought back from a trip toEurope.“Comeoninside.Youmust

be freezing out there,” hecalls from theporch, and theviolinist tries not to thinkabout the sea all around herorthatshadeofyellow,likeapool of melted butter, andgoes to meet the man who

sent her the lilac-scentedletter.

The Collector makes asteaming-hot pot of RedZinger, which the violinisttakeswithouthoney,andtheyeach have a poppy-seedmuffin, which he boughtfreshthatmorningatabakeryin the town. They sit acrossfromoneanotherathisdesk,surrounded by the display

cases and the best of hisammonites, and she sips hertea and picks at her muffinand pretends to be interestedwhile be explains theimportance of recognizingsexual dimorphism whendistinguishing one species ofammonite from another. Theshellsoffemales,hesays,areoften the larger and so arecalled macroconchs bypaleontologists. The males

may have much smallershells, called microconchs,and one must always becareful not to mistake themicroconchs andmacroconchs for two distinctspecies. He also talks aboutextinctionratesandtheutilityofammonitesasindexfossilsand Parapuzosia bradyi, agiant among ammonites andthe largest specimen in hiscollection, with a shell

measuring slightlymore thanfour and a half feet indiameter.“They’re all quite

beautiful,” she says, and theviolinistdoesn’ttellhimhowmuch she hates the sea andeverything that comes fromtheseaor that the thoughtofall the fleshy, tentacledcreatures that once livedstuffed inside those prettyspiral shells makes her skin

crawl. She sips her tea andsmiles and nods her headwhenever it seemsappropriate to do so, andwhen he asks if he can callher Ellen, she says yes, ofcourse.“You won’t think me too

familiar?”“Don’t be silly,” she

replies, half-charmed at hismanners and wondering ifhe’s gay or just a lonely old

man whose grown a bitpeculiar because he hasnothingbuthis rocksand theyellow house for company.“That’s my name. My nameisEllen.”“I wouldn’t want to make

you uncomfortable or takeliberties that are not mine totake,” theCollector says andclears away their china cupsand saucers, the crumpledpaper napkins and a few

uneaten crumbs, and then heasks if she’s ready to see theviolin.“Ifyou’re ready toshowit

tome,”shetellshim.“It’s just that I don’twant

to rush you,” he says. “Wecouldalwaystalksomemore,ifyou’dlike.”And so the violinist

explains to him that she’snever felt comfortable withconversation, or with

language in general, and thatshe’s always suspected shewas much better suited tospeaking through her music.“Sometimes,I thinkitspeaksfor me,” she tells him andapologizes,becausesheoftenapologizes when she’sactuallydonenothingwrong.The Collector grins andlaughssoftlyandtapsthesideofhisnosewithhisleftindexfinger.

“ThewayIseeit,languageis language is language,” hesays. “Words or music, birdsongs or all the fancy,flashing colors made bychemoluminescent squid,what’s the difference? I’lltake conversation however Icanwrangle it.”And then heunlocks one of the deskdrawers with a tiny brass-coloredkeyandtakesoutthecase containing the Belgian

violin.“Ifwordsdon’tcomewhen

you call them, then, by allmeans,please,talktomewiththis,” and he flips up thelatchesonthesideofthecaseand opens it so she can seetheinstrumentcradledinside.“Ohmy,” she says, all her

awkwardness and uneaseforgotten at the sight of theammonite violin. “I’ve neverseen anything like it. Never.

It’s lovely. No, it’s much,muchmorethanlovely.”“Then you will play it for

me?”“MayItouchit?”sheasks,

andhelaughsagain.“Ican’timaginehowyou’ll

playitotherwise.”Ellengently lifts theviolin

from its case, the way thatsome people might lift anewborn child or a Minoanvase or a stoppered bottle of

nitroglycerine, the way theCollector would lift aparticularly fragile ammonitefromitsbedofexcelsior.It’sheavier than any violin she’sheld before, and she guessesthat the unexpected weightmust be from the five fossilshellsset into the instrument.She wonders how it willaffect the sound, those fiveancient stones, how theymight warp and alter this

violin’svoice.“It’s never been played,

exceptbythemanwhomadeit, and that hardly seems tocount.You,mydear,will betheveryfirst.”And she almost asks him

why her, because surely, forwhat he’s paying, he couldhave lured some other, moretalentedplayeroutheretohislittle yellow house. Surelysomeone a bit more

celebrated, moreaccomplished, someone whodoesn’t have to take instudentstomaketherent,butwould still be flattered andintriguedenoughbytheofferto come all the way to thissqualid little townby the seaandplay the fatman’sviolinforhim.Butthenshethinksitwould be rude, and shealmost apologizes for aquestion she hasn’t even

asked.And then, as if he might

have read her mind, and somaybe she should haveapologized after all, theCollectorshrugshisshouldersanddabsatthecornersofhismouth with a white linenhandkerchiefhe’spulledfromashirt pocket. “The universeis amarvelously complex bitof craftsmanship,” he says.“And sometimes one must

look very closely to evenbegin tounderstand how onething connects with another.Your late sister, for instance—”“My sister?” she asks and

looks up, surprised andlooking away from theammonite violin and into thefriendly, smiling eyes of theCollector. A cold knot deepinherbellyandanunpleasantpricking sensation along her

forearmsand thebackofherneck, goosebumps andhistrionic ghost-story clichés,andallatoncetheviolinfeelsunclean and dangerous, andshe wants to return it to itscase. “What do you knowaboutmysister?”The Collector blushes and

glances down at his hands,folded there in front of himon the desk. He begins tospeak and stammers, as if,

possibly,he’sreallynobetterwithwordsthanshe.“What do you know about

my sister?”Ellen asks again.“How do you know abouther?”The Collector frowns and

licksnervouslyathischappedlips. “I’m sorry,” he says.“Thatwas terribly tactless ofme.Ishouldnothavebroughtitup.”“How do you know about

mysister?”“It’snotexactlyasecret,is

it?”theCollectorasks,lettinghis eyes drift by slow,calculated degrees from hishands and the desktop to herface. “I do read thenewspapers. I don’t usuallywatch television, but Iimagineitwas there,aswell.Shewasmurdered—”“Theydon’tknowthat.No

one knows that for sure. She

ismissing,”theviolinistsays,hissingthelastwordbetweenclenchedteeth.“She’s been missing for

quite some time,” theCollector replies, feeling thesmallest bit braver now andbeginning to suspect hehasn’t quite overplayed hishand.“Buttheydonotknowthat

she’s been murdered. Theydon’tknow that.Nooneever

found her body,” and thenEllen decides that she’s saidfartoomuchandstaresdownat the fat man’s violin. Shecan’t imagine how she everthoughtitalovelything,onlyamomentor twobefore, thisgrotesqueparody of a violinresting in her lap. It’s morelikeagargoyle,shethinks,ora sideshow freak, amalformed parody or a sick,sick joke, and suddenly she

wantsverybadlytowashherhands.“Please forgive me,” the

Collector says, sounding assincere and contrite as anylonelymaninayellowhouseby the sea has ever sounded.“I live alone. I forgetmyselfand say things I shouldn’t.Please, Ellen. Play it forme.You’ve come all this way,and I would so love to hearyouplay. Itwouldbe such a

pity if I’ve gone and spoileditallwithafewinconsideratewords.Isoadmireyourwork—”“No one admires my

work,”shereplies,wonderinghow long it would take thetaxitoshowupandcarryherback over themuddy,murkyriver,past the rowsof emptywarehouses to thedepot, andhow long she’d have to waitfor the next train to New

York. “I still don’t evenunderstand how you foundme?”And at this opportunity to

redeem himself, theCollector’s face brightens,and he leans towards heracross the desk. “Then Iwilltell you, if thatwill put yourmindat ease. I sawyouplayat an art opening inManhattan, you and yoursister,ayearorsoback.Ata

gallery on Mercer Street. Itwas called...damn, it’s rightonthetipofmytongue—”“Eyecon,” Ellen says,

almost whispering. “Thename of the gallery isEyecon.”“Yes, yes, that’s it. Thank

you. I thought it was such averysillynamefor a gallery,but then I’ve never cared forpuns andwordplay. Itwas ata reception for a French

painter,AlbertPerrault,andIconfess I found him quitecompletely hideous, and hispaintingsweredreadful,butIloved listening to the two ofyouplay.Icalledthegallery,andtheywereniceenough totell me how I could contactyou.”“I didn’t like his paintings

either.Thatwas the last timeweplayed together,mysisterandI,”Ellensaysandpresses

a thumb to the ammoniteshell that forms the violin’sscroll.“I didn’t know that. I’m

sorry,Ellen.Iwasn’ttryingtodredgeupbadmemories.”“It’s not a bad memory,”

she says, wishing it were allthat simple and that wereexactlythetruth,andthenshereaches for the violin’s bow,whichisstilllyinginthecaselinedwithsilkdyedthecolor

ofripepomegranates.“I’m sorry,” the Collector

says again, certain now thathe hasn’t frightened heraway,thateverythingisgoingpreciselyasplanned.“Please,I onlywant to hear you playagain.”“I’llneedtotuneit,”Ellen

tellshim,becauseshe’scomethis far, and she needs themoney, and there’s nothingthe fat man has said that

doesn’taddup.“Naturally,” he replies.

“I’ll go to the kitchen andmake us another pot of tea,and you can call mewheneveryou’reready.”“I’ll need a tuning fork,”

she says, because she hasn’tseen any sign of a piano inthe yellow house. “Or if youhave ametronome that has atuner,thatwouldwork.”The Collector promptly

produces a steel tuning forkfrom another of the drawersand slides it across the deskto the violinist. She thankshim, and when he’s left theroomandshe’salonewiththeammonite violin and all thetall cases filled with fossilsand the amber wash ofincandescent bulbs, sheglancesatawindowandseesthat it’s alreadydarkoutside.Iwillplayforhim,shethinks.

I’ll play on his violin, anddrink his tea, and smile,andthenhe’llpaymeformytimeand trouble. I’ll go back tothecity,andtomorroworthenext day, I’ll be glad that Ididn’tbackout.Tomorroworthe next day, it’ll all seemsilly, that I was afraid of asad oldmanwho lives in anugly yellow house andcollectsrocks.“Iwill,”shesaysout loud.

“That’s exactly how it willgo,”andthenEllenbegins totunetheammoniteviolin.

And after he brings her arickety old music stand,something that looks like ithassurvivedhalfacenturyofhigh-school marching bands,he sits behind his desk,sippingafreshcupoftea,andshe sits in the overlappingpools of light from the

display cases. He asked forPaganini; specifically, heasked for Paganini’s ViolinConcerto No. 3 in E. Shewould have preferredsomething contemporary—Górecki, maybe, or PhilipGlass, a little something sheknowsfrommemory—buthehad the sheet music forPaganini, and it’s his violin,and he’s the one who’swritingthecheck.

“Now?” she asks, and henodshishead.“Yes, please,” he replies

andraiseshisteacupasif totoasther.So Ellen lifts the violin,

supporting it with her leftshoulder, bracing it firmlywithherchin,andstudiesthesheetmusicamomentortwomore before she begins.Introduzione, allegromarziale, and shewonders if

he expects to hear all threemovements,start tofinish,orif he’ll stop her when he’sheard enough. She takes adeep breath and begins toplay.

Fromhisseatatthedesk,theCollector closes his eyes asthe lilting voice of theammonite violin fills theroom. He closes his eyestightly and remembers

another winter night, almostanentireyearcomeandgonesince then, but it might onlyhavebeenyesterday,soclearare his memories. Hiscollection of suffocationsmay indeed be morecommonplace,ashehasbeenled toconclude,but it isalsothe less frequently indulgedofhistwopassions.Hecouldnevernamethedateandplaceof each and every ammonite

acquisition, but in his brainthe Collector carries afaultlessaccountingofall thesuffocations.Therehavebeensixteen,sixteenintwenty-oneyears, and now it has beenalmost one year to the nightsince the most recent.Perhaps,he thinks,heshouldhave waited for theanniversary, but when thepackage arrived fromBelgium, his enthusiasm and

impatience got the better ofhim. When he wrote theviolinist his lilac-scentednote, he wrote “at yourearliest possibleconvenience” and underlined“earliest”twice.And here she is, and

Paganini flows from out theammonite violin just as itflowed from his car stereothat freezing night, one yearago, and his heart is beating

so fast, so hard, racing itselfand all his bright andbreathlessmemories.Don’tletitend,hepraysto

the sea, whom he has faithcanheartheprayersofallhersupplicants and will answerthose she deems worthy.Letitgoonandonandon.Letitneverend.He clenches his fists,

digging his short nails deepintotheskinofhispalms,and

bites his lip so hard that hetastesblood.Andthetasteofthose few drops of his ownlife is not so very differentfrom holding the sea insidehismouth.At last, I have done a

perfectthing,hetellshimself,himself and the sea and theammonites and the lingeringsouls of all his suffocations.Somanyyears,somuchtime,somuchworkandmoney,but

finally I have done this oneperfect thing. And then heopenshiseyesagain,andalsoopens the topmiddle drawerof his desk and takes out therevolver that once belongedto his father, who was aGloucester fisherman whosomehow managed never tocollectanythingatall.

Her fingers and the bowdancewildacrossthestrings,

and in only a few minutesEllen has lost herself insidethegiddytangleofharmonicsanddrones and double stops,andifevershehasfeltmagic—true magic—in her art,thenshefeelsitnow.Sheletshereyesdrift fromthemusicstand and the printed pages,because it is all right therebehind her eyes and burningon her fingertips. She mightwell have written these lines

herselfandthenspenthalfherlife playing at nothing else,they rush through her withsuch ease and confidence.This is ecstasy and this isabandon and this is thetumbleandroarofathousandother emotions she seemsnever tohave felt before thisnight. The strange violin nolonger seems unusuallyheavy;infact,ithardlyseemstohaveanyweightatall.

Perhaps there isno violin,she thinks. Perhaps therenever was a violin, only myhands and empty air andthat’s all it takes to makemusiclikethis.Language is language is

language, the fat man said,and so these chords havebecome her words. No, notwords, but something somuch less indirect than theclumsy interplay of her

tongue and teeth, larynx andpalate. They have become,simply,herlanguage,as theyever have been. Her soulspeakingtotheworld,andalltheworldneeddoislisten.She shuts her eyes, no

longerneeding themtograsptheprogressionfromonenoteto the next, and at first thereis only the comfortabledarkness there behind herlids, which seems better

matchedtothemusicthanallthedistractionsofhereyes.Don’tletitstop,shethinks,

not praying, unless this is aprayer to herself, for theviolinist has never seen theneed for gods. Please, let itbe like this forever. Let thismomentneverend,andIwillnever have to stop playingandtherewillneveragainbesilenceorthenoiseofhumanthoughtsandconversation.

“It can’t be that way,Ellen,” her sister whispers,notwhispering inherear butfrom somewhere within thePaganini concerto or theammonite violin or both atonce.“IwishIcouldgiveyouthat. Iwouldgiveyou that ifitwereminetogive.”And then Ellen sees, or

hears, or simplyunderstandsin this languagewhich isherlanguage, as language is

language is language, the fatman’s hands about hersister’s throat. Her sisterdying somewhere cold nearthesea,dyingallaloneexceptfor the company of hermurderer,andthereishalfaninstantwhenshealmoststopsplaying.No,hersisterwhispers,and

that one word comes like ablazing gash across theconcerto’s whirl, and Ellen

doesn’t stopplaying, and shedoesn’t open her eyes, andshewatches asher lost sisterslowlydies.The music is a typhoon

gale flaying rocky shores togravel and sand, and theviolinist lets it spin and rageand she watches as the fatmantakesfourofhersister’sfingers and part of athighbone,strandsofherash-blonde hair, a vial of oil

boiled and distilled from thefat of her breasts, a pink-white section of smallintestine—allthesethingsandthe five fossils from off anEnglish beach to make theinstrumenthewooedherhereto play for him. And nowthere are tears streaming hotdown her cheeks, but stillEllenplaystheviolinthatwashersisterandstillshedoesn’topenhereyes.

The single gunshot is veryloud in the room, and thedisplaycasesrattleanda fewof the ammonites slip offtheirLucitestandsandclatteragainstwoodorglassorotherspiraledshells.And finally she opens her

eyes.And themusic ends as the

bow slides from her fingersand falls to the floor at herfeet.

“No,” she says, “pleasedon’t let it stop, please,” butthe echo of the revolver andthe memory of the concertoaresoloudinherearsthatherownwordsarealmost lost toher.That’s all, her sister

whispers, louder than anysuicide’s gun, soft as amidwinter night coming on,gentle as one unnoticedsecondbleedingintothenext.

I’ve shown you, and nowthereisn’tanymore.Across the room, the

Collectorstillsitsathisdesk,butnowhe’sslumpedabitinhis chair and his head isthrownbacksothatheseemstobestaringatsomethingontheceiling.Bloodspills fromthe black cavern of his openmouthanddripstothefloor.Thereisn’tanymore.And when she’s stopped

crying and is quite certainthat her sister will not speakto her again, that all thesecrets she has any businessseeing have been revealed,the violinist retrieves thedroppedbowandstands,thenwalkstothedeskandreturnsthe ammonite violin to itscase. She will not give it tothe police when they arrive,after she has gone to thekitchen tocall them, and she

will not tell them that itwasthe fat man who gave it toher. She will take it back toBrooklyn, and they will findother things in another roomintheyellowhouseandhaveno need of the violin andthese stolen shreds of hersister. The Collector haskindly written everythingdowninthreebooksboundinredleather,allthenamesanddates and places, and there

are other souvenirs, besides.Andshewillnever try toputthis story into words, forwordshavenevercomeeasilytoher,andliketheviolin,thestory has become hers andhersalone.

HauntedJOYCECAROLOATES

Joyce Carol Oates is one of themostprolificandrespectedwritersin theUnitedStates today.Oateshaswrittenfictioninalmosteverygenre and medium. Her keeninterest in the Gothic andpsychological horror has spurred

her towrite dark suspense novelsunderthenameRosamondSmith,to write enough stories in thegenre to have published fivecollections of dark fiction, themostrecentbeingTheMuseum ofDr. Moses: Tales of Mystery andSuspense and The Corn Maiden,andtoeditAmericanGothicTales.Oates’s short novel Zombie andher short story collection TheCorn Maiden, won the BramStoker Award, and she has beenhonoredwithaLifeAchievementAward by the Horror Writers

Association.Oates’s most recent novels are

The Gravedigger’s Daughter, MySister,MyLove:TheIntimateStoryof SkylerRampike, andLittle BirdofHeaven.

She teaches creativewriting atPrinceton and with her latehusband,Raymond J. Smith, ranthe small press and literarymagazineTheOntarioReview formanyyears.

Haunted houses, forbidden

houses. The old Medlockfarm. The Erlich farm. TheMinton farm on Elk Creek.No Trespassing the signssaid, but we trespassed atwill. No Trespassing NoHunting No Fishing UnderPenalty of Law but we didwhatwepleasedbecausewhowastheretostopus?Our parents warned us

against exploring theseabandonedproperties:theoldhouses and barns weredangerous, they said. Wecould get hurt, they said. Iasked my mother if thehouseswerehauntedandshesaid, Of course not, therearen’t such things as ghosts,you know that. She wasirritatedwithme;sheguessedhow I pretended to believethingsIdidn’tbelieve, things

I’dgrownoutofyearsbefore.It was a habit of childhood—pretending I was younger,more childish, than in fact Iwas. Opening my eyes wideandlookingpuzzled,worried.Girls are prone to suchtrickery; it’s a form ofcamouflagewheneveryotherthought you think is aforbidden thought and withyour eyes open staringsightless you can sink into

dreams that leave your skinclammy and your heartpounding—dreams that don’tseem to belong to you thatmusthave come toyou fromsomewhere else fromsomeone you don’t knowwhoknowsyou.There weren’t such things

as ghosts, they told us. Thatwas just superstition. Butwecould injure ourselvestramping around where we

weren’t wanted—thefloorboardsandthestaircasesin old houses were likely tobe rotted, the roofs ready tocollapse, we could cutourselvesonnailsandbrokenglass, we could fall intouncovered wells—and younever knew who you mightmeetupwith,inanoldhouseorbarn that’ssupposed to beempty.“Youmeanabum?—like somebody hitch-hiking

along the road?” I asked. “Itcouldbeabum,oritcouldbesomebody you know,”Mothertoldmeevasively.“Aman, or a boy—somebodyyou know—” Her voicetrailed off in embarrassmentandIknewenoughnottoaskanotherquestion.There were things you

didn’ttalkabout,backthen.Inever talkedabout themwithmy own children; there

weren’t the words to saythem.We listened to what our

parents said, we nearlyalwaysagreedwithwhattheysaid, but wewent off on thesly and did what we wantedto do. When we were littlegirls:myneighborMaryLouSiskinandme.Andwhenwewere older, ten, eleven yearsold, tomboys, roughhousesour mothers called us. We

likedtohikeinthewoodsandalong the creek for miles;we’d cut through farmers’fields, spy on their houses—on peoplewe knew, kidsweknew from school—most ofall we liked to exploreabandoned houses, boarded-up houses if we could breakin; we’d scare ourselvesthinking thehousesmight behaunted though really weknew they weren’t haunted,

there weren’t such things asghosts.Except—

I am writing in a dime-storenotebook with lined pagesand a speckled cover, anotebookof the sortweusedingradeschool.Onceuponatime as I used to tell mychildren when they weretucked safely into bed anddrifting off to sleep. Onceupon a time I’d begin,

reading from a book becauseit was safest so: the severaltimes I told them my ownstories they were frightenedby my voice and couldn’tsleepandafterwardIcouldn’tsleep either and my husbandwould ask what was wrongand I’d say, Nothing, hidingmy face from him so hewouldn’t see my look ofcontempt.I write in pencil, so that I

can erase easily, and I findthat I am constantly erasing,wearing holes in the paper.Mrs.Harding,our fifthgradeteacher, disciplined us forhanding inmessy notebooks:she was a heavy, toad-facedwoman, her voice was deepand husky and gleeful whenshesaid,“You,Melissa,whathaveyoutosayforyourself?”and I stood there mute, myknees trembling. My friend

MaryLoulaughedbehindherhand,wriggledinherseatshethought I was so funny. Tellthe old witch to go to hell,she’d say, she’ll respect youthen, but of course no onewould ever say such a thingto Mrs. Harding. Not evenMaryLou.“Whathaveyoutosay for yourself, Melissa?Handinginanotebookwitharipped page?” My grade forthe homework assignment

was lowered from A to B,Mrs. Harding grunted withsatisfaction as she made themark, a big swooping B inred ink, creasing the page.“More is expected of you,Melissa, so you disappointme more,” Mrs. Hardingalways said. So many yearsago and I remember thosewords more clearly thanwords I have heard the otherday.

One morning there was apretty substitute teacher inMrs. Harding’s classroom.“Mrs. Harding is unwell, I’llbe taking her place today,”she said, and we saw thenervousness in her face; weguessedtherewasasecretshewouldn’t tell and we waitedand a few days later theprincipalhimselfcame to tellus that Mrs. Harding wouldnotbeback,shehaddiedofa

stroke.He spoke carefully asif we were much youngerchildren and might be upsetandMaryLoucaughtmyeyeandwinkedandIsat thereatmydeskfeeling thestrangestsensation, something flowinginto the top of my head,honey-richandwarmmakingitsway downmy spine.OurFather who art in Heaven Iwhispered in the prayer withthe others my head bowed

and my hands clasped tighttogether but my thoughtsweresomewhereelse leapingwild and crazy somewhereelse and I knewMary Lou’sweretoo.On the school bus going

home she whispered in myear,“Thatwasbecauseofus,wasn’tit!—whathappenedtothatoldbagHarding.Butwewon’ttellanybody.”

Onceupona time thereweretwosisters,andonewasverypretty and one was veryugly.... Though Mary LouSiskinwasn’tmy sister.AndI wasn’t ugly, really: justsallow-skinned, with a smallpinched ferrety face. Withdarkalmostlashlesseyesthatwere set too close togetherand a nose that didn’t lookright.Alookofyearning,anddisappointment.

But Mary Lou was pretty,evenroughandclumsyasshesometimes behaved. Thatlong silky blond haireverybody remembered herfor afterward, yearsafterward.... How, when shehadtobeidentified,itwasthelong silky white-blond hairthatwasunmistakable....Sleeplessnights,but I love

them. I write during thenighttime hours and sleep

duringtheday,Iamofanagewhenyoudon’t requiremorethan a few hours sleep. Myhusband has been dead fornearlyayearandmychildrenare scattered and busilyabsorbed in their own selfishlives like all children andthereisnoonetointerruptmeno one to pry into mybusiness no one in theneighborhood who darescomeknockingatmydoorto

see if I am all right.Sometimes out of a mirrorfloats an unexpected face, astrange face, lined, ravaged,with deep-socketed eyesalways damp, alwaysblinking in shock or dismayor simple bewilderment—butI adroitly look away. I havenoneedtostare.It’strue,allyouhaveheard

of the vanity of the old.Believing ourselves young,

still,behindouragedfaces—mere children, and so veryinnocent!

Once when I was a youngbride and almost pretty mycolor up when I was happyand my eyes shining wedroveoutintothecountryfora Sunday’s excursion and hewanted tomake love Iknew,hewasshyandfumblingas Ibut he wanted to make love

and I ran into a cornfield inmystockingsand high heels,I was playing at being awoman I never could be,Mary Lou Siskin maybe,MaryLouwhommyhusbandnever knew, but I got out ofbreath and frightened, it wasthe wind in the cornstalks,that dry rustling sound, thatdry terrible rustling soundlike whispering like voicesyou can’t quite identify and

he caught me and tried tohold me and I pushed himaway sobbing and he said,What’s wrong? My Godwhat’swrong?as ifhereallyloved me as if his life wasfocused onme and I knew Icould never be equal to it,that love, that importance, Iknew Iwas onlyMelissa theugly one the one the boyswouldn’t give a secondglance, and one day he’d

understand and know howhe’d been cheated. I pushedhim away, I said, Leave mealone! don’t touch me! Youdisgustme!Isaid.HebackedoffandIhidmy

face,sobbing.But lateron Igotpregnant

just the same. Only a fewweekslater.

Always there were storiesbehind theabandonedhouses

and always the stories weresad. Because farmers wentbankrupt and had to moveaway, Because somebodydiedandthefarmcouldn’tbekeptupandnobodywantedtobuy it—like the Medlockfarm across the creek. Mr.Medlock died aged seventy-nine and Mrs. Medlockrefused to sell the farm andlived there alone untilsomeone from the country

health agency came to gether. Isn’t it a shame, myparents said. The poorwoman, they said. They toldus never, never to pokearound in the Medlocks’barnsorhouse—thebuildingswerereadytocavein, they’dbeen in terrible repair evenwhen the Medlocks wereliving.It was said that Mrs.

Medlock had gone off her

head after she’d found herhusband dead in one of thebarns, lying flat on his backhiseyesopenandbulging,hismouth open, tongueprotruding, she’d gone tolook for him and found himlike that and she’d nevergottenoverittheysaid,nevergotover theshock.Theyhadto commit her to the statehospital for her own good(theysaid)andthehouseand

the barns were boarded up,everywhere tall grass andthistlesgrewwild,dandelionsinthespring,tigerliliesinthesummer, andwhenwe droveby I stared and starednarrowing my eyes so Iwouldn’t see someonelooking out one of thewindows—a face there, paleand quick—or a dark figurescramblinguptherooftohidebehind the chimney—Mary

Lou and Iwonderedwas thehouse haunted, was the barnhaunted where the old manhad died,we crept around tospy, we couldn’t stay away,comingcloserandclosereachtime until something scaredus and we ran away backthrough the woods clutchingand pushing at each otheruntilonedayfinallywewentright up to the house to thebackdoor andpeeked inone

of the windows. Mary Louled the way, Mary Lou saidnottobeafraid,nobodylivedthere any more and nobodywould catch us, it didn’tmatter that the land wasposted, the police didn’tarrestkidsourages.Weexplored thebarns,we

draggedthewoodencoveroffthe well and dropped stonesinside.Wecalledthecatsbutthey wouldn’t come close

enough to be petted. Theywere barn cats, skinny anddiseased-looking, they’d saidat the country bureau thatMrs.Medlockhadletadozencatsliveinthehousewithherso that the house was filthyfrom theirmesses.When thecats wouldn’t come we gotmadandthrewstonesatthemand they ran away hissing—nasty dirty things,Mary Lousaid.Oncewecrawledup on

the tar-paper roof over theMedlocks’ kitchen, just forfun, Mary Lou wanted toclimb up the big roof too tothe very top but I gotfrightened and said, No, noplease don’t, no Mary Louplease, and I sounded sostrange Mary Lou looked atme and didn’t tease ormockas she usually did. The roofwas so steep, I’d known shewould hurt herself. I could

seeherlosingherfootingandslipping, falling, I could seeher astonished face and herflying hair as she fell,knowing nothing could saveher.You’renofun,MaryLousaid, giving me a hard littlepinch. But she didn’t goclimbingupthebigroof.Later we ran through the

barnsscreamingat the topofour lungs just for fun for thehell of it as Mary Lou said,

we tossed things in a heap,broken-off parts of farmimplements, leather thingsfrom the horses’ gear,handfuls of straw. The farmanimals had been gone foryearsbuttheirsmellwasstillstrong. Dried horse and cowdroppings that looked likemud. Mary Lou said, “Youknowwhat—I’d like to burnthis place down.” And shelooked at me and I said,

“Okay—goonanddoit,burnitdown.”AndMaryLousaid,“You think I wouldn’t? Justgivemeamatch.”AndIsaid,“Youknow I don’t have anymatch.” And a look passedbetween us. And I feltsomethingfloodingatthetopofmyhead,mythroattickledas if I didn’t know would Ilaugh or cry and I said,“You’re crazy—” and MaryLousaidwithasneeringlittle

laugh, “You’re crazy,dumbbell. I was just testingyou.”

By the time Mary Lou wastwelve years oldMother hadgot to hate her, was alwaystrying to turnme against hersoI’dmakefriendswithothergirls. Mary Lou had a freshmouth, she said. Mary Loudidn’trespectherelders—notevenherownparents.Mother

guessed that Mary Loulaughed at her behind herback, said things about all ofus.Shewasmeanandsnippyand a smart-ass, roughsometimes as her brothers.Why didn’t I make otherfriends?WhydidIalwaysgorunningwhenshestoodoutinthe yard and calledme? TheSiskins weren’t a whole lotbetter than white trash, theway Mr. Siskin worked that

landofhis.In town, in school, Mary

Lou sometimes ignored mewhenothergirlswerearound,girls who lived in town,whose fathers weren’tfarmerslikeours.Butwhenitwastimetoridehomeonthebus she’d sit with me as ifnothing was wrong and I’dhelp her with her homeworkifsheneededhelp,Ihatedhersometimes but then I’d

forgive her as soon as shesmiledatme,she’dsay,“Hey’Lissa are you mad at me?”and I’dmake a face and saynoasifitwasaninsult,beingasked. Mary Lou was mysister I sometimes pretended,Itoldmyselfastoryaboutusbeing sisters and lookingalike, and Mary Lou saidsometimesshe’dliketoleaveher family her goddamnedfamily and come live with

me.Then thenextdayor thenext hour she’d get moodyand be nasty to me and getme almost crying. All theSiskinshadmeanstreaks,hadtempers,she’dtellpeople.Asifshewasproud.Herhairwasalightblond,

almostwhite in the sunshine,andwhenIfirstknewhershehad to wear it braided tightaround her head—hergrandmother braided it for

her, and she hated it. LikeGretelorSnowWhite in oneof those damn dumb picturebooksforchildren,MaryLousaid.Whenshewasoldershewore it downand let it growlong so that it fell almost toherhips.Itwasverybeautiful—silky and shimmering. Idreamt of Mary Lou’s hairsometimes but the dreamswereconfusedandIcouldn’tremember when I woke up

whether I was the one withthe long blond silky hair, orsomeone else. It took me awhile to get my thoughtsclear lying there in bed andthenI’drememberMaryLou,whowasmybestfriend.She was ten months older

thanIwas,andaninchorsotaller, a bit heavier, not fatbut fleshy, solid and fleshy,withhardlittlemusclesinherupper arms like a boy. Her

eyes were blue like washedglass, her eyebrows andlasheswerealmostwhite,shehad a snubbed nose andSlavic cheekbones and amouth thatcouldbesweetortwisty and smirky dependingupon her mood. But shedidn’tlikeherfacebecauseitwasround—amoonface shecalled it, staring at herself inthe mirror though she knewdamned well she was pretty

—didn’tolderboyswhistleather,didn’t thebusdriverflirtwith her?—calling her“Blondie” while he nevercalledmeanythingatall.Mother didn’t like Mary

Louvisitingwithmewhennoone else was home in ourhouse: she didn’t trust her,she said. Thought she mightsteal something, or poke hernose into parts of the housewhere she wasn’t welcome.

Thatgirlisabadinfluenceonyou, she said. But it was allthe same old crap I heardagain and again so I didn’teven listen. I’d have told hershe was crazy except thatwould only make thingsworse.MaryLousaid,“Don’tyou

just hate them?—yourmother, and mine?SometimesIwish—”I put my hands over my

earsanddidn’thear.

The Siskins lived two milesaway from us, farther backthe road where the road gotnarrower. Those days, it wasunpaved, and never gotplowed in the winter. Iremember theirbarnwith theyellow silo, I remember themuddy pondwhere the dairycowscametodrink,themucktheychurnedupinthespring.

IrememberMaryLousayingshe wished all the cowswoulddie—theywerealwayssick with something—so herfatherwouldgiveupandsellthe farm and they could liveintowninanicehouse.Iwashurt, her saying those thingsasifshe’dforgottenaboutmeand would leave me behind.Damn you to hell, Iwhisperedundermybreath.I remember smoke rising

from the Siskins’ kitchenchimney, from their wood-burningstove,straightupintothe winter sky like a breathyou draw inside you deeperanddeeperuntilyoubegintofeelfaint.Later on, that house was

empty too. But boarded uponly for a few months—thebank sold it at auction. (Itturned out the bank ownedmostoftheSiskinfarm,even

thedairycows.SoMaryLouhadbeenwrongaboutthatallalongandneverknew.)

As I write I can hear thesoundofglassbreaking,Icanfeel glass underfoot. Onceupon a time there were twolittle princesses, two sisters,who did forbidden things.That brittle terrible sensationunder my shoes—slipperylikewater—“Anybodyhome?

Hey—anybody home?” andthere’sanoldcalendartackedto a kitchen wall, a fadedpicture of Jesus Christ in alongwhitegownstainedwithscarlet, thorns fitted to Hisbowed head. Mary Lou isgoing to scareme in anotherminutemakingme think thatsomeone is in the house andthe two of us will screamwithlaughterandrunoutsidewhere it’s safe. Wild

frightened laughter and Inever knew afterward whatwas funny or why we didthese things. Smashing whatremained of windows,wrenchingatstairwayrailingsto break them loose, runningwithourheadsduckedsowewouldn’t get cobwebs in ourfaces.One of us found a dead

bird, a starling, in what hadbeen the parlor of the house.

Turned it over with a foot—there’s the open eye lookingright up calm and matter-of-fact. Melissa, that eye tellsme, silent and terrible, I seeyou.That was the old Minton

place, the stone house withthe caved-in roof and thebroken steps, like somethingin a picture book from longago.Fromtheroad thehouselooked as if it might be big,

but when we explored it weweredisappointed to see thatit wasn’t much bigger thanmy own house, just fournarrow rooms downstairs,another fourupstairs,anatticwitha steep ceiling, the roofpartly caved in. The barnshad collapsed in uponthemselves; only their stonefoundations remained solid.The land had been sold offover the years to other

farmers, nobody had lived inthehouseforalongtime.Theold Minton house, peoplecalledit.OnElkCreekwhereMary Lou’s body waseventuallyfound.

In seventh grade Mary Louhad a boyfriend she wasn’tsupposed tohaveandnooneknew about it but me—anolderboywho’ddroppedoutof school and worked as a

farmhand.Ithoughthewasalittleslow—not inhisspeechwhich was fast enough,normal enough, but in hisway of thinking. He wassixteen or seventeen yearsold. His name was Hans; hehad crisp blond hair like thebristles of a brush, a coarseblemishedface,derisiveeyes.MaryLouwas crazy forhimshesaid,apingtheoldergirlsin town who said they were

“crazy for” certain boys oryoung men. Hans and MaryLou kissed when they didn’tthink I was watching, in anoldruinofacemeterybehindthe Minton house, on thecreek bank, in the tallmarshgrass by the end of theSiskins’ driveway. Hans hada car borrowed from one ofhis brothers, a battered oldFord, the front bumper heldupbywire,therunningboard

scrapingtheground.We’dbeout walking on the road andHans would come alongtappingthehornandstopandMaryLouwouldclimbinbutI’d hang back knowing theydidn’t want me and the hellwith them: I preferred to bealone.“You’re just jealous of

Hans and me,” Mary Lousaid, unforgivably, and Ihadn’t any reply. “Hans is

sweet.Hans is nice.He isn’tlike people say,” Mary Lousaid in a quick bright falsevoice she’d picked up fromoneoftheolder,populargirlsin town. “He’s...” And shestared at me blinking andsmiling not knowingwhat tosay as if in fact she didn’tknow Hans at all. “He isn’tsimple,”shesaidangrily,“hejust doesn’t like to talk awholelot.”

When I try to rememberHansMeunzer after somanydecades I can see only amuscular boy with short-trimmed blond hair andprotuberant ears, blemishedskin, the shadow of amoustacheonhisupperlip—he’s looking at me, eyesnarrowed, crinkled, as if heunderstands how I fear him,how I wish him dead andgone,andhe’dhatemetooif

hetookmethatseriously.Buthe doesn’t take me thatseriously, his gaze just slidesright through me as ifnobody’s standing where Istand.

There were stories about alltheabandonedhousesbuttheworst story was about theMintonhouseoverontheElkCreekRoadaboutthreemilesfromwherewe lived. For no

reason anybody everdiscovered Mr. Minton hadbeaten his wife to death andafterward killed himselfwitha .12-gauge shotgun. Hehadn’t even been drinking,people said. And his farmhadn’t been doing at allbadly,consideringhowothersweredoing.Looking at the ruin from

the outside, overgrown withtrumpetvineandwildrose,it

seemed hard to believe thatanything like that hadhappened. Things in theworldeven those thingsbuiltby man are so quiet left tothemselves...The house had been

deserted foryears, as longasI could remember. Most ofthelandhadbeensoldoffbutthe heirs didn’t want to dealwith the house. They didn’twanttosellitandtheydidn’t

want to raze it and theycertainly didn’t want to livein it so it stood empty. Thepropertywas postedwithNoTrespassingsignslayeredoneatopanotherbutnobody tookthem seriously. Vandals hadbroken into the house andcaused damage, theMcFarlane boys had tried toburn down the old hay barnone Halloween night. Thesummer Mary Lou started

seeing Hans she and Iclimbed in thehouse througha rear window—the boardsguarding it had long sincebeen yanked away—andwalked through the roomsslow as sleepwalkers ourarms around each other’swaists our eyes staringwaiting to see Mr. Minton’sghost as we turned eachcorner.The insidesmelledofmouse droppings, mildew,

rot, old sorrow. Strips ofwallpapertornfromthewalls,plasterboard exposed, oldfurniture overturned andsmashed,oldyellowedsheetsof newspaper underfoot, andbroken glass, everywherebroken glass. Through theravaged windows sunlightspilledintremulousquiveringbands. The air was afloat,alive: dancing dust atoms.“I’m afraid,” Mary Lou

whispered. She squeezed mywaistandIfeltmymouthgodryforhadn’t Ibeenhearingsomething upstairs, a lowpersistent murmuring likequarreling like one persontrying to convince anothergoing on and on and on butwhen I stood very still tolistenthesoundvanishedandthere were only thecomfortingsummersoundsofbirds,crickets,cicadas;birds,

crickets,cicadas.I knew how Mr. Minton

had died: he’d placed thebarrelof theshotgunbeneathhischinandpulledthetriggerwith his big toe. They foundhim in the bedroom upstairs,most of his head blown off.Theyfoundhiswife’sbodyinthecisterninthecellarwherehe’d tried to hide her. “Doyou think we should goupstairs?” Mary Lou asked,

worried.Herfingersfeltcold;but I could see tiny sweatbeads on her forehead. Hermother had braided her hairinonethickclumsybraid,theway she wore it most of thesummer,butthebandsofhairwere loosening. “No,” I said,frightened. “I don’t know.”Wehesitatedatthebottomofthe stairs—just stood thereforalongtime.“Maybenot,”Mary Lou said. “Damn

stairs’dfallinonus.”In the parlor there were

bloodstains on the floor andon the wall—I could seethem. Mary Lou said inderision, “They’re justwaterstains,dummy.”I could hear the voices

overhead, or was it a singledroning persistent voice. Iwaited forMaryLou to hearitbutsheneverdid.Nowweweresafe,nowwe

were retreating, Mary Lousaidas if repentant, “Yeah—thishouseisspecial.”We looked through the

debris in the kitchen hopingtofindsomethingofvaluebutthere wasn’t anything—justsmashed chinaware, oldbattered pots and pans,moreold yellowed newspaper.Butthroughthewindowwesawagartersnakesunningitselfonarustedwater tank,stretched

outtoa lengthof twofeet. Itwas a lovely coppery color,the scales gleaming likeperspiration on aman’s arm;it seemed to be asleep.Neither one of us screamed,orwantedtothrowsomething—we just stood therewatching it for the longesttime.

Mary Lou didn’t have aboyfriend any longer; Hans

had stopped coming around.We saw him driving the oldFord now and then but hedidn’t seem to see us. Mr.Siskin had found out abouthim andMary Lou and he’dbeen upset—acting like adamn crazy man Mary Lousaid,askinghereverykindofnasty question theninterrupting her and notbelieving her anyway, thenhe’dputhertoterribleshame

by going over to see Hansandcarrying onwith him. “Ihate them all,” Mary Lousaid,her facedarkeningwithblood.“Iwish—”We rode our bicycles over

to the Minton farm, ortramped through thefields togetthere.Itwastheplaceweliked best. Sometimes webroughtthingstoeat,cookies,bananas, candy bars; sittingonthebrokenstonestepsout

front, as if we lived in thehouse really,wewere sisterswho lived here having apicnic lunch out front. Therewere bees, flies, mosquitoes,but we brushed them away.We had to sit in the shadebecausethesunwassofierceand direct, a whitish heatpouringdownfromoverhead.“Would you ever like to

runawayfromhome?”MaryLou said. “I don’t know,” I

said uneasily. Mary Louwipedathermouthandgaveme a mean narrow look. “‘Idon’t know,’” she said in afalsettovoice,mimickingme.At an upstairs windowsomeone was watching us—was it a man or was it awoman—someone stoodthere listening hard and Icouldn’t move feeling soslow and dreamy in the heatlike a fly caught on a sticky

petal that’s going to fold inonitselfandswallowhimup.MaryLoucrumpledupsomewax paper and threw it intothe weeds. She was dreamytoo, slow and yawning. Shesaid, “Shit—they’d just findme. Then everything wouldbeworse.”Iwascoveredinathinfilm

of sweat but I’d begun toshiver. Goose bumps wereraised on my arms. I could

see us sitting on the stonestepsthewaywe’dlookfromthesecondfloorofthehouse,Mary Lou sprawledwith herlegs apart, her braided hairslung over her shoulder, mesittingwithmyarmshuggingmy kneesmy backbone tightand straight knowing I wasbeing watched. Mary Lousaid,loweringhervoice,“Didyou ever touch yourself in acertain place, Melissa?”

“No,” I said, pretending Ididn’tknowwhat shemeant.“Hans wanted to do that,”Mary Lou said. She soundeddisgusted.Thenshestartedtogiggle. “I wouldn’t let him,then he wanted to dosomething else—startedunbuttoning his pants—wanted me to touch him.And...”I wanted to hush her, to

clapmyhandoverhermouth.

But she just went on and Inever said a word until webothstartedgiggling togetherand couldn’t stop. AfterwardI didn’t remembermost of itor why I’d been so excitedmyfaceburningandmyeyesseared as if I’d been staringintothesun.

On theway homeMaryLousaid,“Somethingsaresosadyou can’t say them.” But I

pretendednottohear.

AfewdayslaterIcamebackto myself. Through theravaged cornfield: the stalksdried and broken, the tasselsburnt, that rustlingwhisperingsoundofthewindI can hear now if I listenclosely.Myheadwas achingwithexcitement.Iwastellingmyselfastorythatwe’dmadeplanstorunawayand live in

the Minton house. I wascarrying a willow switch I’dfound on the ground, fallenfromatreebutstillgreenandspringy, slapping at thingswith it as if it were a whip.Talking to myself. Laughingaloud.WonderingwasIbeingwatched.I climbed in the house

throughthebackwindowandbrushed my hands on myjeans.Myhairwasstickingto

thebackofmyneck.At the foot of the stairs I

calledup,“Who’shere?”inavoice meant to show it wasallplay;IknewIwasalone.Myheartwasbeatinghard

and quick, like a bird caughtin the hand. It was lonelywithout Mary Lou so Iwalked heavy to let themknow Iwas there andwasn’tafraid. I started singing, Istarted whistling. Talking to

myselfandslappingat thingswith the willow switch.Laughing aloud, a littleangry.WhywasIangry,wellI didn’t know, someone waswhispering telling me tocomeupstairs,towalkontheinside of the stairs so thestepswouldn’tcollapse.The house was beautiful

inside if you had the righteyes to see it. If you didn’tmind the smell. Glass

underfoot, broken plaster,stainedwallpaper hanging inshreds. Tall narrowwindowslooking out ontowildweedypatches of green. I heardsomething in one of therooms but when I looked Isawnothingmuchmore thananeasychairlyingonitsside.Vandals had ripped stuffingout of it and tried to set itafire.Thematerialwas filthybut I could see that it had

been pretty once—a floraldesign—tiny yellow flowersandgreenivy.Awomanusedto sit in the chair, a bigwomanwithsly staring eyes.Knitting in her lap but shewasn’t knitting just staringout the window watching toseewhomight be coming tovisit.Upstairs the rooms were

airless and so hot I felt myskin prickle like shivering. I

wasn’t afraid!—I slapped atthe walls with my springywillow switch. In one of theroomshighinacornerwaspsbuzzed around a fat wasp’snest. In another room Ilooked out the windowleaning out the window tobreathe thinking thiswasmywindow, I’d come to livehere.ShewastellingmeIhadbetter lie down and restbecause I was in danger of

heatstroke and I pretendednot to know what heatstrokewas but she knew I knewbecause hadn’t a cousin ofmine collapsed haying justlast summer, they said hisface had gone blotched andredandhe’dbegunbreathingfaster and faster not gettingenough oxygen until hecollapsed. I was looking outat the overgrown appleorchard,Icouldsmelltherot,

a sweetwiney smell, the skywashazy like somethingyoucan’tgetclearinyourvision,pressing in close and warm.A half mile away Elk Creekglittered through a screen ofwillow trees moving slowglittering with scales likewinking.Come away from that

window, someone told mesternly.But I took my time

obeying.Inthebiggestoftherooms

wasanoldmattresspulledoffrustybedsprings anddumpedon the floor. They’d tornsome of the stuffing out ofthis too, there were scorchmarks on it from cigarettes.The fabric was stained withsomething like rust and Ididn’twanttolookatitbutIhad to. Once at Mary Lou’swhenI’dgonehomewithher

after school there was amattresslyingoutintheyardinthesunandMaryLoutoldme in disgust that it was heryoungestbrother’smattress—he’d wet his bed again andthe mattress had to be airedout. As if the stink wouldevergoaway,MaryLousaid.Something moved inside

themattress,ablackglitteringthing,itwasacockroachbutIwasn’tallowedtojumpback.

Supposeyouhavetoliedownon that mattress and sleep, Iwas told. Suppose you can’tgo home until you do. Myeyelidswereheavy,myheadwas pounding with blood.Amosquito buzzed around mebutIwastootiredtobrushitaway. Lie down on thatmattress, Melissa, she toldme. You know you must bepunished.I knelt down, not on the

mattress, but on the floorbeside it. The smells in theroomwerecloseandrankbutI didn’t mind, my head wasnodding with sleep. Rivuletsof sweat ran down my faceandsides,undermyarms,butIdidn’tmind.Isawmyhandmove out slowly like astranger’s hand to touch themattress and a shiny blackcockroach scuttled away infright, and a second

cockroach,andathird—butIcouldn’tjumpupandscream.Lie down on that mattress

andtakeyourpunishment.I looked overmy shoulder

and there was a womanstanding in the doorway—awomanI’dneverseenbefore.Shewasstaringatme.Her

eyes were shiny and dark.Shelickedherlipsandsaidina jeering voice, “What areyoudoinghere in thishouse,

miss?”I was terrified. I tried to

answerbutIcouldn’tspeak.“Have you come to see

me?”thewomanasked.She was no age I could

guess.Older thanmymotherbut not old-seeming. Shewore men’s clothes and shewas tall as any man, withwide shoulders, and longlegs, and big sagging breastslikecows’udderslooseinside

her shirt not harnessed in abrassiere likeotherwomen’s.Her thickwiry gray hairwascutshortasaman’sandstuckupintuftsthatlookedgreasy.Her eyes were small, andblack, and set back deep intheirsockets;theflesharoundthem looked bruised. I hadnever seen anyone like herbefore—her thighs wereenormous, big as my body.Therewasaringofloosesoft

flesh at the waistband of hertrousersbutshewasn’tfat.“I asked you a question,

miss.Whyareyouhere?”IwassofrightenedIcould

feel my bladder contract. Istaredather,coweringbythemattress,andcouldn’tspeak.Itseemedtopleaseherthat

I was so frightened. Sheapproached me, stooping alittle to get through thedoorway. She said, in a

mock-kindly voice, “You’vecometovisitwithme—isthatit?”“No,”Isaid.“No!” she said, laughing.

“Why,ofcourseyouhave.”“No.Idon’tknowyou.”She leaned over me,

touchedmyforeheadwithherfingers. I shut my eyeswaiting to be hurt but hertouchwas cool. She brushedmy hair off my forehead

where it was sticky withsweat. “I’ve seen you herebefore, you and that otherone,” she said. “What is hername? The blond one. Thetwoofyou,trespassing.”I couldn’t move, my legs

were paralyzed. Quick anddarting and buzzing mythoughts bounded in everywhich direction but didn’ttake hold. “Melissa is yourname, isn’t it,” the woman

said. And what is yoursister’sname?”“She isn’t my sister,” I

whispered.“Whatishername?”“Idon’tknow.”“Youdon’tknow!”“—don’t know,” I said,

cowering.Thewomandrewbackhalf

sighing half grunting. Shelooked at me pityingly.“You’ll have to be punished,

then.”I could smell ashes about

her,somethingcold. Istartedto whimper started to say Ihadn’t done anything wrong,hadn’t hurt anything in thehouse, I had only beenexploring—I wouldn’t comebackagain...She was smiling at me,

uncovering her teeth. Shecould read my thoughtsbeforeIcouldthinkthem.

Theskinofherfacewasinlayers like an onion, likeshe’dbeensunburnt,orhadaskin disease. There werepatches that had begun topeel. Her look was wet andgloating. Don’t hurt me, Iwanted to say. Please don’thurtme.I’d begun to cry.My nose

was running like a baby’s. Ithought I would crawl pastthewomanIwouldgettomy

feet and run past her andescape but the woman stoodinmywayblockingmywayleaning over me breathingdamp and warm her breathlike a cow’s breath in myface. Don’t hurt me, I said,andshesaid,“Youknowyouhave to be punished—youandyourprettyblondsister.”“She isn’t my sister,” I

said.“Andwhatishername?”

The woman was bendingover me, quivering withlaughter.“Speak up, miss. What is

it?”“I don’t know—” I started

to say. But my voice said,“MaryLou.”The woman’s big breasts

spilleddown intoherbelly, Icould feel her shaking withlaughter. But she spokesternly saying thatMaryLou

andIhadbeenverybadgirlsandweknewitherhousewasforbidden territory and weknew it hadn’twe known allalongthatothershadcometogriefbeneathitsroof?“No,” I started to say.But

myvoicesaid,“Yes.”The woman laughed,

crouching above me. “Now,miss, ‘Melissa’ as they callyou—your parents don’tknow where you are at this

verymoment,dothey?”“Idon’tknow.”“Dothey?”“No.”“Theydon’tknowanything

about you, do they?—whatyoudo, andwhat you think?Youand‘MaryLou.’”“No.”Sheregardedmeforalong

moment, smiling. Her smilewaswideandfriendly.“You’reaspunkylittlegirl,

aren’t you, with a mind ofyourown,aren’tyou,youandyour pretty little sister. I betyour bottoms have beenwarmed many a time,” thewomansaid,showingherbigtobacco-stained teeth in agrin, “...your tender littleasses.”I began to giggle. My

bladdertightened.“Handthathere,miss,”the

woman said. She took the

willow switch from myfingers—I had forgotten Iwas holding it. “I will nowadminister punishment: takedownyour jeans.Takedownyour panties. Lie down onthat mattress. Hurry.” Shespoke briskly now, she wasallbusiness.“Hurry,Melissa!Andyour panties!Or do youwant me to pull them downforyou?”She was slapping the

switchimpatientlyagainstthepalmofherlefthand,makingawetscoldingnoisewithherlips. Scolding and teasing.Her skin shone in patches,stretched tight over the bighard bones of her face. Hereyes were small, crinklingsmaller,blackanddamp.Shewassobigshehadtopositionherself carefully over me togive herself proper balanceand leverage so that she

wouldn’tfall.Icouldhearherhoarse eager breathing as itcametomefromallsideslikethewind.Ihaddoneas she toldme.

It wasn’t me doing thesethings but they were done.Don’t hurt me, I whispered,lying on my stomach on themattress, my arms stretchedabovemeandmy fingernailsdigging into the floor. Thecoarse wood with splinters

prickingmy skin.Don’t hurtme O please but the womanpaid no heed her warm wetbreath louder now and thefloorboards creaking beneathherweight.“Now,miss,now‘Melissa’ as they call you—this will be our secret won’tit...”

When it was over shewipedat her mouth and said shewould let me go today if I

promised never to tellanybody if I sent my prettylittlesistertohertomorrow.She isn’tmy sister, I said,

sobbing. When I could getmybreath.

I had lost control of mybladderafterall,I’dbeguntopee even before the firstswipeofthewillowswitchhitmeonthebuttocks,peeinginhelplessspasms,andsobbing,

and afterward the womanscoldedmesayingwasn’titapoor littlebabywetting itselflike that. But she soundedrepentant too, stood wellaside to letmepass,Offyougo!Homeyougo!Anddon’tforget!And I ran out of the room

hearing her laughter behindme and down the stairsrunningrunningasifIhadn’tany weight my legs just

blurrybeneathmeasiftheairwas water and I wasswimming I ran out of thehouse and through thecornfield running in thecornfield sobbing as thecornstalksslappedatmyfaceOff you go! Home you go!Anddon’tforget!

I told Mary Lou about theMinton house and somethingthathadhappenedtomethere

that was a secret and shedidn’t believe me at firstsayingwith a jeer, “Was it aghost?WasitHans?”IsaidIcouldn’t tell. Couldn’t tellwhat?shesaid.Couldn’t tell,Isaid.Whynot?shesaid.“BecauseIpromised.”“Promisedwho?” she said.

She looked at me with herwide blue eyes like she wastrying to hypnotize me.“You’reagoddamnedliar.”

Later she started in againaskingmewhathadhappenedwhat was the secret was itsomething to do with Hans?did he still like her? was hemad at her? and I said itdidn’t have anything to dowith Hans not a thing to dowithhim.Twistingmymouthto show what I thought ofhim.“Then who—?”Mary Lou

asked.

“Itoldyouitwasasecret.”“Oh shit—what kind of a

secret?”“Asecret.”“Asecretreally?”I turned away from Mary

Lou, trembling. My mouthkept twisting in a strangehurting smile. “Yes.Asecretreally,”Isaid.

ThelasttimeIsawMaryLoushe wouldn’t sit with me on

the bus, walked past meholdingher headhighgivingmeameansnippylookoutofthe corner of her eye. Thenwhensheleftforherstopshemade sure she bumped megoingbymyseat, she leanedover to say, “I’ll findout formyself, I hate you anyway,”speaking loud enough foreverybodyonthebustohear,“—Ialwayshave.”

Once upon a time the fairytalesbegin.Butthentheyendand often you don’t knowreally what has happened,what was meant to happen,you only know what you’vebeen told, what the wordssuggest. Now that I havecompletedmystory,filleduphalf my notebook with myhandwriting that disappointsme,itissoshakyandchildish—now the story is over I

don’t understand what itmeans. I know whathappened in my life but Idon’t know what hashappenedinthesepages.Mary Lou was found

murdered ten days after shesaid those words tome. HerbodyhadbeentossedintoElkCreekaquartermilefromtheroadandfromtheoldMintonplace. Where, it said in thepaper, nobody had lived for

fifteenyears.It said that Mary Lou had

been thirteenyearsoldat thetimeofherdeath.She’dbeenmissing for seven days, hadbeen the object of acountrywidesearch.It said that nobody had

livedintheMintonhouseforyears but that derelictssometimes sheltered there. Itsaid that the body wasunclothed and mutilated.

Therewerenodetails.This happened a long time

ago.The murderer (or

murderers as the newspaperalwayssaid)wasneverfound.

Hans Meunzer was arrestedof course and kept in thecounty jail for three dayswhile police questioned himbut in theendtheyhadto lethimgo, insufficient evidence

to build a case it wasexplained in the newspaperthough everybody knew hewas the one wasn’t he theone?—everybody knew. Foryears afterward they’d besaying that. Long after Hanswas gone and the Siskinswere gone, moved awaynobodyknewwhere.Hanssworehehadn’tdone

it, hadn’t seenMary Lou forweeks. There were people

who testified in his behalfsaidhecouldn’thavedone itfor one thing he didn’t havehis brother’s car any longerand he’d been working allthat time. Working hard outin the fields—couldn’t haveslipped away long enough todo what police were sayinghe’d done. And Hans saidover and over he wasinnocent. Sure he wasinnocent.Sonofabitchought

to be hangedmy father said,everybody knew Hans wasthe one unless it was aderelict or a fisherman—fishermen often drove out toElk Creek to fish for blackbass, built fires on the creekbank and left messes behind—sometimesprowled aroundtheMintonhousetoolookingforthingstosteal.Thepolicehad records of automobilelicense plates belonging to

some of these men, theyquestioned them but nothingcame of it. Then there wasthat crazy man, that oldhermit living in a tar-papershanty near the Shaheendump that everybody’d saidought to have beencommitted to the statehospital years ago. ButeverybodyknewreallyitwasHans and Hans got out asquick as he could, just

disappeared and not even hisfamily knew where unlessthey were lying whichprobably they were thoughtheyclaimednot.

Mother rocked me in herarms crying, the two of uscrying,shetoldmethatMaryLou was happy now, MaryLou was in Heaven now,JesusChristhad taken her tolivewithHimandIknewthat

didn’t I? I wanted to laughbut I didn’t laugh.MaryLoushouldn’t have gone withboys, not a nasty boy likeHans, Mother said, sheshouldn’thavebeensneakingaround the way she did—Iknew that didn’t I?Mother’swords filled my headflooding my head so therewasnodangeroflaughing.Jesus loves you too you

knowthatdon’tyouMelissa?

Mother asked hugging me. Itold her yes. I didn’t laughbecauseIwascrying.

They wouldn’t let me go tothe funeral, said it wouldscare me too much. Eventhoughthecasketwasclosed.

It’s said that when you’reolder you remember thingsthathappenedalongtimeago

better than you rememberthings that have justhappened and I have foundthattobeso.For instance I can’t

rememberwhenIboughtthisnotebook at Woolworth’swhether it was last week orlastmonthor justa fewdaysago. I can’t rememberwhy Istarted writing in it, whatpurpose I told myself. But IrememberMaryLoustooping

to say thosewords inmyearand I remember when MaryLou’s mother came over toask us at suppertime a fewdays later if IhadseenMaryLou that day—I remembertheveryfoodonmyplate,themashedpotatoesinadrylittlemound. I remember hearingMary Lou call my namestanding out in the drivewaycupping her hands to hermouth thewayMother hated

her to do, it was white trashbehavior“’Lissa!”Mary Louwould

call,andI’dcallback,“Okay,I’m coming!” Once upon atime.

TheHave-Nots

ELIZABETHHAND

Elizabeth Hand is the multiple-award-winning author ofnumerous novels and collectionsof short fiction. She is also alongtimereviewerforpublications

including the Washington Post,Salon, Village Voice, and the LosAngelesTimes, and is a columnistfor The Magazine of Fantasy &ScienceFiction.AvailableDark,thesequel to Shirley Jackson Awardwinner Generation Loss, andRadiantDays,ayoungadultnovelaboutArthurRimbaud,werebothpublishedin2012towideacclaim,aswasErrantry, a new collectionof her short fiction. She dividesher time between the coast ofMaineandNorthLondon.

NowyouknowEddieRule

came and took that baby girlthreedaysaftershewasborn.Actually, his mother took

her,NoraMargaret.Thatwashis mother’s name, not thegirl’s.Marchedrightintothathospital room, Loretta saidthe nurse was checking herstitches Down There andNoraMargaretmarched rightin anyway, didn’t give a

tinker’sdamn.I’m taking that baby, she

said.Pardonme?said thenurse.

She didn’t know NoraMargaretRulefromahole intheground.Excuse us, she told the

nurse, I think you better gonow.The hell you will, said

Loretta; at least now that’swhat she says she said,but I

knew Loretta since fourthgrade and she never said aswear in her life ’til shemetEddie Rule, and let me tellyou,hewas suchagoddamnson of a bitch, pardon myFrench, I would of swore,too.Now,AliceJeanhoney,let

me explain something. Thatshade is just all wrong foryou.You’reaSummerRose,remember, you got that

blonde hair and blue eyes,you justhave to go with theLove That Pink. That’s thewonder of Mary RoseCosmetics, everyone getstheirownspecialcoordinatedcolor.I thinktheSalmonJoyisforErikahere,nowseethedifference?Ithoughtyouwould.Now I’m sorry, I got

distracted. But Loretta saysnow she should of toldNora

Margaret off like that,anyhow, swearsornot, and Iwishshehad.We’re married, Loretta

said.Ask thatnurse, shesawit, Mr. Proctor came downand did it before the babycame.Thenursewasgonebythen but Loretta showed methe license, it was real allright, she’s still got it athome. Theywanted to see itforthemovie.

Well, you ain’tmarriednomore, says Nora Margaret.Lorettatoldmelater,shewassurprised a rich lady’d talklike that, but I told herNoraMargaret Rule had no moreschooling thanmydogKing,shejustmarriedarichmanisall. Anyway she flaps something in front of Loretta’sface,Loretta practicallywentinto hysterics then and theycalled the doctor in. She got

themtoannexthemarriage—Pardon?Oh.Well,whatever.Annul

it,then,shewenttocourtandhadthemfixitsomehow,said’cause her son is a Catholicand there was no priest itwasn’t a real marriage.Loretta said if you’re aChristian how come you’retaking my baby and I’mgonnacallthepolice.Catholic, not Christian,

Nora Margaret says, anddon’twasteyourbreath,MissMissy.Loretta says, It’s Missus,

andNoraMargaret says,Notanymore it ain’t. And youknowshereallydid,shetookthatlittlebabypracticallyoutofhermama’sarmsand tookit away. Paid somebody toadoptitinRichmondandthatwasthelastLorettasawofit.Erika, honey, I swear that

colortakestenyearsoffyourlife. Not that you need it. Iswear. Alice Jean, don’t youthinkso?Iloveitthatwecancompare like this, friends athome. That’s why I loveMary Rose Cosmetics, I cancomerightheretoyourhousewith everything and thenlater, in the middle of thenight,youchangeyourmind,why next day I can comeright back and you can

exchangethatSalmonJoyforanythingyoulike.ThatTouchofTeal isvery

popular this year, Erika, youjustgorightaheadand try it.Kind of smudge it aroundyoureyelidlikethat.There.Isold one to SuzanneMasterslastweek,shehadthatDinnerDance at the Club to go toanditjustmatchedherdress.ItoldherifIkeepgoinglikethis, I’m gonna have that

Mary Rose Cadillac by theendofsummeranddrivemykidstoschoolinit.I haven’t forgotten I’m

telling about Loretta’sCadillac,AliceJean.Yougettoo impatient. Let me giveyou a facial massage andmasque, you got that hotwater there, Erika?All right.Now this only takes a fewminutesbut I swear youwillfeel like a newwoman. You

need to relax more, AliceJean.There. Isn’t that nice? I

think it smells like thatshampoo they use atFashionFlair.So that was, what,

Nineteen fifty-six? Nineteenfifty-six. Loretta got out ofthe hospital and I got her ajobat theBlueMoon.NowIswear to god every smalltown and every city I ever

livedinhadadinercalledtheBlue Moon. But it wasn’t abad place to work, just notwhat you’d want to do afteryou were married for threedaystoaCatholicwhoserudemama came into the hospitalandstoleyourbabyand thengave it to a chiropractor andhis wife in Richmond. PlusNora Margaret said she wasgonna change the baby’sname—

HernameisEloise,Lorettashouted.EloiseLeMayRule.Not anymore it ain’t,Nora

Margaretyelledback.So she’s gone forever,

Eloise or whatever her namewas.EddieRuleisgone, too,his father sent him off tocollege, some place wherethey take people even if yougotkickedoutofhighschoolwithout graduating and yourmother’s the kind of person

saysain’t.Butletmetellyou,it’san illwind blows no oneany good, ’cause Lorettahasn’t seen him since thenand that’s thebest thingeverhappened to her. GoodriddancetobadrubbishandImean that.But of course shedidn’tfeellikethatthen—Ilovehim,Terry!she’dtell

me,andI’dsay,Sure,honey,you love him, but he’s gonenow and don’t do you any

good tomoon over him.Weallthoughtitbestnottobringupthebabyatall.Nowadaystheywouldn’tdo that, they’dhave her going to some kindofGroup, like nowLoretta’sbeen going to AA, someplace where they’d all talkabout having their babiestaken away. Like whenNoreen was on Oprah, theyhad all these people claimedto have seen him since he

died—Well,allright,AliceJean,I

am getting to it. Let me putsomemorewarmwater there—Well, I’m sorry, was that

too hot? I’m sorry, honey, Isurely am. Erika, see ifthere’s any ice there, willyou?Allright.Sowe’reatwork

one day, this is still at theBlueMoon,andhecomes in.

The Colonel was with him,we recognized the Colonelfirst ’cause of he’s wearingthis big hat, but let me tellyou, it didn’t take us morethan a New York second torecognize him. He wasfamousthenbutitwasn’tlikelater, he could still walkaroundlikearegularperson.My god he’s a handsome

man, said Loretta. SweetJesushesureis.

Yup, I said. I wasManageress-in-Training so Ihad to be more professional,though that was a dead-endjob, too. Doing this MaryRose thing is the best thingever happened to me, godstrike me if that isn’t thetruth. Erika, if you’re stillinterested you let me know,’cause I get extra points forsigningupnewpeopleand itall goes towards the You-

Know-What.The one they had you

wouldn’t believe.One of theothergirlssawitand toldus,Lookoutside,andwedidandthere it was. Looked like ittookupthewholeparkinglot,and that was before theyopened the Piggly Wigglynextdoor.Holy cow, said Loretta.

That’s the biggest goddamnCadillac I ever saw. Pardon

my French, I told you shestarted talking like that afterEddie. But she was right, itwasabigcar—butyouall’veseen it, least you saw it thewayLoretta had it. Sure youhave, oh, Erika honey, thankyou—Alice Jean, I am telling it!

Here, put this ice there andsee if that helps. If it swellsup Mary Rose makes thisAloeVeraNutrifyingLotion,

Kenny Junior sunburnedhimselfcaddyingafterschoollast week and I gave himsome and he said it reallyhelped.So they come in and sit

down, I started to give themthe booth in the back corner’causeIthought,well,they’refamous, maybe they’d likesomeprivacy,buttheColonelsaid, No ma’am, we’re onvacation, and then he said,

Put us right here in the frontwindow, it’ll be good forbusiness!Which was just like him,

because he meant it to benice. He always was a nicemanandgoodtohismother,Itell Kenny Junior he shouldpay attention to that. Soanyway I sat them there andsince I was in charge I hadLoretta serve them.Wewereall feeling sorry for her, she

justhadthatdinkylittleHalf-Moon trailer to live in andsomepeople in town thoughtshewas just Bad Luck backin thosedays,shehadn’thada real date since Eddie left.Though she was really nicelooking, she hadn’t starteddrinking yet, not much atleast, we used to have rumand Cokes sometimes afterwork but nobody thoughtanythingofitbackthen.

The Colonel ordered aribeyesteaksandwichandhegot fried chicken. Lorettasays she doesn’t remember,she was so nervous, but Iremember. I told the directorfor the TV movie exactlywhat they had and evenshowed her how to set theplatter. Just pay me myconsultingfee,Itoldher.I was only joking, Alice

Jean.They’renotreallygoing

topaymeforit.Here’s that Nutrifying

Lotion. It doesn’t smell asnice as the other but it surefeelsgood,doesn’tit?You’re welcome, honey.

I’m sure sorry about burningyoulikethat.Well, he said it was the

best fried chicken he everhad, and as youknowif youreadthatbookhiswifewroteabouthimafterhewasdead,

thatman loved fried chickenbetter than Saint John lovedtheLord,evenafterhegot tobe so famoushehad to haveit sent up to him in disguisefrom Popeyes. And reallyLoretta did a real nice job,shebroughttheColonelextraketchup without him askingandextranapkinsforthefriedchicken, because it was alittle greasy, but good, andshe was so cute in that pink

uniform and all that whenthey left he gave her his car.Justlikethat.Brand-new Cadillac. They

justwalkeddowntowntoDonThomas’s dealership andboughtanotherone.Drovebyandwavedtousontheirwayoutoftown.Well, Loretta just about

fainted. He kissed her cheekand the Colonel shook herhandandtookapicture.Later

Hal Morehead from theReporterDispatch came andtook another picture of herandthecar,andWINYmadethe next day Loretta DooleyDay and played “HoundDog”and“LoveMeTender”about sixty-three milliontimes, I thought I was goingto throw up if I heard thatsongonemoretimebutitdidget the point across. And ofcourseLorettahadtolearnto

drive, but by then peoplewere starting to show moreinterest and thinkmaybe shewasn’t bad luck after all, theabsolute reverse in fact. DonThomas came over, to seewhat model Cadillac it wasthiswaitress got tippedwith,and after a while he andLoretta started seeing eachother.And Igotpromoted toManagerFull-Time.Itwasallgoodforbusinessat theBlue

Moon,Icantellyouthat.Buteventuallyitallsettled

down. She was still workingat the Blue Moon, ’cause ofcourse it was just a car, itwasn’t like he gave her amillion dollars or something.Butshe’ddrivetoworkeverydayandparkitoutfront,andpeople’dstopbyjusttoseeit,and then of course they’dcomein toseeher,andmostof the time they’d have

something to eat. I alwaysrecommended the friedchicken.After a while Loretta

stopped seeingDon Thomas.She found out he wasn’tactually divorced from hiswife after all, just separated,andhiswifetoldhimshewaspregnantandLorettaput twoandtwotogetherandtoldhimhebetterfindsomewhereelseto eat fried chicken, if he

knewwhatwasgoodforhim.It was around then she gotthisweirdideaforfindingherdaughteragain.Erika, I really do like the

way he did your hair thistime.Thoseredstreaksreallyshowoffyoureyes.Withthatcolor eye shadow you looklike that actress in WorkingGirl.Doesn’tshe,AliceJean?You know, what’s-her-name’sdaughter.KimNovak.

The one married to what’s-his-name.Whoever.Solookatthis,Lorettatells

me one day at work. She’dbeen off for two days anddroveinbutIwasinthebackchecking on the freezer’cause the freon tube seizedup, so I didn’t see her driveup. Come on out, I want toshowyousomething.Well, okay, I said. Just a

minute; and then I wentoutside.And you know, she had

justruinedthatcar.It was sky-blue and black,

that car, I swear it was theprettiest thing on earth. TheTV movie director, shewanted tomake it pink but Itoldher,Comeon,you thinkamanlikethatwoulddriveapink car? Back then youwouldn’tbecaughtdead ina

pink car, less you were afairy.Pardon me, can’t say that

anymore. I mean a gay. Butyouknowwhat Imean, rightAliceJean?Backthenregularpeopledidnotdrivepinkcarsaround. This one was sky-blue.Look at this, Erika—

Mojave Turquoise! Sinceyou’reaSpringRoseyoucanwearthat.Trythistesterhere.

AliceJean, thatblusher takesten years off your life, I amserious.DidItellyouwhatshedid?Allright.Whatshedidwas

this: she spent that wholeweekend off putting stuff onher car. I mean, stuff—oldheadlights painted green andblue and orange, rockinghorses she took off theirrockers and painted likecarousel animals, Barbie

dolls, you name it. All theseold antennas she got at thedumpandcoveredinfoilandcolored paper and stuck allover the car like—well, likethese antennas stuck all overthe car. There was even thisVirgin Mary thing she putwhere a hood ornamentwould go, I think that wasbecause of Eddie being aCatholic and having themarriage canceled. Imean, it

looked awful. And I said,Loretta honey,what in god’snamehave you done to yourcar?She got kind of defensive.

Whatdoyoumean?shesaid.What do Imean? I said. I

meanwhyhaveyoumadethecar that beautiful man gaveyou look like it belongs inRipley’sBelieveItorNot?It’smy car, she said. She

wasmadbut she also looked

like she might cry. And Ialready was one girl shortbecause Jocelyn Reny’s sonPeter, theolder onewho’s atFort Bragg now, hadunexpectedly fallen off theroof of their house andbrokenhisarmandshehadtotakehimtothehospital.SoIcouldn’t afford forLoretta togo home because she wascrying because I insulted hercar,whichlookedlikeablind

personhaddecoratedit.So I said, Well, it’s very

interesting Loretta, that’s all.It’sveryunusual.She smiled then and

walkedovertoit.She’dputabicycle wheel over the frontgrill, and stuck these littleTrolldollsallaroundtheedgeofthewheelsoit lookedlikea wheel with all these Trollthings sticking on it. Imean,how she drove that car to

workwithoutgettingarrestedIdon’tknow.Thank you, she said. She

started braiding one of theTrolls’ hair. Shewas alwaysgood at things like that.Probably she should of goneto the Academy of Beautyand studied Cosmetology.That’s another reason it wassosadaboutherlittlegirl.Really, I said. It’s very

interesting.

I had to think about thecustomers.Thankyou, she saidagain,

andsheadjustedanotherpartof the front, where she hadstuck these Rat Fink keychainsandaflamingolikewehaveinourfrontyard.Thankyou,Terry.Iputalotofworkintoit.I didn’t knowwhat else to

say, but I had to saysomething so we could end

this conversation and getbacktowork.SoIsaid,Well,they’re sure gonna see youcoming, Loretta, that’s forsure.I know, she said. That’s

whatIwant.That’sthewholepoint.Andshepatteditlikeitwas something she had justwon on Let’s Make a Dealinsteadofacaryouwouldn’twant to see clowns climbingoutofattheForkUnionFair.

She said, People’ll seemecomingandthey’lltalkaboutme, and everyone’ll knowwho is in this car. Even ifthey’ve never been to thistown, even if they’re acomplete and total stranger,they’ll hear about me andknowhowtofindme.Thenwithoutanotherword

she turned around and wentinside, like nothing unusualhadhappenedatall.

Well,I’lltellyou,everyoneinthetri-stateareaprettywelldidknowwhoownedthatcaralready,becauseeven thoughit had been a couple yearsnow since she got it Lorettawas sort of the town drunkand people knew her ’causeof that. And let’s face it, asky-blue Cadillac that themost famous man in theworldgaveyouasa tip,whocould forget about that? I

mean, some people hadforgotten, but then theyrecognized her for the otherreason, so one way or theotherLorettaDooleywasnotexactly sneaking aroundBlackSpot,Virginia,withoutsomebody knowing about it.So I didn’t get why shewanted people to see it washer driving this car thatlooked like a King Kone onwheels, unless shewanted to

give them the chance to seeher coming from about threemiles away and stay homeiftheywantedto.Later I understood better,

how she had this kind ofdaydream that someday herdaughter would figure outwhoher realmotherwasandstart looking for her. And Iguess in Loretta’s mindsomehowherdaughterwouldhear about the story of what

happened and come toBlackSpotto findher.And thenofcourse once she was hereshe’dhearabouttheladywiththisfamouscar,whichontopof everything else now itlooks likeWoolworth’s blewup on it. And so that wayshe’d be able to find hermama. It was kind of a sadthing, to think Loretta hadthis crazy old idea andthought junking up her nice

car would help things along.But I didn’t have time todiscuss Loretta’s problemsrightthen.Although to tell you the

truth,itdidseemtocheerherup some. She was lonely alot, and sort of quiet. Somepeoplethoughtshewasstuckup, because of the Cadillac,but itwasn’t that. Itwas thatNoraMargaretRule took herbaby girl and gave her to

perfect strangers when shewas only three days old. Upuntil thenLorettawasfineasfrog hair. And afterwards,well, she wasn’t mean oranything. I mean, she wasalways nice to the customersand me and everybody, it’snot like she was ever mean.Butyoucouldjustsortoftellthat maybe she felt like theonlygoodthingthatwasevergoing to happen to her

alreadyhad,and let’s face it,living in a rentedHalf-MoontrailerdownonDelbartonandslinging hash at the BlueMoon is not what anyonewants to spend the rest oftheir life doing, even if youdoownafamousCadillac.Which,incidentally,bythis

time was worth about zeromoney. All that junk shestuck on it weighed it down,and of course kids started

tryingtopullofftheRatFinkkeychainsandthebabydolls,andtheantennasgotsnaggedon branches and broke off.And to tell you the absolutetruth,Loretta’sdrivingwasn’tallthatgreattobeginwith,soyoucanjustimaginehowthatpoor car looked after a fewyears.He would roll over in his

grave if he could see whatyou’vedonetohisnicecar, I

toldheronce.I’d be surprised there was

room in his grave for him toturn in, Loretta said. Sheneverforgavehimforgettingfatandrunningaroundonhiswife and those other nastythings.Truthwas,Ithinkshenever forgave him for notcoming back and getting herandtakingher thehelloutofBlackSpot.Besides, why should he

care, she sniffled. He neverreallygaveashitaboutme.Itwasjustapublicitystunt,likeDonsaid.She really started crying

then. He did tell her thatonce, Don Thomas did. Ithought it was a real meanthing for him to say to her.Loretta is a very sensitiveperson.Oh,honey,that’snottrue,I

told her. I was trying to fix

that damn freezer again andshe’dstayed late, tokeepmecompany and also ’cause herlicense had been suspendedandshedidn’twantSergeantMerdeck to see her driving.She thought in the dark hewouldn’tbeabletotellitwasherbuttherewasnowayyoucouldsneakthatthingaround,noway.Plusshe’dhadafew.I didn’t say anything, but Icouldtell.

What?Well, Alice Jean, all I can

say is, if anyone ever had agood reason to drink, it wasLorettaDooley.Iknowsomepeopledoitjustforfun.Icutbackexceptforcookoutsandparties sometimes. It justruinsyourskin.Why, thank you, Erika. I

got it last quarter, for beingMaryRose’sMost ImprovedSalesperson in the Southern

Mid-Atlantic Area. KenSenior gave me the goldchain for our anniversary soit’s sort of double special.The Mary Rose Cadillac isthe same color, only kind ofdarker, sort of more purple.It’s got whitewalls, too. IcouldhavethefirstoneintheSouthern Mid-Atlantic, if Igetit.Doesn’tthatAloeVerafeel

nice,Alice Jean? Ikeep it in

thefridge—makesitsortofatreattogetburned!Anyway, as I was saying,

Loretta was pretty upset thatnight. I guess it had just allsort of gotten her depressed.It was right after they shutdown the Merriam BrickPlant in Petrol, and at theBlue Moon everybody’shourswerecutback,not thatwe were making any moneytobeginwith.Thatwaswhen

I first started thinking aboutworking formyself. Plus herlandlordhadgivenhernotice,they were developing thatpart ofDelbartonandhe justfiguredhe’dcash in, Iguess.But I was only trying to benicetoher,cheerherup.It’snot true,Loretta,I told

her.Ithinkhereallymeantittobeanice thing. I think hetruly appreciated the serviceyougavehim.

Well,youarewrong,TerryWesterburgh, she said. Youarewrong, ’causehe just didnot give a shit, about me oranyoneelse.Hereyesgotthiskindoflooksometimeswhenshewas drinking, like if youwere made of paper theywould just burn you up. Shecrumpled her Dixie cup andthrewitonthefloorandsaid,Therearetwokindsofpeoplein this world, the Haves and

the Have-Nots. And I am aHave-Not, and you knowwhathewas.Well, I got sort of P.O.’d

then. I mean, here I was onmyhandsandknees,tryingtofixthatdamnrefrigerator,anditwasn’tlikeKendidn’thaveto work nights at Big Jim’sBarbequejustsowe’dgetby,and here she was throwingDixie cups on the floor likeshewastheQueenofSheba.

Nowyoulistentome,MissDooley, I said. I was prettyaggravated. He worked foreverything he ever got, thatman did, hewas poor as dirtwhenhe startedanduntil theday he died he never forgotwhere he came from. That’swhyhegaveyouthatcar.Butyou just go ahead and listento Don Thomas if you wantandseewhereitgetsyou.I see where it gotme, she

said, toomadherselfbynowto even carewho it was shewas talking to,NumberOne,her oldest friend TerryWesterburgh, Number Two,her boss. It got me a shittyjobIcan’tevenworkenoughhours to make my rent. If Ihad a place to rent, which Idon’t.Well, then you just see if

you can find another placewhereyou’llbehappier,Miss

Potty-mouth, I said, and Islammedtherefrigeratorshutandstompedout.I was so mad. I shouldn’t

have toputupwith thatkindof talk. That was when IdecidedIwasgoing to reallyhave my own businesssomeday, not work for someperson who owns a diner.Sort of the first step towardsworking for Mary RoseCosmetics, only of course I

didn’tknowthatthen.Erika honey, I know you

would love it. You can setyourownhours,sleep lateasyou want, plus you get allyourmakeup free! And you-know-whowouldlikethat!ButyouknowIfeltterrible

about five minutes afteryellingather.Iwent into thebackroom,butshewasgone.Iheardher leaving, thatpoorold car scraping along the

groundlikesomedogthatgotrunover.It’sfunnybutIevenhadstartedtolikethatcarinaway. Imean it reallydid getyourattention.Thekidslovedit. We got so we’d save oldtoys, dolls and things, andparts from Ken’s Buick andthelawnmower,andI’dbringthem over and give them toLorettaand they’dallenduponhercar.ShehadthisgiantMr. Potato Head she put on

the roof and these coloredtennis balls she stuck on alltheantennasandreally,itwasa hoot. Plus her nephew hadriggedupsomekindoflightsthat blinked all around therearview window andJocelyn’s son Peter gave herthis funny moose horn shecould honk. It was reallyfrom the football team butnone of us was supposed toknowthat.

I went outside but it wastoo late. I really felt terrible.Like Ann Landers says, youshould always make yourwords sweet, ’cause youneverknowwhenyou’llhavetoeatthem.IfIhadtoeatmywordsrightthenIwouldhavethrownup.Andsoright thenI decided to quit the BlueMoon. If it was making meintothismeanunkindperson,well,thenitwasn’tthejobfor

me.AliceJean,youshouldkind

of dab that Aloe Vera stuffoff now, I think, honey,otherwise your pores turn afunnycolor.Here,use this—thesearespeciallyformulatedfor removing deep-down dirtand grime. Doesn’t it smellrefreshing!Okay, this is thegoodpart

now.SoLorettaisgone,andIfeltrealbad.Ifeltguilty,too,

because I knew she’d had afew and all I could think ofwas her and her famous cargoing off the bridge into thereservoir.I thoughtofcallingBud Merdeck but then Ithought, well, Loretta’s notgoing to feel any betterspending the night in thedrunk tank, so I decided I’dgo after her. She wassupposedtogetallmovedoutthe next day, she was

supposed to have startedpacking stuff that night. Hersister was going to let herstaywith her until she foundanotherplace.Andyouknow,shereallywasina tightspot,becausewhereareyougoingto find a decent place to liveon what you make workingfifteen hours a week at theBlueMoon?So I got in my car and

drove to her house. It was

darkbythen,andabadnight.Ithadbeenrainingoffandonand now it had finallystoppedbutitwassofoggy,Idrovewithmylowbeamsonthe whole way. Once I evensloweddownandopened thewindow and stuck my headout, ’cause I couldn’t seeotherwise.You knowwhere she used

to live.Where thoseHuntersGlen condos are now. That

usedtobeallfields,justthesethreemobile homes thatGusBrinzer used to rent out.Lorettahadthenicestonebutthat’snotsayingmuch.AftertheysoldthemtheyfoundouttheHell’sAngelsusedoneoftheotherstomakeLSDin.Well, I finally got there,

buttherewasnobodyhome.Iwould’ve let myself in butwhen I peeked in thewindows I saw all these

boxes, and stuff thrownaround everywhere, and—well, to tell you the truth, itwasaterriblemess.Imean,itlookedliketheHell’sAngelshad been living there. And Iknewthen,thingswereworsewithLoretta than I’d known.I mean, here she was, myoldest friend plus I was hersupervisor, but I just had noidea.IfI’dknownIwould’vedonesomething,shehadalot

of friends, really, but I justhadnoideaatall.So Iwaited outside. There

was a kind ofmetal stairs infront of the trailer but thatwas broken so I sat on mycar. I was there for a longtime.Itwascold,thefogwasreal damp and just sank intoyou after a while. I wasstartingtoworry,too;ImeanI was starting to get soworried Iwasafraid I’d start

to scream, thinkingof all thehorrible things that might’vehappenedtoLorettaandIwasnastytoher.IwasjustgettingreadytoletmyselfinandcallKen,whenIheardsomebodywalkingdowntheroad.I turned around and itwas

her. She looked awful, likewhen you see movies andthere’s people been in a carwreck.Therewasnobloodoranythingbutshewaswetand

herhairwaswetandshehadmudonherfaceandoh,Ijustscreamed and ran over andstartedhuggingher.Loretta, thank god you’re

allright!Whathappened?Shemade a noise like she

wasembarrassedandthenshestartedtocry.Iwreckedit,shesaid.Iput

myarmsaroundher, I didn’teven care I had alreadychanged out of my uniform.

She said, I went down LeeHighwayandrolleditintothereservoir.Oh, my god! I said. You

could have killed yourself,Loretta!I know, she said. I had to

swimout.It’sintheresodeepthey’ll never get it out. Shereallystartedcryingthen.Why’dyoudo that? I said

and started crying, too, but Istopped.Ionlyhadoneclean

tissue left, and I gave it toher.Because it doesn’t matter,

she said. My whole life andnothingmatters.Ilivehere—shebentandpickeduparockand threw it and broke awindow, I heard it—in thisdump, and now I don’t evenlive here anymore. I had ahusbandandababyfor threedays, and twenty-sevenyearsagosomeonefamousgaveme

a goddamnCadillac as a tip,andthat’sit.That’smywholelife. That’s it, Terry. Mywholelifeisrightthere.Well,youknowIwishedI

could of said something toher, but she was right. Thatwas her whole life, rightthere.I justwish I could’ve kept

my baby, she said. She wascryingsoIcouldhardly hearwhatshesaid.Ifthey’dofleft

memy baby girl I would’vefelt like I had something.LikeyouhaveKenandLittleKenny. I would have hadEloise.I startedcryingagain then,

too. Imean, god! Itwas justso sad. So then we sat for alittlewhilebutwedidn’t sayanything. It was all just toodepressing.But after a while I started

tothink,Well,wehavegotto

do something, we can’t sithereallnightinthemud,andI thoughtmaybeI’dcallKenandseewasitokayifLorettacamebackwithmeandcouldstay at our house. I was justthinking of standing up andaskingLorettawasitokayifIwentinside touse thephone,when we heard it. It hadstarted raining again, a little,andwehadsatonthatbrokenstep in front of the trailer,

’cause there’s an awningthere.Loretta stood up first. Oh,

mygod,shesaid.Shit.I listened and stood, too.

Shit,Isaid.It was her car. That was

obvious,Imeanyoucouldn’tmistake that car for anythingelse in theworld. It soundedlike it was having troublegetting over the last hill,where it was always

overgrown and muddyanyway.Andyoufigureacarthatwas in thebottomof thereservoir, it probablywouldn’truntoowell.Shit, Loretta said again.

That’sit.I knew just what she

meant. I was thinking thatBud Merdeck had found itsomehow and gottenLynnwood Gentry to tow itout, and now how was

Loretta going to pay for it,not to mention they couldhave arrested her, probably,for rolling a car into thereservoir on purpose.Especiallythatcar.And then it made this

grindingnose,andsuddenlyitpopped over the rise. Theheadlights were on, at leastone of themwas. Thewheelthat used to have the Trollson it and now had this Big

Bird sort of tied to itwas allbentupandtheantennaswereallmashedtogether.Whoeverwas driving it tried to honkthemoose horn but it hardlymadeanoiseatall.Itwasjustaboutthesaddestcaryoueversaw.Loretta and I looked at

each other and she rubbed atherface,tryingtogetsomeofthemudoff.Webettergoseewhoit is,

Iwhispered.Ifit’sLynnwoodI’llcallKenand he’ll talk tohim.Thankyou,Terry,shesaid.

Sheknewthatwasmywayofmakingupwithher.We started walking to the

car, slowly because of therainand itwassloppygoing.The car had stopped at theedge of the drive andwaitedwith the motor running. Itdidn’t sound toogood either.

Maybe better than you’dexpect, but itwas pretty sad,to think thatcarhadcome tothis. As we walked up to itthedooronthepassengersidepoppedopen.Hello?Itwasthiswoman’s

voice,nobodyweknew.Hi, I said. I stopped,

wondering if maybeLynnwoodhadbroughtalonghisgirlfriendDonna.Hestaysat the shop all night

sometimes and on weekendsshe usually keeps himcompany.But it wasn’t Donna. It

wasn’t anybody that Irecognized at all. This shortwoman, with dyed blondehair. She stepped out of thecar, jumping over the water.She had on nice clothes, notexpensiveordesignerclothesbut likea secretary’sclothes,likeshehadn’tchangedfrom

work yet. She had a nicesmile,andniceeyes—Iknowyou wouldn’t think you’dnotice something like that inthe dark but I did, I have agoodeye for things like that.Mary Rose says that a greatsaleswomanneedsaneyefordetail.Are you—? The woman

startedtosaysomething,thensheturnedaroundand leanedbackintothecar,likeshewas

asking the driver something.Thensheturnedaroundagainand said, Is one of youLorettaDooley?That’s me, said Loretta.

She had this squinched-uptone.Iknewshewasnervoustheyweregoingtoask,Haveyoubeendrinking?Instead the girl says, My

nameisNoreenMarcus.Marcus?Lorettasays.That’s right, says the girl.

She glances back at the car,sort of nervously, but then itwas like whoever was insidetold her it was okay, so shegoeson.Noreen Marcus. My

parents are Lowell andAngeline Marcus, inRichmond. I hitchhiked here.Thismangavemea rideoutby the reservoir. I’m yourdaughter.Mydaughter?Lorettasays,

andI’msaying,Yourwho?Ye-es—And the girl stepped

forward, holding up her skirtso it wouldn’t get wet, andthenshelookedup,anditwaslikeforthefirsttimeshegotagood look at Loretta in theheadlight. ’Cause shesuddenly gave this screamand started laughing, anddropped her purse in thewater and ran across and I

started running, too, next toLoretta, only then at the lastminute I stopped because Ithought, Nowwait aminute,thisissomethingveryspecialgoing on here betweenLoretta and this youngwoman who is her daughter,andso I stayed andwaited alittlewhile until they calmeddown.Well,AliceJean,Iknewit

was her because she had

Eddie Rule’s eyes and hissmile. He may have been apoor fatherbuthedidhaveanicesmile.And so for a little while

there was some crying andlaughing and you can justimaginehowweallfelt.Andall thewhile thatoldcar justsat there, though whoeverwas inside turned the motoroff after awhile andsmokeda cigarette. There was no

radioinitbutyoucouldhearhim sort of humming tohimself.And finally Loretta said,

Well,forgod’ssakeslet’sgoinside,we’regettingsoaked.Well,waitaminutewhileI

getmybag,saidNoreen.She went back to the car

andstuckherheadinandsaidsomethingtowhoeverwas inthere.Okay, now this is when I

gotgoosebumps.Because I couldn’t hear

what he was saying—it wastoo far away, and it wasn’tlikeIwantedtoeavesdroporanything. I guess I sort ofexpecteditmustbeoldEddieRule inside.Butnow I coulddefinitelyhearhisvoice, andit wasn’t Eddie Rule’s voiceatall.Itwas—Well, you know whose

voiceitwas.

Loretta knew, too. Shestood by me with her armscrossed, shivering, and whenshe heard him she turned tomeandopenedhermouthandfor a minute there I thoughtshewasgoingtofaint.Oh, my god, she said, oh,

mygod—Thank you for the ride, I

heardNoreen yelling at him,and I could just barelymakeout his voice saying

something back to her,goodbye I guess, somethinglikethat.Thenshepulledthissuitcase out of the car andstood back while it backedup.Loretta! I said, elbowing

her and then pulling her tome. Loretta, hurry up! Tellhimthankyou—Andsheyelled,Thankyou,

thank you! and then shestarted running after the car,

yelling and waving like shewascrazy.Whichweallwereby then,allofusyellingandwaving at him and laughinglike we’d known each otherall this time,when it’d reallyonlybeen, like, fiveminutes.Andthecarjustkeptbackingup ’til it got over the top ofthe hill, and then I guess heturned it around and droveoff.Andthatwasthelasttimeanybody ever saw Loretta’s

famousCadillac.Afterwardswewent inside

andkindofdriedoffandthenon the way to my house westopped atBig Jim’s and gota half-dozen Specials andwent home. The SpecialsweresoKenSeniorwouldn’tbe too mad about me beingoutsolate.And so that’s how it

happened.Nextdayofcoursethe story got out, because

there isnoway, justnoway,you can keep something likethatasecret.Noreensaysshethinks it was just acoincidence, she sayseverybody out here in BlackSpot looks likehimandwhocouldtellthedifference?Plusshe said if it was really himwouldn’t he have been in afancy limousine, not somecrazy fixed-up car her realmother drove into the

reservoir.ButIsaid,Well,that’show

you know it was really him.’Cause it’s like Loretta said,there’s theHavesand there’stheHave-Nots, and if you’reaHave-Not you never forgetwhat it’s like to be poor andon your own. I mean howcould he have sung“Heartbreak Hotel”otherwise?Noreensaid,Well,I still have my doubts, but

whensheandhermamawenton Oprah they played it upfor all they could, I can tellyou that. And like the TVmoviedirectorsays,itdoesn’treally matter, does it?Because it’s such a goodstory.AndImeanthere’sNoreen

reunitedwithLorettatoproveit,nottomentionhowwouldyou ever get a car like thatout of the reservoir, plus

where is that car now, I askyou? Because I saw it, too,and I hadn’t had a thing todrink.What do I think? Well,

Erika honey, I guess it’s justone of those things. Strangethingshappensometimesandyou justgot to take thegoodwith the bad, is all. But youwon’t hear me complainingabout how it all turned out,not as long as business stays

this good and I get that newMary Rose Cadillac in thefall,noma’am.

ClosingTimeNEILGAIMAN

Neil Gaiman is the NewberyMedal-winning author of TheGraveyard Book and a New YorkTimes bestseller. Several of hisbooks, including Coraline, havebeen made into major motion

pictures.Heisalsofamousforthe“Sandman” graphic novel series,andfornumerousotherbooksandcomicsforadult,youngadult,andyounger readers. He has won theHugo, Nebula, Mythopoeic,WorldFantasy,andotherawards.He is also the authorofpowerfulshortstoriesandpoems.

There are still clubs in

London.Oldones,andmock-old, with elderly sofas and

crackling fireplaces,newspapers, and traditionsofspeechorofsilence,andnewclubs, the Groucho and itsmanyknockoffs,whereactorsandjournalistsgotobeseen,to drink, to enjoy theirgloweringsolitude,oreventotalk. I have friends in bothkinds of club, but am notmyselfamemberofanyclubinLondon,notanymore.Years ago, half a lifetime,

when I was a youngjournalist, I joined a club. Itexisted solely to takeadvantage of the licensinglawsoftheday,whichforcedallpubstostopservingdrinksat eleven PM, closing time.This club, theDiogenes,wasa one-room affair locatedabove a record shop in anarrow alley just off theTottenham Court Road. Itwas owned by a cheerful,

chubby, alcohol-fueledwoman called Nora, whowould tellanyonewhoaskedand even if they didn’t thatshe’d called the club theDiogenes, darling, becauseshe was still looking for anhonest man. Up a narrowflightofsteps,and,atNora’swhim, the door to the clubwouldbeopen,ornot.Itkeptirregularhours.It was a place to go once

thepubsclosed,thatwasalliteverwas, and despiteNora’sdoomed attempts to servefood or even to send out acheerymonthly newsletter toall her club’s membersreminding them that the clubnowservedfood,thatwasallit would ever be. I wassaddened several years agowhen I heard that Nora haddied;andIwasstruck,tomysurprise,with a real sense of

desolation last month when,onavisittoEngland,walkingdown that alley, I tried tofigure out where theDiogenesClubhadbeen,andlooked first in the wrongplace, then saw the fadedgreen cloth awnings shadingthe windows of a tapasrestaurant above a mobilephone shop, and, painted onthem, a stylized man in abarrel. It seemed almost

indecent, and it set meremembering.Therewerenofireplacesin

the Diogenes Club, and noarmchairs either, but still,storiesweretold.Most of the people

drinking there were men,although women passedthrough from time to time,and Nora had recentlyacquired a glamorouspermanent fixture in the

shape of a deputy, a blondePolish émigré who calledeverybody“darlink”andwhohelped herself to drinkswhenever she got behind thebar.Whenshewasdrunk,shewouldtellus thatshewasbyrights a countess, back inPoland, and swear us all tosecrecy.There were actors and

writers, of course. Filmeditors, broadcasters, police

inspectors, and drunks.People who did not keepfixed hours. People whostayedouttoolateorwhodidnot want to go home. Somenightstheremightbeadozenpeople there, or more. Othernights I’d wander in and I’dbe the only person around—on those occasions I’d buymyselfasingledrink,drinkitdown,andthenleave.That night, it was raining,

and there were four of us intheclubaftermidnight.Nora and her deputy were

sittingupat thebar,workingontheirsitcom.Itwasaboutachubby-but-cheerful womanwho owned a drinking club,and her scatty deputy, anaristocratic foreign blondewho made amusing Englishmistakes. It would be likeCheers, Nora used to tellpeople. She named the

comicalJewish landlordafterme. Sometimes they wouldaskmetoreadascript.There was an actor named

Paul (commonly known asPaul-the-actor, tostoppeopleconfusing himwithPaul-the-police-inspector or Paul-the-struck-off-plastic-surgeon,who were also regulars), acomputer gaming magazineeditor named Martyn, andme. We knew each other

vaguely, and the three of ussat at a table by thewindowand watched the rain comedown, misting and blurringthelightsofthealley.There was another man

there,olderbyfarthananyofthe three of us. He wascadaverous and gray-hairedandpainfullythin,andhesataloneinthecornerandnursedasinglewhiskey.Theelbowsof his tweed jacket were

patchedwithbrownleather,Iremember that quite vividly.Hedidnottalktous,orread,or do anything. He just sat,lookingoutattherainandthealleybeneath,andsometimes,he sipped his whiskeywithoutanyvisiblepleasure.Itwasalmostmidnight,and

Paul and Martyn and I hadstarted tellingghost stories. Ihad just finished telling thema sworn-true ghostly account

frommyschooldays:thetaleof the Green Hand. It hadbeenanarticleof faithatmyprep school that there was adisembodied, luminous handthat was seen, from time totime, by unfortunateschoolboys. If you saw theGreen Hand you would diesoon after. Fortunately, noneof us were ever unluckyenough to encounter it, butthere were sad tales of boys

from before our time, boyswhosawtheGreenHandandwhose thirteen-year-old hairhad turned white overnight.According to school legendthey were taken to thesanatorium, where theywould expire after aweekorsowithouteverbeingable toutteranotherword.“Hang on,” said Paul-the-

actor. “If they never utteredanother word, how did

anyoneknowthey’dseen theGreen Hand? I mean, theycouldhaveseenanything.”As a boy, being told the

stories, I had not thought toask this, and now it waspointedouttomeitdidseemsomewhatproblematic.“Perhaps they wrote

something down,” Isuggested,abitlamely.We batted it about for a

while, and agreed that the

Green Hand was a mostunsatisfactory sort of ghost.ThenPaultoldusatruestoryaboutafriendofhiswhohadpicked up a hitchhiker, anddroppedheroffataplaceshesaidwasherhouse,andwhenhe went back the nextmorning,itturnedouttobeacemetery. I mentioned thatexactly the same thing hadhappened toa friendofmineas well. Martyn said that it

had not only happened to afriendofhis,but,becausethehitchhiking girl looked socold, the friend had lent herhis coat, and the nextmorning, in the cemetery, hefound his coat all neatlyfoldedonhergrave.Martyn went and got

another round of drinks, andwe wondered why all theseghost women were zoomingaround the country all night

and hitchhiking home, andMartyn said that probablyliving hitchhikers these dayswere the exception, not therule.And then one of us said,

“I’ll tell you a true story, ifyou like. It’s a story I’venever told a living soul. It’strue—it happened tome, notto a friend of mine—but Idon’t know if it’s a ghoststory.Itprobablyisn’t.”

Thiswasovertwentyyearsago.Ihaveforgottensomanythings, but I have notforgottenthatnight,orhowitended.This is the story that was

told that night, in theDiogenesClub.

I was nine years old, orthereabouts,inthelate1960s,and I was attending a smallprivate school not far from

my home. I was only at thatschoollessthanayear—longenoughtotakeadisliketotheschool’s owner, who hadbought the school inorder toclose it and to sell the primeland on which it stood toproperty developers, which,shortlyafterIleft,shedid.Fora long time—ayearor

more—aftertheschoolclosedthe building stood emptybefore it was finally

demolished and replaced byoffices. Being a boy, I wasalso a burglar of sorts, andone day before it wasknocked down, curious, Iwent back there. I wriggledthrough a half-open windowand walked through emptyclassrooms that still smelledofchalkdust.Itookonlyonething from my visit, apainting Ihaddone inArtofa littlehousewitha reddoor

knocker like a devil or animp. It had my name on it,anditwasuponawall.Itookithome.When the school was still

open I walked home eachday, through the town, thendownadarkroadcutthroughsandstonehillsandallgrownover with trees, and past anabandoned gatehouse. Thentherewouldbe light, and theroadwouldgopastfields,and

finallyIwouldbehome.Back then there were so

manyoldhouses and estates,Victorian relics that stood inan empty half-life awaitingthe bulldozers that wouldtransform them and theirramshackle grounds intoblandly identical landscapesof desirable modernresidences, every houseneatly arranged side by sidearound roads that went

nowhere.The other children I

encounteredonmywayhomewere, inmymemory,alwaysboys.We did not know eachother, but, like guerillas inoccupied territory, we wouldexchange information. Wewere scared of adults, noteach other.We did not haveto know each other to run intwosorthreesorinpacks.The day that I’m thinking

of,Iwaswalkinghomefromschool, and Imet three boysintheroadwhereitwasatitsdarkest. They were lookingfor something in the ditchesandthehedgesandtheweed-choked place in front of theabandoned gatehouse. Theywereolderthanme.“What are you looking

for?”The tallest of them, a

beanpole of a boy,with dark

hair and a sharp face, said,“Look!” He held up severalripped-in-half pages fromwhatmust have been a very,very old pornographicmagazine. The girls were allin black-and-white, and theirhairstyles looked like theones my great-aunts had inold photographs. Fragmentsof it had blown all over theroad and into the abandonedgatehousefrontgarden.

Ijoinedinthepaperchase.Together, the three of usretrievedalmostawholecopyof The Gentleman’s Relishfromthatdarkplace.Thenweclimbed over a wall, into adeserted apple orchard, andlooked at what we hadgathered.Nakedwomenfroma long time ago. There is asmell, of fresh apples and ofrottenapplesmolderingdowninto cider, which even today

brings back the idea of theforbiddentome.The smaller boys, who

were still bigger than I was,were called Simon andDouglas, and the tall one,who might have been as oldasfifteen,wascalledJamie.Iwondered if they werebrothers.Ididnotask.Whenwehadall lookedat

the magazine, they said,“We’re going to hide this in

our special place. Do youwant to come along? Youmustn’t tell, if you do. Youmustn’ttellanyone.”Theymademe spit onmy

palm,andtheyspatontheirs,and we pressed our handstogether.Their special placewas an

abandonedmetalwater towerin a field by the entrance tothelaneneartowhereIlived.We climbed a high ladder.

The towerwaspaintedadullgreen on the outside, andinsideitwasorangewithrust,which covered the floor andthewalls.Therewasawalletonthefloorwithnomoneyinit, only some cigarette cards.Jamie showed them to me:eachcardheldapaintingofacricketer from a long timeago.Theyputthepagesofthemagazine down on the floorof the water tower, and the

walletontopofit.Then Douglas said, “I say

we go back to the Swallowsnext.”Myhousewasnotfarfrom

the Swallows, a sprawlingmanor house set back fromthe road. It had been owned,my father had told me once,by theEarlofTenterden,butwhenhehaddiedhisson,thenew earl, had simply closedtheplaceup. I hadwandered

to the edges of the grounds,buthadnotgonefurtherin.Itdid not feel abandoned. Thegardenswere toowell-cared-for, and where there weregardensthereweregardeners.Somewheretherehadtobeanadult.Itoldthemthis.Jamie said, “Bet there’s

not. Probably just someonewho comes in and cuts thegrass once a month or

something.You’renotscared,are you? We’ve been therehundreds of times.Thousands.”OfcourseIwasscared,and

ofcourseIsaidthatIwasnot.We went up the main driveuntil we reached the maingates. Theywere closed, andwesqueezedbeneaththebarstogetin.Rhododendron bushes

linedthedrive.Beforewegot

tothehousetherewaswhatItook to be a groundskeeper’scottage, and beside it on thegrass were some rustingmetal cages, big enough toholdahuntingdog,oraboy.Wewalkedpastthem,uptoahorseshoe-shaped drive andright up to the front door ofthe Swallows. We peeredinside, looking in thewindows but seeing nothing.Itwastoodarkinside.

We slipped around thehouse, through arhododendron thicketandoutagain, into some kind offairyland. It was a magicalgrotto, all rocks and delicateferns and odd, exotic plantsI’d never seen before: plantswithpurpleleaves,andleaveslike fronds, and small half-hiddenflowerslikejewels.Atinystreamwoundthroughit,a rill of water running from

rocktorock.Douglassaid,“I’mgoingto

wee-wee in it.” It was verymatter-of-fact. He walkedover to it, pulled down hisshorts, and urinated in thestream, splashing on therocks. The other boys did it,too,bothof thempullingouttheir penises and standingbeside him to piss into thestream.Iwasshocked.Iremember

that.IsupposeIwasshockedbythejoytheytookinthis,orjust by the way they weredoing something like that insucha specialplace, spoilingtheclearwaterandthemagicof theplace,making it intoatoilet.Itseemedwrong.Whentheyweredone,they

did not put their penisesaway. They shook them.They pointed them at me.Jamiehadhairgrowingatthe

baseofhis.“We’re cavaliers,” said

Jamie. “Do you know whatthatmeans?”I knew about the English

Civil War, Cavaliers (wrongbut romantic) versusRoundheads (right butrepulsive), but I didn’t thinkthatwaswhathewas talkingabout.Ishookmyhead.“Itmeansourwilliesaren’t

circumcised,” he explained.

“Are you a cavalier or aroundhead?”I knew what they meant

now. I muttered, “I’m aroundhead.”“Show us. Go on. Get it

out.”“No. It’s none of your

business.”For a moment, I thought

things were going to getnasty, but then Jamielaughed, and put his penis

away, and the others did thesame.Theytolddirtyjokestoeachotherthen,jokesIreallydidn’tunderstand, forall thatI was a bright child, but Iheard and remembered them,and several weeks later wasalmost expelled from schoolfor telling one of them to aboywhowenthomeand toldittohisparents.Thejokehadthewordfuck

init.ThatwasthefirsttimeI

everheardtheword,inadirtyjokeinafairygrotto.The principal called my

parents into the school, afterI’d got in trouble, and saidthatI’dsaidsomethingsobadthey could not repeat it, noteven to tell my parents whatI’ddone.Mymotheraskedme,when

theygothomethatnight.“Fuck,”Isaid.“Youmust never, ever say

that word,” said my mother.Shesaidthisveryfirmly,andquietly, and for my owngood.“Thatistheworstwordanyone can say.” I promisedherthatIwouldn’t.But after, amazed at the

power a single word couldhave, I would whisper it tomyself,whenIwasalone.In the grotto, that autumn

afternoon after school, thethreebigboys told jokes and

they laughed and theylaughed, and I laughed, too,althoughIdidnotunderstandany of what they werelaughingabout.We moved on from the

grotto. Into the formalgardens and over a smallbridge that spanned a pond;we crossed it nervously,because it was out in theopen, butwe could see hugegoldfish in the blackness of

thepond below,whichmadeitworthwhile.ThenJamieledDouglas and Simon and medownagravelpathintosomewoodland.Unlike the gardens, the

woods were abandoned andunkempt.Theyfelt like therewasnoonearound.Thepathwas grown over. It ledbetween trees and then, afterawhile,intoaclearing.In the clearingwas a little

house.It was a playhouse, built

perhapsfortyyearsearlierfora child, or for children. Thewindows were Tudor style,leaded and crisscrossed intodiamonds. The roof wasmockTudor.Astonepathledstraight fromwhereweweretothefrontdoor.Together,wewalkedupthe

pathtothedoor.Hangingfromthedoorwas

a metal knocker. It waspaintedcrimsonandhadbeencastintheshapeofsomekindofimp,somekindofgrinningpixieordemon,cross-legged,hanging by its hands from ahinge.Letmesee...howcanIdescribethisbest?Itwasn’tagood thing. The expressionon its face, for starters. Ifoundmyselfwonderingwhatkind of a personwouldhangsomething like that on a

playhousedoor.It frightened me, there in

that clearing, with the duskgathering under the trees. Iwalkedawayfromthehouse,back to a safe distance, andtheothersfollowedme.“I thinkIhave togohome

now,”Isaid.It was the wrong thing to

say.Thethreeofthemturnedandlaughedandjeeredatme,calledmepathetic, calledme

a baby. They weren’t scaredofthehouse,theysaid.“Idareyou!”saidJamie.“I

dare you to knock on thedoor.”Ishookmyhead.“Ifyoudon’tknockon the

door,” said Douglas, “you’retoo much of a baby ever toplaywithusagain.”Ihadnodesireevertoplay

with them again. Theyseemed like occupants of a

land I was not yet ready toenter.Butstill,Ididnotwantthemtothinkmeababy.“Goon.We’renotscared,”

saidSimon.I try to remember the tone

of voice he used. Was hefrightened, too, and coveringit with bravado? Or was heamused? It’s been so long. IwishIknew.I walked slowly back up

the flagstone path to the

house. I reached up, grabbedthe grinning imp inmy righthand, and banged it hardagainstthedoor.Orrather,I triedtobangit

hard, just to show the otherthree that Iwas not afraid atall. That I was not afraid ofanything. But somethinghappened, something I hadnotexpected,andtheknockerhit the door with a muffledsortofathump.

“Now you have to goinside!” shouted Jamie. Hewasexcited.Icouldhear it. Ifound myself wondering ifthey had known about thisplace already, before wecame.IfIwasthefirstpersontheyhadbroughtthere.ButIdidnotmove.“You go in,” I said. “I

knockedon thedoor. Idid itlike you said.Nowyouhavetogoinside.Idareyou.Idare

allofyou.”I wasn’t going in. I was

perfectly certain of that. Notthen. Not ever. I’d feltsomething move, I’d felt theknocker twistundermyhandas I’d banged that grinningimpdownon thedoor. Iwasnot so old that Iwould denymyownsenses.They said nothing. They

didnotmove.Then, slowly, thedoor fell

open. Perhaps they thoughtthat I, standing by the door,had pushed it open. Perhapsthey thought that I’d jarred itwhenIknocked.ButIhadn’t.Iwas certain of it. It openedbecauseitwasready.Ishouldhaverunthen.My

heart was pounding in mychest. But the devil was inme, and instead of running Ilookedatthethreebigboysatthebottomof thepath, and I

simply said, “Or are youscared?”They walked up the path

towardthelittlehouse.“It’s getting dark,” said

Douglas.Thenthethreeboyswalked

past me, and one by one,reluctantly perhaps, theyentered the playhouse. Awhite face turned to look atme as they went into thatroom, to ask why I wasn’t

following them in, I’ll bet.But as Simon, who was thelast of them, walked in, thedoor banged shut behindthem, and I swear to God Ididnottouchit.The imp grinned down at

me from thewooden door, avividsplashofcrimsoninthegraygloaming.Iwalkedaroundtotheside

of the playhouse and peeredthroughall thewindows, one

by one, into the dark andempty room.Nothingmovedin there. I wondered if theotherthreewereinsidehidingfromme, pressed against thewall, trying their damnedestto stifle their giggles. Iwondered if itwas a big-boygame.I didn’t know. I couldn’t

tell.I stood there in the

courtyard of the playhouse,

whiletheskygotdarker, justwaiting.Themoon rose aftera while, a big autumn moonthecolorofhoney.Andthen,afterawhile,the

door opened, and nothingcameout.Now I was alone in the

glade,asaloneasiftherehadneverbeen anyone else thereat all. An owl hooted, and IrealizedthatIwasfreetogo.I turned and walked away,

followingadifferentpathoutof the glade, always keepingmy distance from the mainhouse. I climbed a fence inthe moonlight, ripping theseatofmyschoolshorts,andI walked—not ran, I didn’tneedtorun—acrossafieldofbarley stubble, and over astile, and into a flinty lanethat would take me, if Ifolloweditfarenough,allthewaytomyhouse.

And soon enough, I washome.My parents had not been

worried, although they wereirritated by the orange rustdustonmyclothes,bytheripin my shorts. “Where wereyou, anyway?” my motherasked.“Iwentforawalk,”Isaid.

“Ilosttrackoftime.”Andthatwaswhereweleft

it.

It was almost two in themorning.ThePolishcountesshad already gone.NowNorabegan, noisily, to collect upthe glasses and ashtrays andto wipe down the bar. “Thisplace is haunted,” she said,cheerfully.“Notthat it’severbothered me. I like a bit ofcompany,darlings.IfIdidn’t,I wouldn’t have opened theclub. Now, don’t you havehomestogoto?”

WesaidourgoodnightstoNora, and she made each ofuskissheronhercheek,andshe closed the door of theDiogenesClubbehindus.Wewalked down the narrowsteps past the record shop,downinto thealleyand backintocivilization.The underground had

stopped running hours ago,but there were always nightbuses,andcabsstilloutthere

for those who could affordthem. (I couldn’t. Not inthosedays.)The Diogenes Club itself

closed several years later,finishedoffbyNora’scancerand, I suppose, by the easyavailability of late-nightalcohol once the Englishlicensing lawswerechanged.But I rarely went back afterthatnight.“Was there ever,” asked

Paul-the-actor, as we hit thestreet, “any news of thosethreeboys?Didyouseethemagain?Orwere theyreportedasmissing?”“Neither,” said the

storyteller. “I mean, I neversaw them again. And therewas no local manhunt forthree missing boys. Or iftherewas,Ineverheardaboutit.”“Is the playhouse still

there?”askedMartyn.“I don’t know,” admitted

thestoryteller.“Well,”saidMartyn,aswe

reached theTottenhamCourtRoadandheadedforthenightbus stop, “I for one do notbelieveawordofit.”Therewere four of us, not

three, out on the street longafter closing time. I shouldhave mentioned that before.Therewasstilloneofuswho

had not spoken, the elderlyman with the leather elbowpatches,whohadlefttheclubwiththethreeofus.Andnowhespokeforthefirsttime.“I believe it,” he said

mildly. His voice was frail,almost apologetic. “I cannotexplain it, but I believe it.Jamie died, you know, notlong after Father did. It wasDouglas who wouldn’t goback,whosoldtheoldplace.

Hewanted them to tear it alldown. But they kept thehouse itself, the Swallows.Theyweren’tgoing toknockthat down. I imagine thateverythingelsemustbegonebynow.”Itwasacoldnight,andthe

rain still spat occasionaldrizzle. I shivered, but onlybecauseIwascold.“Those cages you

mentioned,” he said. “By the

driveway. I haven’t thoughtof them in fifty years.Whenwewerebadhe’d lockusupin them.Wemust have beenbad a great deal, eh? Verynaughty,naughtyboys.”He was looking up and

down the Tottenham CourtRoad, as if he were lookingfor something. Then he said,“Douglas killed himself, ofcourse.Tenyears ago.WhenIwas still in the bin. Somy

memory’snotasgood.Notasgood as it was. But thatwasJamie all right, to the life.He’d never let us forget thathe was the oldest. And youknow, we weren’t everallowed in the playhouse.Fatherdidn’tbuild it forus.”Hisvoicequavered,andforamoment I could imagine thispaleoldmanas aboyagain.“Fatherhadhisowngames.”Andthenhewavedhisarm

andcalled“Taxi!”anda taxipulled over to the curb.“Brown’s Hotel,” said theman, and he got in. He didnot saygood night to any ofus.Hepulledshutthedoorofthecab.And in the closing of the

cab door I could hear toomany other doors closing.Doors in the past, which aregone now, and cannot bereopened.

AnnaF.PAULWILSON

F. Paul Wilson is the award-winning, New York Timesbestselling author of forty-plusbooks and many short storiesspanningmedicalthrillers,sciencefiction, horror, adventure, andvirtually everything in between.

More thanninemillion copiesofhis books are in print in theUnited States and his work hasbeen translated into twentylanguages.Healsohaswrittenforthe stage, screen, and interactivemedia.

His latest thriller, Cold City,stars the notorious urbanmercenary,RepairmanJack,andisthe first of The Early YearsTrilogy.DarkCityfollowssoon.

He currently resides at theJersey Shore and can be foundonlineatwww.repairmanjack.com.

The bushy-haired young

man with long sideburnsarrivesondeckwithtwocupsof coffee—one black forhimself, the other laced withhalf-and-halfandtwosugars,thewayhiswifealwaystakesit.Rowsofblueplasticseats,half of them filled withtourists heading back to themainland, sit bolted to thesteeldeck.Hestopsbyarow

under the awning.Hiswife’snavy blue sweatshirt isdraped over the back of oneof the seats but she’s notthere. He looks around anddoesn’t see her. He asks anearby couple, strangers, iftheysawwherehiswifewentbut they say they didn’tnotice.Themanstrollsthroughthe

ferry’s crowded aft deck butdoesn’t see his wife. Still

carryingthecoffee,heamblesforward but she’s not thereeither. He wanders thestarboard side, checking outthe tourists leaning on therails, then does the same ontheportside.Nosignofher.The man places the coffee

on the seat with hersweatshirt and searchesthrough the innercompartments and the snackbar.He begins to ask people

if they’ve seen a blondwoman in her mid-twentieswearing a flowered top andbell-bottom jeans. Sure,people say. Dozens of them.And they’re right. The ferrycarries numerous womenfittingthatdescription.Themanfindsamemberof

thecrewandtellshimthathiswifeismissing.Heistakentothe ferry’s security officerwhoassureshimthathiswife

is surely somewhere aboard—perhaps she’s seasick andinoneoftherestrooms.The man waits outside the

women’s rooms, asking ateach if someone could checkinsideforhiswife.Whenthatyields nothing, he againwanders the various decks,going so faras to search thevehicle level where supplytrucks and passengers’ carsmakethetrip.

When the ferry reachesHyannis, the man stands onthe dock and watches everydebarking passenger, but hiswifeisnotamongthem.He calls his father-in-law

who lives outsideBoston.Heexplains that they were ontheirwayover fora surprisevisit but now his daughter ismissing. The father-in-lawarrives in his chauffeur-driven Bentley and joins the

young man in storming theoffices of the MassachusettsSteamship Authority,demandinga thorough,stem-to-stern search of the ferryand too damned bad if thatwill delay its departure. Thefather-in-law is a rich man,influential in Massachusettspolitics.Theferryisdetained.The state police are called

to aid in the search. TheCoast Guard sends out a

helicopter to trace andretrace the ferry’s route. Butthewifeisnottobefound.Nooneseesheragain.Ever.

“Ow!”William Morley grabbed

his right heel as pain spikedthrough it. His knee creakedand protested as he leanedback in the chair and pulledhisfootuptowherehecouldseeit.

“I’ll be damned!” he saidas he spotted the two-inchsplinter jutting from the heelofhissock.Blood seeped through the

white cotton, forming acrimsonbull’s-eyearoundthebase of the splinter. Morleygrabbedtheendandyankeditfree. The tip was stilettosharpandredwithhisblood.“Wherethehell...?”He’d been sitting here in

his study, in his favoriterocker, reading the SundayTimes, his feet restingon thenew maple footstool he’dbought just yesterday. Howon earth had he picked up asplinter?Keeping his bloody heel

off thecarpet,helimpedintothe bathroom, dabbed a littleperoxide on the wound, thencovereditwithaBand-Aid.When he returned to the

footstool he checked thecushioned top and saw asmallholeinthefabricwherehisheelhadbeenresting.Thesplintermusthavebeenlyingin the stuffing. He didn’tremember moving his footbefore it pierced him, but hemusthave.Morley had picked up the

footstool at Danzer’soverpriced furniture boutiqueon Lower Broadway. He’d

gone in looking forsomethingantiqueyandcomeout with this brand-newpiece. He’d spotted it fromthe front of the showroom;tucked ina far rearcorner, itseemed to call to him. Andonce he’d seen the intricategrain—hecouldn’t rememberseeingmaplegrainedlikethis—and the elaborate carvingalongtheedgeoftheseatandup and down the legs, he

couldn’tpassitup.But careless as all hell for

someone to leave a sharppieceofwoodlikethatinthepadding. If he were adifferent sort, he might sue.But what for? He had morethan enough money, and hewouldn’t want to breakwhoever did this exquisitecarving.He grabbed two of the

stool’s threelegsandliftedit

for a closer look. Marvelousgrain,and—”“Shit!” he cried, and

dropped it as pain lanced hishand.Hegaped inwonder at the

splinter—little more than aninch long this time—juttingfrom his palm. He pluckedtheslimlittledaggerandhelditup.Howthehell...?Morley knelt next to the

overturned stool andinspected the leg he’d beenholding. He spotted thesourceofthesplinter—aslim,pale crevice in the darkersurface of the lightly stainedwood.How on earth had that

wound up in his skin? Hecouldunderstandifhe’dbeensliding his hand along, buthe’d simply been holding it.Andnexttothecrevice—was

that another splinter angledoutward?As he adjusted his reading

glassesandleanedcloser, thetiny piece of wood poppedoutof the legandflewathisrighteye.Morley jerked back as it

bounced harmlessly off theeyeglass lens. He lost hisbalance and fell onto hisback,buthedidn’tstaydown.He’d gained weight in his

middle years and wascarrying an extra thirtypoundsonhismediumframe,yet he managed to roll overand do a rapid if ungainlyscramble away from thefootstool on his hands andknees. At sixty-two hecherished his dignity, butpanichadtakenover.My God! If I hadn’t been

wearingglasses—!Thankfully, he was alone.

Herose,brushedhimselfoff,and regarded the footstoolfromasafedistance.Really—a “safe distance”

from a little piece offurniture?Ridiculous.Buthisstomachroiledat the thoughtof how close he’d come tohaving a pierced cornea.Something very, very wronghere.Rubbinghishandsoverhis

arms to counter a creeping

chill, Morley surveyed hisdomain,a turn-of-the-centurytownhouse on East Thirty-firstStreetintheMurrayHillsectionofManhattan.HeandElainehadspentjustshyofamillion for it in the lateeighties, and it was worthmultiplesofthatnow.Itsfourlevels of hardwood floors,cherry wainscoting,intricately carved walnutmoldings and cornices were

all original. They’d spent asmallfortunerefurbishingtheinterior to its originalVictorian splendor andfurnishing it with periodantiques. After the tumor inherbreast finally took Elainein1995,he’dstayedonhere,alonebutnotlonely.Overtheyearshe’dgraduallyremovedElaine’s touches, easing herinfluencefromthedecoruntilthe place was all him. He’d

become quite content as lordofthemanor.Until now. The footstool

had attracted him because ofits grain, and because thestyle of its carving fit soseamlesslywiththerestofthefurniture, but he wouldn’tcare now if itwas a genuineone-of-a-kindVictorian.Thatthinghadtogo.Tugging at his neat salt-

and-pepper beard, Morley

eyed the footstool fromacross the room. Questionwas...howwashegoingtogetit out of here withouttouchingit?

The owner of Mostly Maplewas at the counter whenMorley walked in. Thoughclose to Morley in age, HalDanzerwas a polar opposite.Where Morley was thick,Danzer was thin, where

Morley was bearded, Danzerwas clean shaven, whereMorley’sthinhairwasneatlytrimmed, Danzer’s was longandthickandtiedintoashortponytail.A gallimaufry of maple

pieces of varying ages,rangingfromancienttobrandnew, surrounded them—claw-footed tables,wardrobes, breakfronts,secretaries, desks, dressers,

even old kitchen phones.Morley liked maple too, butnot to the exclusion of allother woods. Danzer hadonce toldhimthat he had nofirm guidelines regarding hisstock other than it be ofmapleandstrikehisfancy.Morley deposited the

heavy-duty canvas duffel onthecounter.“Iwanttoreturnthis.”Danzer stared at him. “A

canvasbag?”“No.” With difficulty he

refrained from adding, youidiot.“What’sinside.”Danzeropenedthebagand

peeked in.He frowned.“Thefootstool you boughtSaturday? Something wrongwithit?”Hell, yes, something was

wrongwithit.Verywrong.“Take it out and you’ll

see.”

Morley certainly wasn’tgoing to stick his hand inthere. Last night he’d pulledthe old bag out of the atticand very carefully slipped itover the stool. Then, using abroom handle, he’d upendedthe bag and pushed the stooltherestofthewayin.Hewasnot going to touch it again.LetDanzerfindoutfirsthand,as it were, what was wrongwithit.

Danzer reached in andpulled out the footstool byone of its three carved legs.Morley backed up a step,waitingforhisyelpofpain.Nothing.Danzer held up the

footstool and rotated it backandforthinthelight.Nothing.“Looksokaytome.”Morley shifted his weight

off his right foot—the heel

wasstilltender.Heglancedathis bandaged left hand. Hehadn’t imagined thosesplinters.“There, on the other leg.

See those gaps in the finish?That’s where slivers poppedoutofthewood.”Danzer twisted the stool

and squinted at the wood.“I’llbedamned.You’reright.Poppedout,yousay?”Morley held up his

bandagedand.“Rightintomypalm. My foot too.” He leftoffmention of the nearmissonhiseye.But why isn’t anything

happening to you? hewondered.“Sorry about that. I’ll

replaceit.”“Replaceit?”“Sure. Ipickedup threeof

them.They’reidentical.”Before Morley could

protest, Danzer had duckedthrough the curtaineddoorway behind the counter.But come to think of it, howcould he refuse areplacement?Hecouldn’tsaythatthisfootstool,sittinginerton thecounter, had assaultedhim. And it was a beautifullittlething...Danzer popped back

through the curtain withanother, a clone of the first.

Hesetitonthecounter.“There you go. I checked

this one over carefully andit’sperfect.”Morley reached out,

slowly, tentatively, andtouched the wood with thefingertips of his left hand,ready to snatch themback atthe first sharp sensation. Butnothing happened. Gently hewrapped his hand around theleg. For an awful instant he

thought he felt the carvingwrithe beneath his palm, butthe feeling was gone beforehecouldconfirmit.He sighed. Just wood.

Heavily grained maple andnothingmore.“WhileIwasinspectingit,”

Danzer said, “I noticedsomething interesting. Lookhere.”He turned the stoolonits side and pointed to aheavily grained area. “Check

thisout.”Remembering the near

miss on his eye, Morleyleanedcloser,butnottoo.“WhatamIlookingfor?”“There, in the grain—isn’t

the grain just fabulous? Youcan see a name. Looks like‘Anna,’doesn’tit?”Simply hearing the name

sent a whisper of uneasethroughMorley.Anddamnedif Danzer wasn’t right. The

word “ANNA” was indeedwoven into the grain. Seeingthe letters hidden like thatonly increased hisdiscomfiture.Whythisunease?Hedidn’t

know anyone named Anna,could not remember everknowinganAnna.“And look,” Danzer was

saying.“It’shereontheotherone.Isn’tthatclever.”Again Morley looked

where Danzer was pointing,andagainmadeout thename“ANNA” worked into thegrain.Morley’stonguefeltasdry

as the wood that filled thisstore.“What’ssoclever?”Danzer was grinning. “It’s

got to be the woodworker.She’sdoingaHirschfeld.”Morley’s brain seemed to

be stuck in low gear. “Whatthe hell are you talking

about?”“Hirschfeld—Al

Hirschfeld, the illustrator.You’ve seen him a milliontimes in the Times andPlaybill. He does those linecaricatures.Andineveryoneof them for the last umpteenyears he’s hidden hisdaughterNina’s name in thedrawing. This Anna is doingthe same thing. The shopprobably doesn’t allow its

woodworkers to sign theirpieces, so she’s sneaked hernameintothegrain.Probablynooneelsebutherknowsit’sthere.”“Exceptforusnow.”“Yeah.Isn’t itgreat?I just

lovestufflikethis.”Morley said nothing as he

watched the ebullientDanzerstuff the replacementfootstool into the canvasduffelandhanditback.

“It’sallyours.”Morley felt a little queasy,

almost seasick. Part of himwantedtoturnandrun,butheknew he had to take thatfootstool home. Because itwas signed, so cleverlyinscribed, by Anna, whoeverthatwas,andhemusthaveit.“Yes,” he mumbled

through the sawdust taste inhismouth.“Allmine.”

At home, Morley couldn’tquitebringhimself toput thefootstool to immediate use.He removed it from thecanvas bagwithout incurringanotherwound—a good signin itself—and set it in acornerofhis study.He felt agrowingconfidencethatwhathad happened yesterday wasan aberration, but he couldnot yet warm to the piece.Perhaps in time...when he’d

figured out why the nameAnna stirred up suchunsettlingechoes.He heard the clank of the

mail slot and went down tothe first floor to collect theday’s letters: a good-sizedstack of the usual variety ofjunk circulars, come-ons,confirmation slips from hisbroker, and pitches fromvarious charities. Very littleofapersonalnature.

Still shuffling through theenvelopes, he had justreentered the studywhen hisfoot caught on something.Suddenly he was fallingforward.Themailwentflyingas he flung out his arms toprevent himself from landingon his face. He hit the floorwith a brain-jarring, rib-cracking thud that knockedthewindoutofhim.It took a good halfminute

beforehecouldbreatheagain.When he finally rolled over,helookedaroundtoseewhathadtrippedhim—andfroze.The footstool sat dead

center in the entry to thestudy.A tremor rattled through

Morley.He’dleftthestoolinthecorner—hewascertainofit. Or at least, pretty certain.He was more certain thatfurniture didn’tmove around

on its own, so perhaps hehadn’t put it in the corner,merely intended to, andhadn’tgotaroundtoityet.Right now he wasn’t

certain of what he could becertainof.

Morley found himself wideawakeat threea.m.He’dfeltridiculous stowing thefootstool in a closet, but hadto admit he felt safer with it

tucked away behind a closeddoor two floors below. Thatname—Anna—was keepinghim awake. He’d siftedthrough his memories, fromboyhood to the present, andcould not come up with asingleAnna.Thewordwasapalindrome, so reversing theorder was futile; the onlyworkable anagram was alsoworthless—he’dneverknowna“Nana”either.

So why had the sight ofthose letters set alarm bellsringing?Notonlywasitdrivinghim

crazy, it was making himthirsty.Morley reached for the

bottleofEvianhekeptonthenight table—empty. Damn.Hegotoutofbedinthedarkandheadedforthefirstfloor.Enough light filtered throughthe windows from the city

outside to allow him a faintviewofwherehewasgoing,butashenearedthetopofthestairs, he felt a growinguneaseinhisgut.Heslowed,then stopped. He didn’tunderstand.Hehadn’theardanoise, but he could feel thewiry hairs at the back of hisneck rise in warning.Somethingnot righthere.Hereached out, found the wallswitch,andflickedit.

Thefootstoolsatat thetopofthestairway.Morley’s knees threatened

to give way and he had tolean against thewall to keepthem from crumbling. If hehadn’t turned on the light hesurely would have trippedoveritandtumbleddownthesteps,verylikelytohisdeath.

“That footstool! Where didyougetit?”

After a couple of seconds’pause, Danzer’s voice cameback over the line. “What?Whoisthis?”Morleyrubbedhiseyes.He

hadn’t slept all night. Afterkicking the footstool downthe hallway and locking it ina sparebedroom,he’d sat upthe rest of the nightwith theroomkeyclutchedinhisfist.As soon as ten a.m. rolledaround—the time when

Danzer opened his damnstore—he’dstarteddialing.“It’s Bill Morley. Where

didyoubuythatfootstool?”“At a regional

woodworker’s expo on CapeCod.”“From whom? I need a

name!”“Why?”“Ijustdo!Areyougoingto

tellmeornot?”“Hold your horses, will

you? Let me look it up.”Papers shuffled, then: “Hereit is...Charles Ansbach.‘Custom and OriginalWoodwork.’”“Charles? I thought it was

supposedtobe‘Anna.’”Danzer laughed. “Oh, you

meanbecauseof thename inthe grain. Who knows?Maybe this Anna works forhim. Maybe she bought hisbusiness.Maybe—”

“Nevermind!Wherecan IfindthisCharlesAnsbach?”“His address is 12

SpinnakerLane,Nantucket.”“Nantucket?” Morley felt

his palm begin to sweatwhereitclutchedthereceiverin a sudden death grip. “DidyousayNantucket?“That’swhat’swrittenhere

onhisinvoice.”Morleyhungup thephone

without saying good-bye and

sattheretrembling.Nantucket...of all places,

why did it have to beNantucket? He’d buried hisfirst wife, Julie, there. Andhe’d sworn he’d never setfoot on that damn islandagain.Butnowhemustbreakthat

vow.Hehadtogoback.Howelse could he find out whoAnnawas?Andhemustlearnthat. He doubted he would

sleepawinkuntilhedid.

Atleasthehadn’thadtotakethe ferry. No matter howbadly he wanted to trackdown this Anna person,nothing in the world couldmake him ride that ferryagain.After jetting in from

LaGuardia, Morley steppedintooneofthebeat-upstationwagons that passed for taxis

on Nantucket and gave theoverweight woman behindthewheeltheaddress.“Goin’ to Charlie

Ansbach’s place, ay? Youknowhim?”“We’ve never met.

Actually,I’mmoreinterestedinsomeonenamedAnnawhoworksforhim.”“Anna?”thewomansaidas

they pulled away from thetiny airport. “Don’t know of

any Anna workin’ forCharlie. Tell the truth, don’tknowofanyAnnaconnectedtoCharlieatall.”That didn’t bode well.

Nantucket was less thanfifteenmiles long and barelyfouracrossatitswidestpoint.Theislanderswereaninsulargroup who weathered long,isolated off-seasons together;as a result they tended toknoweachotherlikekin,and

werealwaysintoeachother’sbusiness.As the taxi took him

towardtownalongOldSouthRoad,Morleymarveledatthechangessincehis last lookintheseventies.Decadesandanextended bull market hadtransformed the island. Newconstructionwaseverywhere.Even now, in post-seasonOctober, with the oaks andmaples turning gold and

orange, new houses weregoing up. Nantucketordinances allow littlevariation in architecture—clapboard or cedar shakes orelse—butthenewerbuildingswere identifiable by theirunweatheredsiding.Nantuckethadalwaysbeen

an old-money island, asummer hideaway for theverywealthyfromNewYork,Connecticut, and

Massachusetts—Old Moneyattached to names that nevermade the papers. TheKennedys, the Carly SimonsandJamesTaylors, theSpikeLees and other spotlight-hungry sorts preferredMartha’s Vineyard. Morleyrememberedwalking throughtown here in the summerwhen the island’s populationexplodes, when the townwould be thick with tourists

freshofftheferryfortheday.They’d stroll Main Street orthe docks in their pristine,designer leisure wear, oglingall the yachts. Salted amongthemwouldbe thesemiddle-agedmeninfadedjerseysandtorn shorts stained with fishblood, who drove around inrusty Wagoneers andrumbling Country Squires.Deck hands?No, these weretheownersoftheyachts,who

lived in thebighousesuponCliff Road and on the bluffsoverlookingBrantPoint.Themore Old Money they had,the closer to homeless theylooked.“Seems to be houses

everywhere,” Morley said.“Whatever happened to theconservancy?”“Aliveandwell,”thedriver

replied. “It’s got 48 percentof the land now, and more

coming in. If nothing else,it’ll guarantee that at leasthalfof the islandwill remainin itsnatural state,Godbless’em.”Morley didn’t offer an

amen. The conservancy hadbeen part of all his troubleshere.The cab skirted the north

end of town and hooked upwith Madaket Road. Morenewhouses.Ifonlyhe’dheld

onto the land longer afterJulie’s death, think what itmightbeworthnow.He shook his head. No

looking back. He’d sold offthe land piece by piece overthe years, and made ahandsome profit. Prudentinvesting had quadrupled theoriginal yield. He had nocomplaintsonthatscore.He noticed groups of

grouse-like birds here and

there along the shoulder oftheroad,andaskedthedriveraboutthem.“Guinea hens. Cousins to

the turkey, only dumber.Weimported a bunch of them afew years ago and they’remultiplyinglikecrazy.”“Forhunting?”“No. For ticks. We’re

hopingthey’lleatupthedeerticks. Lymes disease, youknow.”

Morleywastemptedtotellher that it was Lyme disease—no terminal “s”—butdecidedagainstit.SpinnakerLanewas a pair

of sandy ruts through thedensethicketofbayberryandbeachplumsouthofEelPointRoad.Number 12 turned outto be a well-weathered CapeCod with a large work shedoutback.“Waitforme,”Morleytold

thedriver.He heard the whine of an

electricsawfromtheshedsoheheadedthatway.Hefoundan angular man with wildsaltyhairleaningoveratablesaw, skinning the bark off alog. A kiln sat in the farcorner.ThemanlookedupatMorley’s approach, squintinghis blue eyes through thesmoke from the cigarettedangling at the corner of his

mouth.“CharlesAnsbach?”“That’sme.”His facewas

asweatheredasthesidingonhisshed.“What’sup?”Morley decided to cut to

the chase. These islanderswould talk your head offabout nothing if you gavethemhalfthechance.“I’mlookingforAnna.”“Annawho?”“Sheworksforyou.”

“Sorry, mister. No Annaworking for me, now orever.”“Oh, no?” Morley said,

feeling a flush of anger. Hewas in no mood for games.“Thenwhyissheworkinghername into the grain of yourfurniture?”Ansbach’s blue eyes

widened, then he grinned.“So, you spotted that too,ay?”

“Whereisshe?”“Toldyou:ain’tnoAnna.”“Thenyou’redoingit?”“Ain’tme,either.It’sinthe

grain.DamnedestthingIeverseen.”He glanced down andblewsawdustofftheloghe’dbeenworkingon.He pointedtoa spot.“Here’smoreof it,righthere.”Morley stepped closer and

leaned over the table. Thegrain was less prominent in

the unstained wood, but hisgut began to crawl as hepicked out the letters of“ANNA” fitted among thewavylines.“It’s uncanny,” he

whispered.“More than uncanny,

mister. It’s all through everypieceofwoodIgotfromthattree. Downright spooky, ifyouaskme.”“Whattree?”

“FromtheoldLangeplace.WhenIheardtheywastakingdown one of the big maplesthere,Iwenttoseeit.WhenIspotted thegrain I realized itwasacurlymaple.Youdon’tseemanycurlymaples,andInever seen one like this—magnificent grain. I boughtthewholetree.Keptsomeformyself and sold the rest to acoupla customwoodworkerson themainland.Got a good

priceforittoo.ButInever...”Ansbach’svoicefadedinto

the growing roar that filledMorley’s ears. The strengthseemed to have deserted hislegs and he slumped againstthetable.Ansbach’s voice cut

through the roar. “Hey,mister,youallright?”All right? No, he was not

allright—hewasfar fromallright. All right for him was

somewhere out near AlphaCentauri. But he nodded andforced himself to straightenandstaggeraway.“What’s wrong, mister?”

Ansbach called after him butMorley didn’t reply, didn’twave good-bye. He saggedinto the rear seat of the taxiand sat there trying to catchhisbreath.“You look like you just

seenaghost!”thedriversaid.

“Do you know the oldLange place?” Morleygasped.“Course. Ain’t been a

Lange there for a long time,though.”“Takemethere.”My tree! My tree! Morley

thought. Have they cut itdown?Perhapsnot.Perhapsithad

been another tree. Hecouldn’t remember any other

maplesonthehouseproperty,and yet it must have beenanother tree, not his tree.Because if they’d cut downhis tree they would haveremoved the stump. And indoing so they inevitablywould have found Julie’sbones.

ThetaxipulledoffCliffRoadand stopped in front of theLangeplace.Thehouse itself

lookedprettymuchthesame,butMorleybarelyrecognizedits surroundings. Once theonlydwellingona fifty-two-acreparcelbetweenCliffandMadaketRoads, itnowstoodsurrounded by houses.Morley’s doing. He’d soldthemtheland.Panic gripped him as he

searched the roof line andsaw no maple branchespeeking over from the

backyard. He told the driverto wait again and hurriedaroundthenorthcornerofthehouse, passing a silverMercedes SUV on the way.Hecaughthisbreathwhenhereached the rear. His maplewas gone, and in its placesat...apicnictable.As he staggered toward it,

henoticedthetable’sbase—atreestump.Histreewasgonebut they hadn’t pulled the

stump!Morley dropped into a

chairby the tableandalmostweptwithrelief.“CanIhelpyou?”Morley lookedupandsaw

a mid-thirties yuppie typewalking his way across thelawn. His expression waswary, verging on hostile.With good reason: Who wasthisstrangerinhisyard?Morleyrosefromthechair

and composed himself.“Sorryforintruding,”hesaid.“Iusedtolivehere.Iplantedthis tree back in theseventies.”The man’s expression

immediately softened. “Nokidding?AreyouLange?”“No. It was the Lange

place before Imoved in, andremained the Lange placewhileIwaslivinghere.Itwillalways be known as the

Langeplace.”“SoI’vegathered.”“What happened to my

tree?”“It got damaged in that

nor’easter last fall. Bigbranchtoreoffandstrippedalot of bark. I had a treesurgeonpatchitupbutbylastspringitwasobviousthetreewasdoomed.SoIhadittakendown. But I left the stump.Put it to pretty good use,

don’tyouthink?”“Excellent use,” Morley

said with heartfelt sincerity.Blessyou,sir.“The center is drilled to

holdanumbrellainseason.”“How clever. It’s a

wonderful addition to theyard.Don’teverchangeit.”Morley suffered through a

little more small talk beforehe could extract himself. Herode back to the airport in

silent exhaustion. When hefinally reached his first-classseat for the return toLaGuardia, he ordered adoubleMacallanontherocksandsettledbacktotrytosortout what the hell was goingon.Butwhen he glanced outhis window and saw theNantucket ferrychuggingoutof the harbor far below, theevents of the most nerve-wracking and potentially

catastrophic twenty-fourhoursofhislifeengulfedhiminascreamingrush...

The troublewith JulieLangewas that she was a rich girlwhodidn’tknowhowtoplaythepart.Shedidn’tappreciatethe finer thingsmoney couldbuy. She was just as happywith something from theJCPenney’scatalogasaone-of-a-kinddesignerpiece.She

hadnodesire for thestyleoflife and level of comfort towhich her new husbanddesperatelywishedtobecomeaccustomed.But young Bill Morley

hadn’t realized this when hestarted courting her in thebig-haired, long-sideburned,bell-bottomed latesixtiesandearly seventies. All he knewwas that she was pretty,bright, fun, and rich. And

when they eventuallymarried, he was ecstatic tolearn that her father wasgiving them the Nantucketfamily summer house andadjacent acreage as aweddingpresent.That was the good news.

The bad news was that Juliewanted to live there yearround. Bill had said hewanted to write, hadn’t he?Nantucket would be the

perfect place, especially inthe winter when there werenodistractions.No distractions...a

magnificent understatement.The damn island wasvirtually deserted in thewinter. Bill contracted islandfeverearlyonandwasa rawnerve by the time springrolled around. He beggedJulie to sell the place andmovetothemainland.

Butohno,shecouldn’tsellthefamilyhome.She’dspentalmost every summer of herlife at the Lange place.Besides, who would want toleave Nantucket? It was thebestplaceonearth.She just couldn’t see: the

island was paradise to her,but to him it was hell onearth.Bill fumed. He could not

surviveanotherwinteronthis

island.Hecudgeledhis brainfor a way out, and came upwithabrilliantsolution:Howaboutwe keep the house butsell off the fifty acres ofundevelopedlandandusethemoney from that to buy aplace near Boston? We canlive there in the winter andstillsummerhere.Cool,huh?But Julie simply laughed

andsaidshecouldn’tbearthethought of anyone but a

Lange living on the landwhere she’d roamed andcamped out during herchildhood.Infact,she’dbeenlookingintodonatingittotheconservancy so that it wouldalways remain in its wild,undevelopedstate.Which left Billy three

choices, none of which wasparticularly appealing. Hecould stay with Julie onNantucket and devolve into

droolingincoherence.Orhecouldfilefordivorce

and never see this islandagain, but that would meancutting himself off from theLange estate, all of whichwould go to Julie when heroldmandied.OrJuliecoulddie.Hereluctantlyoptedforthe

last. He wasn’t a killer, andnotaparticularlyviolentman,but an entire winter on this

glorified sandbar had shakensomething loose inside. Andbesides,hedeserved tocomeout of this marriage withsomething more than a badmemory.But he’d have tomake his

move soon, before Juliehanded fifty acres of primeland over to the stupid damnconservancy.So he convinced Julie that

the backyard needed some

landscaping.Andon a brightFriday afternoon in June,after solidifying the plan andsetting up all the props he’dneed, Bill Morley sat on hisback porch and watched thelandscapers put the finishingtouches on the free-formplantingsinthebackyard.Hewaved to them as they left,thenwaitedforJulietoreturnfrom townwhere she’d beenrunningerrandsandshopping

anddoingwhatevershedid.Carrying a three-iron

casuallyacrossashoulder,hemetherinthefoyerwhenshecame home, and she lookedsobright,socheery,sohappyto be alive that he gave heronelastchancetochangehermind. But Julie barelylistened. She brushed off thewhole subject, saying shedidn’t want to talk aboutselling houses or land or

moving because she hadsomethingtotellhim.Whateveritwas,shenever

got the chance. He hit herwith the golf club. Hard.Three times. She dropped tothe floor like a sack of sand,notmoving,notbreathing.Assoonasitwasdark,Bill

began digging up one of thelandscapers’ plantings. Heremoved the burlap-wrappedroot ball of a young maple

and dug a much larger holeunder it. Julie and the threeiron went into the bottom ofthat,themaplewentontopofher, and everything waspacked down with a nicethick layer of dirt. Hewheelbarrowed the leftoversoil into the woods she’dplanned to give away, andspread it in the brush. Hecleanedupbeforedawn,tookanap,thenheadedfortown.

He parked their car in theSteamship Authority lot andboughttwoticketstoHyannisonthenextferry,makingsuretopurchasethemwithacreditcard.Thenheduckedintothemen’s room. In a stall, heturned one of Julie’s darkblue sweatshirts inside outand squeezed into it—luckilyshelikedthembigandbaggy.Heput on the fakemustachehe’dbought inFalmouth two

weeksbefore,addedbig,darksunglasses, then pulled thesweatshirt hood over hishead.Themustachioedmanpaid

cashforhisticketandwaitedin line with the rest of theferrypassengers.Ashestoodthere,heusedthecoverofhissunglasses to check out thewomenwith longblondhair,cataloguing their attire. Hespotted at least four wearing

floweredtopsandbell-bottomjeans. Good. Now he knewwhat he’d say Julie waswearing.Once aboard, the

mustachioedmanenteredoneoftheship’srestroomswherehe broke the sunglasses andthrewtheminthetrash.Afterflushing the mustache heemerged as BillMorleywiththe sweatshirt—now right-side out—balled in his hand.

While passengers milledabout the aft deck, hediscreetly draped thesweatshirt over thebackof achair and headed for thesnackbar.After that he played an

increasingly confused,frightened, and eventuallypanicked young husbandlooking for his lost wife.He’dgonetogetheracupofcoffee, and when he came

backshewas...gone.

Morley smiled at howperfectly the plan hadworked. The police and hisfather-in-law had beensuspicious—wasn’t thehusband always suspect?—buthadn’tbeenabletopunchaholeinhisstory.AndsinceJuliewasn’tcarrying a speckof life insurance, no clearmotive.

The disguise had proved abighelp.Ifhe’dstoodonlineasBillMorley,someoneverywellmight have rememberedthathe’dbeenalone.Butasitturned out, no one could saythey’dnoticedBillMorleyatall,with orwithout hiswife,until he’d begun wanderingthedecks,lookingforher.But it had been his fellow

passengerswho’dhelpedhimthemost.A number of them

swore they’d seen a womanaboard matching Julie’sdescription. Of course theyhad—Morley had made sureof that. One couple evenidentifiedJulie’spicture.Asaresult, the long, unsuccessfulsearch focused on the thirty-mileferryroute.Noonegavea thought to digging up theyardbackonNantucket.Final consensus: 1) Julia

Lange Morley either fell or

jumped unnoticed from theferry; or 2) shewas a victimof foul play—killed orknocked unconscious andtransportedofftheferryinthetrunkofoneofthecarsridingonthelowerdeck.Neither seemed likely, but

once one accepted the factthat Julie had embarked butnot debarked, thosewere thepossibilitiesthatremained.Morleyhadkept thehouse

for a while but didn’t livethere.Insteadhemortgageditand used the money to leasean apartment in GreenwichVillage. It was the discoseventies,withlongnightsofdancing, drugs, anddebauchery. In the summersherentedouttheLangeplacefor a tidy sum, and forcedhimselftopayavisiteverysooften. He was especiallyinterested in the growth of a

certain young maple—hismaple.And now it seemed his

maple had come back tohaunthim.Haunt...poor choice of

words.And perhaps he should

startcallingitJulie’smaple.All right: What did he

know—reallyknow?Whether through extreme

coincidence, fate, or a

manipulation of destiny, hehad purchased a piece ofmaple furniture made fromtheverytreehe’dplacedoverJulie’s corpse nearly thirtyyearsago.Thatseemedtobethe only hard fact he couldrelyon.After that, the assumptions

grew murky and fantastic.Much as he hated saying it,he had no choice: Thewoodfrom that treeappeared tobe

possessed.Two days ago he would

have laughed aloud at thevery suggestion of a hauntedfootstool, but after numerousinjuries and one potentiallyfatal close call, Morley wasunabletomusterevenasneertoday.Hedidn’tbelieveinghosts

or haunted houses, let alonehaunted footstools, but howelse to explain the events of

thepasttwodays?But just for the sake of

argument, even if it werepossible for Julie’s soul oressence or whatever tobecome a part of that youngmaple as it grew—after all,its roots had fed on thenutrients released by herdecomposing body—whywasn’t JULIE worked intothegrain?WhyANNA?Morley’s second scotchhit

him and he felt his eyelidsgrowing heavy. He let themclose and drifted into asemiconscious state wherefloatingwoodgrainsmorphedfrom JULIE to ANNA andbackagain...JULIE...ANNA...JULIE...ANNA...JULIE—“Dear God!” he cried,

awakeningwithastart.The flight attendant rushed

to his side. “Is something

wrong,sir?”“No,” he gasped. “I’m all

right.Really.”But Morley wasn’t all

right. His insides werestrangling themselves in aGordian knot. He’d just hadaninklingaboutAnna,andifhe was correct, nothing wasallright.Nothingatall.

As soon as Morley wasthrough the airport gate, he

found a seat, pulled out hiscell phone, and dialedNantucket information. Heaskedtheoperatortoreadoffallthenamesontheshortlistof doctors practicing on theisland. She did, but none ofthemrangabell.“He might not be in

practiceanymore.”Mightnotevenbealive,thoughMorleyprayedhewas.“HewasaGP—my wife saw him back in

theseventies.”“That was probably Doc

Lawrence. He’s retired nowbuthishomephone’slisted.”Lawrence!Yes,thatwasit!

He dialed the number and amoment later found himselftalking to Charles Lawrence,MD, elderly, somewhat hardof hearing, but still inpossession of most of hismarbles.“Of course I remember

yourwife.SawJulieLangeatleast twicea summer foronethingor another all theyearsshewasgrowingup.Didtheyeverfindher?”“Notatrace.”“What a shame. Such a

nicegirl.”“Shecertainlywas.But let

me ask you something,Doctor.Iwasjustoutvisitingthe old place and it occurredto me that Julie had an

appointmentwithyouthedaybefore she disappeared. Didyou...discover anything thatmighthaveupsether?”“Not at all. In fact, quite

the opposite. She wasabsolutely overjoyed aboutbeingpregnant.”Morley was glad he was

already sitting as all ofLaGuardia seemed to tiltunderhim.Evenso,hefearedhe might tumble from the

chair.“Hello?” Dr. Lawrence

said.“Areyoustillthere?”“Yes,” he croaked. His

tonguefeltlikeVelcro.“You sound as if this is

news to you. I assumed shetoldyou.”“Yes, of course she did,”

Morleysaid,hismindracing.“That’swhywewereheadingfor themainland—tosurpriseher father. I never had the

hearttotellhimaftershe...”“Yeah, I know.Thatmade

itadoubletragedy.”Morley extricated himself

from the conversation asquickly as possible, then satandstaredatnothing,thecellphoneresting inhissweatingpalm, cold damp terrorclutchingathisheart.On the lastdayofher life,

Juliehaddriven into town torun some errands and to see

Doc Lawrence for “a check-up.” A check-up...young BillMorleyhadbeentooinvolvedinplanninghiswife’sdemisetoquestionheraboutthat,butnow he knewwhat had beengoing on. Julie must havemissed her period. No suchthing as a home pregnancytestback then, soshe’d goneto thedoctor tohave itdone.That was what she’d wantedto tellhimbefore he cracked

herskullwiththethreeiron.Juliehadoftentalkedabout

starting a family...not if—when.Whenshetalkedofason, she never mentioned aname; but whenever shespoke of having a daughter,sheknewwhatshewantedtocallher.Anamesheloved.Anna.Julie had always intended

tocallherlittlegirlAnna.Morley felt weak. He

closed his eyes. Somethinghadinvadedthewoodof thattree,andthewoodofthattreehad invaded his house, hislife. Was it Anna, the tinylittle life that had beensnuffed out along with hermother’s, or was it Julie,seeking vengeance in thenameofthechildwhowouldneverbeborn?Howdiditgo?Heavenhas

no rage like love to hatred

turned,Norhella fury like awomanscorned.Butwhatofawomannever

allowedtobeborn?Morleyshuddered.Itdidn’t

matter who, really. Eitherway, measures had to betaken, and he knew exactlywhatheneededtodo.

Night had fallen by the timeMorleygothome.Heenteredhis house cautiously, turning

on lights in each room,hallway, and staircase beforehe proceeded. When hereached the living room hewentdirectlytothefireplace,opened the flue, and lit thekindling beneath the stack ofagedlogsonthegrate.He waited until he had a

roaring fire, thenwent to thehall closet and removed aheavy winter blanket. Withthis tucked under his arm,

Morley headed up the stairs—turninglightsonashewent—to the floor where he’dlocked the footstool in thesparebedroom.He hesitated outside the

door, heart pounding, handstrembling.He tried the knob—stilllocked,thankGod.Heturnedthekeyandopenedthedoorjustenoughtosnakehishandinandturnonthelight.Then,takingadeepbreath,he

pushedthedooropen.The footstool lay on its

side,exactlyashehadleftit.He felt a little silly now.

What had he been afraid of?Hadhebeenhalfexpecting ittojumpathim?ButMorley was taking no

chances.Hethrewtheblanketover the stool,bundled it up,and carried it downstairswhere he dumped it in frontofthefireplace.Usingthelog

tongs,hepulledthestoolfreeand consigned it to theflames.He watched the curly

mapleburn.He wasn’t sure what he

expectednext.Ascream?Thelegs of the stool writhing inpain?Noneofthathappened.It simply lay there atop theother logs and...burned. Atone point he leaned closer,tryingforonelastpeekatthe

namehiddeninthegrain,butthe heat drove him backbeforehecouldfindit.Anna...his child’s

name...he thought he shouldfeel something, but he wasemptyofall emotionsexceptrelief. He never knewher...how could he feelanything for her?And as forJulie...“It’s too bad you had to

die,” he whispered as the

varnishon thewoodbubbledand blackened. “But you leftme no choice. And as forcoming back and interferingwithmylife,that’snotgoingto happen. I’d all butforgotten about you—andnow I’ll go about forgettingyouagain.”Morley watched the fabric

and padding of the stooldissolve in a burst of flame,watchedthewoodof theseat

and legscharandsmokeandburn and crumble. Heremainedbeforethefireuntileverylastsplinterofthestoolhadbeenreducedtoash.Finally he rose and

yawned. A long, hard day,but a fruitful one.He lookedaround. His home was hisagain, purged of a maligninfluence.Buthowtokeep itfromreentering?Easy: Morley resolved

never tobuyanother stickoffurniturethatwasn’tatleastahundredyearsold.Withthatsettled,heheaded

upstairs for a well-deservednight’s rest. In his bedroomhepulledoutthethirddrawerinhisantiquepinedresser.Ashe bent to retrieve a pair ofpajamas, the top drawer slidopenandslammedagainsthisforehead.Clutchinghishead,Morley

staggered back. His footcaughtonthelegofachair—a chair that shouldn’t havebeen there,hadn’tbeen therea moment ago—and hetumbled to the floor. Helanded on his back, groaningwith the pain of the impact.As he opened his eyes, helooked up and saw theantique mahogany wardrobetilting away from the wall,leaningoverhim,falling!

With a terrified cry herolled out of the way. Theheavywardrobelandedwithafloor-jarringcrash just inchesfromhis face.Morley startedto struggle to his feet butfrozewhenhesawthelettersworked into the grain of thewardrobe’sflank:ANNA.With a hoarse cry he

lunged away and rose to hishandsandknees—justintimeto see a two-foot splinter of

wood stab through theoriental rug—exactly wherehe’d been only a heartbeatbefore. He clambered to hisfeet and ducked away as hisdresser tumbled toward him.On its unfinished rear panelhe saw the name ANNAwrapped around one of itsknots.Caught in the ice-fisted

grip of blind, screamingpanic,Morleylurched toward

the door, dodging woodenspears that slashed throughthe rug. Julie...Anna...orwhoever or whatever it washad somehow seeped out ofthefootstooland infected theentire room. He had to getout!Ahead of him he saw the

heavy oak door begin toswing shut. No! He couldn’tbetrappedinhere!Heleapedforward and ducked through

the door an instant before itslammedclosed.Gasping, Morley sagged

against the hallway wall.Close.Tooclose.He—Pain lanced into his ankle.

He looked down and saw afoot-long splinter offloorboard piecing his flesh.Andallupanddownthehallthe floorboards writhed andbuckled, thrusting up jagged,quiveringknife-sharpspikes.

Morley ran, dodging andleaping down the hall aswooden spears stabbed hislower legs, ripping hisclothes. Where to go?Downstairs—out! Hecouldn’tstayinthehouse—itwastryingtokillhim!He reached the stairs and

kept going. He felt thewooden treads tilting underhis feet, trying to send himtumbling. He grabbed the

banister and it exploded intosplinters at his touch,peppering him with athousand wooden nails. Heslammedagainstthestairwellwallbutmanagedtokeephisfooting until the next to laststep when he tripped andlanded on the tiled floor ofthefrontfoyer.What now? his fear-crazed

mind screamed. Would thetiles crack into ceramic

daggers and cut him toshreds?Butthefoyerfloorlaycool

andinertbeneathhim.Of course, he thought,

rising to his knees. It’s notwood. Whatever was in thefootstool has managed toinfiltrate the wood of thehouse,buthasnopoweroveranything else. As long as Istay on a tile or linoleumfloor—

Morley instinctivelyduckedatthesoundofaloudcrack! behind him, and feltsomethingwhizpasthishead.When he looked up he sawoneof thebalusters from thestaircase jutting from thewall, vibrating like an arrowinabull’s-eye.Atthatinstantthe upper border of thewainscoting splintered fromthe wall and stabbed him inthebelly—notadeepwound,

butitdrewblood.And then the entire foyer

seemed to explode—thewainscotingpanels shreddingand flying at him, balusterszipping through the air,molding peeling from theceilingandlancingathim.Morleydashedforthefront

door.Movinginacrouch,hereached the handle andpulled. He sobbed with joywhen it swung open. He

stumbled into the cool nightairandslammedthedoorshutbehindhim.Battered,bruised,bleeding,

he gripped the wrought ironrailing—metal, cold, hard,wonderful, reliable metal—andslumpedonto thegraniteslabsofhisfrontstepswherehe sobbed and retched andthanked the stars that yearsagohe’d takenacontractor’sadvice and replaced the

originaloakdoorwithasteelmodel. For security reasons,the contractor had said. Thatdecision had just saved hislife.He’d lost his home. No

place in that building wassafeforhim—evenbeingthisclose to it could bedangerous. He fought to hisfeet and staggered across theglorious concrete of thesidewalk to lean against the

magnificent steel of one oftheparkedcars.Safe.And then something

bounced off his head anddropped to the sidewalk.Morley squinted in thedarkness. An acorn. DearGod!He lurched away from the

overhanging oak and didn’tstop moving until he was agooddozenfeetfromthetree.An accident? A

coincidence?Afterall, itwasOctober, the time of yearwhen oaks began droppingacorns.But how could he be sure

that even the trees hadn’tturnedagainsthim?He needed a safe place

wherehe could rest and tendhiswoundsandclearhisheadand not spend everymomentfearing for his life. A placewithnowood, a placewhere

hecouldthink!Tomorrow, inthe light of day, he couldsolve this problem, but untilthen...He knew the place. That

newlyrestoredhotelonWestThirty-fifth Street—TheDeco. He’d been to an artshow there last month andremembered how he’dloathed its decor—allgleaming steel and glass andchrome, so completely

lacking in the warmth andrichness of the wood thatfilledhishome.What a laugh! Now it

seemed like Mecca, likeParadise.The Deco wasn’t far.

Giving the scattered trees awide berth, Morley beganwalking.

“Sir, you’re bleeding,” saidthe clerk at the reception

desk.“ShallIcalladoctor?”I know damn well I’m

bleeding, Morley wanted toshout,butheldhistongue.Hewas in a foul mood, but atleast he wasn’t bleeding asmuchasbefore.“I’ve already seen a

doctor,”helied.“May I ask what

happened?”This twerp of a desk clerk

had a shaved head, a natty

littlemustache,andapiercedeyebrow that rose as hefinished the question. HisnametagreadWölf.Really.“Automobile accident.”

Morley fumbled through hiswallet. “My luggage iswrecked,butIstillhavethis.”He slapped his AmExPlatinum down on the blackmarblecounter.The clerk wiggled his

eyebrow stud and picked up

thecard.“I must stress one thing,”

Morley said. “Iwant a roomwithnowoodinit.None.Gotthat?”The stud dipped as the

clerkfrowned.“Nowood...letme think...theonlyroom thatwould fit that is thePresidentialSuite. Itwas justrefurbished in metal andglass.Buttherateis—”“Never mind the rate. I

wantit.”As the clerk nodded and

got to work, Morley did aslowturnand lookedaround.What a wonderful place.Steel, brass, chrome, marble,glass, ceramic. Lovelybecause thiswas theway thefuture was supposed to lookwhen the here-and-now wasthe future...a future withoutwood.Lovely.

Hedidnot let thebellhopgo—though Morley had noluggage, the man hadescorted him to the eighthfloor—until he had made acareful inspection. The clerkhadbeen right:nota stickofwoodintheentiresuite.As soon as he was alone,

Morley stripped and steppedinto the shower. The waterstung his wounds, but thewarmfloweasedhisbattered

musclesandsluicedawaythedried blood. He wrappedhimselfintheoversized terryclothrobeandheadedstraightforthebedroom.As he reached for the

covers he paused, struck bythe huge chrome headboard.Atitscenter,risingabovethespreadwingsthatstretchedtothe edges of the king-sizemattress, was the giant headof a bald eagle with a

wickedly pointed beak. Solifelike,Morley could almostimagineapredatorygleaminitsmetalliceye.But no time for aesthetics

tonight. He was exhausted.He craved the oblivion ofsleeptoescapethehorrorsofthe day. Tomorrow,refreshed, clearheaded, hewould tackle the problemhead on, find a way toexorcise Julie or Anna from

hishome.Butnow,tonight...Morley pulled back the

coversandcollapsedontothesilk sheets.Hello,Morpheus,good-byeAnna...

Wölfspotsthenightmanagercrossing the lobby andmotionshimover.“Mr.Halpern, I justhada

guest herewho insisted on aroom with no wood—absolutely no wood in it. I

gave him the PresidentialSuite. I believe that’s allmetal and glass and such,right?”“It was until yesterday,”

Halpern says. He’s fortyishandprobablythinksthecurlytoupee makes him lookthirtyish. It doesn’t. “Thedesigner moved in a newheadboard. Said he found itin a Massachusetts woodshop. Brand newand carved

outofheavilygrainedmaple.Buthewentandhaditcoatedwith so many layers ofchrome paint it looks likesolid steel. Said he couldn’tresist theeagle.Can’t sayasI blame him—looks like itcamestraightofftheChryslerBuilding.”“Should I inform the

guest?”“What? And disturb his

sleep?” Halpern waves a

dismissive hand and strollsaway.“Letthemanbe.Whathe doesn’t know won’t hurthim.”

Mr.Fiddlehead

JONATHANCARROLL

Jonathan Carroll is the author ofseveralacclaimednovels,includingTheLand ofLaughs,Voice ofOurShadow,Bones of the Moon,Fromthe Teeth of Angels, After Silence,

Black Cocktail, Outside the DogMuseum, A Child Across the Sky,Kissing theBeehive,TheMarriageof Sticks, The Wooden Sea, WhiteApples,Glass Soup, andTheGhostinLove. He has won the WorldFantasy Award for his story“Friend’sBestMan”andhisshortfiction has been collected in ThePanic Hand and in The WomanWhoMarriedaCloud.

On my fortieth birthday

Lenna Rhodes invited meover for lunch. That’s thetradition—whenoneofushasa birthday, there’s lunch, anice present, and a laughingafternoon to cover the factwe’ve moved one more stepdown the staircase. We metyearsagowhenwehappenedto marry into the samefamily: Six months after I

said yes to Eric Rhodes, shesaidittohisbrotherMichael.Lennagotthebetterendof

that wishbone: She andMichael are still delightedwith each other, while EricandIfoughtabouteverythingand nothing and then gotdivorced.But to my surprise and

relief, theywere a great helpto me during the divorce,even though there were

obvious difficulties climbingoversomeofthe thornbushesof family and bloodallegiance.She and Michael live in a

big apartment on One-hundredth Street with longhallsandnotmuchlight.Butthe gloom of the place isoffset by their kids’ toyseverywhere, colorful jacketsstackedon topof eachother,andcoffee cupswithworld’s

greatest mom and dartmouthwrittenontheside.Theirsisahome full of love and hurry,children’s drawings on thefridgealongside reminders tobuy La Stampa. Michaelowns a very elegant vintagefountain pen store, whileLenna freelances forNewsweek.Theirapartmentislike their life:high-ceilinged,thought-out,overflowingwithinteresting combinations and

possibilities.It isalwaysniceto go there and share it awhile.I felt pretty good about

being fortyyearsold.Finallytherewassomemoney in thebank and someone I liked,talking about a trip togetherto Egypt in the spring. Fortywas amilestone but one thatdidn’t mean much at themoment. Ialready thoughtofmyself as being slightly

middle-aged anyway, but Iwas healthy and had goodprospects, so sowhat! to thebeginningofmyfifthdecade.“Youcutyourhair!”“Doyoulikeit?”“YoulookveryFrench.”“Yes,butdoyoulikeit?”“I think so. I have to get

usedtoit.Comeonin.”We sat in the living room

and ate. Elbow, their bullterrier,restedhisheadonmy

kneeandnever tookhiseyesoff the table. After the mealwas over we cleared theplates, and she handed me asmallredbox.“I really hope you like

them.Imadethemmyself.”Inside the boxwere a pair

of the most beautiful goldearringsIhaveeverseen.“My God, Lenna. They’re

exquisite!Youmade these? Ididn’t know that you made

jewelry.”She looked happily

embarrassed. “You likethem? They’re real gold,believeitornot.”“I believe it. They’re art!

You made them, Lenna? Ican’t get over it. They’rereallyworksofart; theylooklike something by Klimt.” Itookthemcarefullyoutoftheboxandputthemon.Sheclappedherhands like

agirl.“Oh,Juliet,theyreallydolookgood!”Ourfriendshipisimportant

andgoesbackalongway,butthiswas a lifetime present—one you gave a spouse orsomeone who’d saved yourlife.Before I could say that (or

anythingelse),thelightswentout. Her two young sonsbrought in the birthday cake,fortycandlesstrong.

A few days later I waswalking down MadisonAvenue and, caught bysomething there, looked in ajewelry store window. Therethey were—my birthdayearrings. The exact ones.Looking closer, open-mouthed, Isawtheprice tag.Fivethousanddollars!Istoodandgapedforwhatmusthavebeenminutes.Iwasshocked.Had she lied about making

them?Orspentfive thousanddollars for my birthdaypresent?Lennawasn’t a liar,andshewasn’trich.Allright,so she had them copied inbrass or something and justsaid they were gold tomakemefeelgood.Thatwasn’therwayeither.Whatthehellwasgoingon?The confusion emboldened

me to walk right into thestore.Or rather towalk right

up and press the buzzer.Someone rang me in. Thesalesgirl who appeared frombehind a curtain looked likeshe had graduated fromRadcliffe with a degree inbluestocking.Maybeyouhadtotoworkinthisplace.“CanIhelpyou?”“Yes. I’d like to see the

pair of these earrings youhaveinthewindow.”Looking at my ears, she

suddenlyrealizedIhadaveryfamiliar five thousanddollarshanging frommyearlobes. Itchanged everything: Herexpressionsaidshewouldbemyslave—orfriend—forlife.“Ofcourse,theDixies.”“The what?” She smiled,

likeIwasbeingveryfunny.Itquickly dawned on me thatshemusthavethoughtIknewvery well what “Dixies”were, since I was wearing

some.She took them out of the

window and put themcarefullydowninfrontofmeon a blue velvet card. Theywere beautiful, and admiringthem, I entirely forgot for awhileIhadsomeon.“I’msosurprisedyouhave

a pair. They only came in aweekago.”Thinking fast, I said, “My

husbandboughtthemforme,

and I like themsomuch I’mthinking of getting a pair formy sister. Tell me about thedesigner. What’s his name,Dixie?”“I don’t know much,

madam. Only that the ownerknows who Dixie is, wherethey come from...and thatwhoeveritisisarealgenius.Apparently both Bulgari andpeople from the Memphisgroup have already been in,

askingwhoitisandhowtheycancontacthim.”“How do you know it’s a

man?”Iputtheearringsdownand

lookeddirectlyather.“Oh, I don’t. It’s just that

theworkissomasculinethatI assumed it. Maybe you’reright;maybe it is awoman.”Shepickedoneupandhelditto the light. “Did you noticehow they don’t really reflect

light somuch as enhance it?Golden light you can own.I’ve never seen that. I envyyou.”Theywerereal.Iwenttoa

jeweler on Forty-seventhStreettohavethemappraised,then to the only other twostores in the city that sold“Dixies.” No one knewanything about the creator orweren’t talking if they did.Both dealers were very

respectful and pleasant, butmum’sthewordwhenIaskedaboutthejewelry’sorigin.“The gentleman asked us

not to give out information,madam.Wemust respect hiswishes.”“Butitisaman?”A professional smile.

“Yes.”“Could I contact him

throughyou?”“Yes, I’m sure that would

be possible. Can I help withanythingelse,madam?”“What other pieces did he

design?”“AsfarasIknow,onlythe

earrings, the fountain pen,and this key ring.” He’dshownmethepen,whichwasnothing special. Now hebrought out a small goldenkeyringshapedinawoman’sprofile. Lenna Rhodes’sprofile.

The doorbell tinkled when Iwalked into the store.Michaelwaswithacustomerand, smiling hello, gave methesignhe’dbeoverassoonas he was finished. He hadstartedINKalmostassoonashe got out of college, andfrom the beginning it was asuccess. Fountain pens arecranky, unforgiving thingsthatdemandfullattentionandpatience. But they are also a

handful of flash and old-world elegance: gratifyingslowness that offers norewardotherthanthesightofshiny ink flowing wetlyacross a dry page. INK’scustomerswerebothrichandnotso,butallofthemhadthesamecollector’sfieryglint intheir eyesandaddict’sdesireformore.Acoupleof timesamonth

I’dwork therewhenMichael

needed an extra hand. Ittaught me to be cheered byold pieces of Bakelite andgold plate, as well as otherpeople’s passion forunimportant but lovelyobjects.“Juliet, hi! Roger Peyton

was in this morning andbought that yellow ParkerDuofold. The one he’s beenlookingatformonths!”“Finally. Did he pay full

price?”Michael grinned and

lookedaway.“Rogcanneveraffordfullprice. I lethimdoit in installments. What’s upwithyou?”“Did you ever hear of a

Dixiepen?Looksalittle liketheCartierSantos?”“Dixie? No. It looks like

the Santos?” The expressiononhisfacesaidhewastellingthetruth.

I brought out the brochurefrom the jewelry store and,opening it to the penphotograph,handedittohim.Hisreactionwasimmediate.“Why, that bastard! How

much do I have to put upwith?”“Youknowhim?”Michael looked up from

the photo, anger andconfusion competing for firstplaceonhisface.“DoIknow

him? Sure I know him. Helives in my goddamnedhouse, I know him so well!Dixie,huh?Cutename.Cuteman.“Wait. I’ll show you

something, Juliet. Just staythere. Don’t move! Thatshit.”There’samirrorbehindthe

front counter at INK. WhenMichael motored off to thebackof thestore, I lookedat

myreflectionandsaid,“Nowyoudidit.”He was back in no time.

“Look at this. You want tosee something beautiful?Lookat this.”Hehandedmesomething in a blue velvetcase.Iopeneditandsaw...theDixiefountainpen.“But you told me that

you’dneverheardofthem.”His voice was hurt and

loud. “It is not a Dixie

fountain pen. It’s a Sinbad.An original, solid-goldSinbadmadeattheBenjaminSwireFountainPenWorks inKonstanz, Germany, around1915. There’s a rumor theItalian futurist AntonioSant’Elia did the design, butthat’s never been proven.Nice,isn’tit?”Itwas nice, but hewas so

angry I wouldn’t have daredsay it wasn’t. I nodded

eagerly. He took it back.“I’ve been selling penstwenty years, but I’ve onlyseen two of these in all thattime.Oneofthemwasownedby Walt Disney, and I havethe other. Collector’s value?About seven thousanddollars.”“Won’t the Dixie people

getintroubleforcopyingit?”“No,becauseI’msurethey

either bought the design or

there are small differencesbetween the original and thisone.Letmeseethatbrochureagain.”“But you have an original,

Michael. It still holds itsvalue.”“That’s not the point. It’s

notthevaluethatmatters.I’dneversellthis.“You know the classic

‘bathtub’Porsche?Oneofthestrangest, greatest-looking

carsofourtime.Somesmart,cynical person realized thatandisnowmakingfiberglasscopiesofthething.“But it’s a lie car, Juliet;

sniff it and it smells only oftoday—little plastic thingsand cleverly cut corners youcan’t see. Not important tothe car but essential to therealobject.“The wonder of the thing

was Porsche designed it so

wellandthoughtfullyso longago.That’sart.But theart isin itsoriginal everything,notjust the look or theconvincingcopy.“I can guarantee you that

yourDixiepenhas toomuchplasticinsidewhereyoucan’tsee and a gold point thatprobablyhasabouta thirdasmuch gold on it as theoriginal. It looks good, butthey always miss the whole

pointwiththeircutcorners.“Look,you’regoingtofind

outsoonerorlater,soIthinkyoubetterknownow.”“What are you talking

about?”Hebrought a telephoneup

frombeneaththecounterandgesturedforme towaitabit.HecalledLennaandinafewwords told her about theDixies, my discovery ofthem....

Michaelwaslookingatmewhen he asked. “Did he tellyou he was doing that,Lenna?”Whatever her long answer

was, it left his expressiondeadpan.“Well, I’mgoing tobringJuliethome. Iwanthertomeet him.What?Becausewe’ve got to do somethingaboutit,Lenna!Maybeshe’llhave an idea of what to do.Doyou think this is normal?

Oh, you do? That’sinteresting.Do you think it’snormal for me?” A dab ofsaliva popped off his lip andflewacrossthestore.When Michael opened thedoor, Lenna stood right onthe other side, arms crossedtight over her chest.Her softface was squinched into atightchallenge.“Whateverhetold you probably isn’t true,Juliet.”

I put up both hands insurrender. “He didn’t tellmeanything,Lenna.Idon’tevenwanttobehere.Ijustshowedhimapictureofapen.”Whichwasn’t strictly true.

I showed him a picture of apenbecauseIwantedtoknowmoreaboutDixieandmaybemy five-thousand-dollarearrings. Yes, sometimes Iamnosy.BothoftheRhodeseswere

calm and sound people. Idon’tthinkI’deverseenthemreally disagree on anythingimportantorraisetheirvoicesateachother.Michael growled, “Where

ishe?Eatingagain?”“Maybe. So what? You

don’t like what he eatsanyway.”He turned to me. “Our

guest is a vegetarian. Hisfavoritefoodisplumpits.”

“Oh, that’smean,Michael.That’s really mean.” Sheturnedandlefttheroom.“So he is in the kitchen?

Good. Come on, Juliet.” Hetookmyhand andpulledmebehind on his stalk to theirvisitor.Before we got to him I

heard music. Ragtime piano.ScottJoplin?Amansatatthetablewith

his back to us. He had long

redhairdownover thecollarof his sport jacket. Onefreckled hand was fiddlingwith the dial on a radionearby.“Mr. Fiddlehead? I’d like

you to meet Lenna’s bestfriend,JulietSkotchdopole.”He turned,butevenbefore

hewas all theway around, Iknew I was sunk. What aface! Ethereally thin, withhighcheekbonesanddeep-set

green eyes that were bothmerry and profound. Thosestorybook eyes, the carrotyhair,andfreckleseverywhere.How could freckles suddenlybe so damned sexy? Theywere for children and cuteadvertisements. I wanted totoucheveryoneonhim.“Hello, Juliet!

Skotchdopole, is it? That’s agood name. I wouldn’t mindhavin’ it myself. It’s a lot

better than Fiddlehead, youknow.”His deep voice lay in a

hammock of a very strongIrishaccent.I put out a hand, and we

shook. Looking down, I ranmy thumb once quickly,softly across the top of hishand. I felt hot anddizzy, asifsomeone Iwanted had puthis hand gently between mylegsforthefirsttime.

He smiled. Maybe hesensedit.Therewasaplateofsomethingonthetablenexttotheradio.To stop staring so

embarrassingly at him, Ifocusedonitandrealized theplatewasfullofplumpits.“Do you like them?

They’redelicious.”Hepickedone off the shiny orange-brown pile and, putting thestony thing in hismouth, bit

down on it. Somethingcracked loud, like he’dbroken a tooth, but he kepthis angel’s smile on whilecrunching away on the plumpit.I looked at Michael, who

only shook his head. Lennacame into the kitchen andgave Mr. Fiddlehead a bighugandkiss.Heonlysmiledandwentoneating...pits.“Juliet, the first thing you

have to know is I lied aboutyourbirthdaypresent.Ididn’tmake those earrings—Mr.Fiddlehead did. But sincehe’s me, I wasn’t reallylying.” She smiled as if shewas sure I understood whatshe was talking about. Ilooked at Michael for help,but hewas poking around intherefrigerator.BeautifulMr.Fiddleheadwasstilleating.“What do you mean, he’s

‘you’?”Michael took out a carton

ofmilkand,atthesametime,a plum, which heexaggeratedly offered hiswife.Shemadeafaceathimand snatched it out of hishand. Biting it, she said,“Remember I told you Iwasanonlychild?Well,likealotof lonely kids, I solved myproblemthebestwayIcould—bymakingupanimaginary

friend.”Myeyeswidened.Ilooked

at the red-headed man. Hewinkedatme.Lennawenton.“Imadeup

Mr. Fiddlehead. I read anddreamed so much then thatone day I put it all togetherinto my idea of the perfectfriend:First, his namewouldbeMr. Fiddlehead because Ithought thatwas the funniestname in the world—

something thatwould alwaysmake me laugh when I wassad. Then he had to comefromIrelandbecausethatwasthe home of all theleprechauns and fairies. Infact, I wanted a kind of life-size human leprechaun.He’dhave red hair and green eyesand, whenever I wanted, themagical ability tomake goldbracelets and jewelry for meoutofthinair.”

“Which explains the Dixiejewelryinthestores?”Michael nodded. “He said

he got bored just hangingaround, so I suggested he dosomething useful. Everythingwasfinesolongasitwasjustthe earrings and key chain.”He slammed the glass downon the counter. “But I didn’tknow about the fountain penuntiltoday.What’swith that,Fiddlehead?”

“Because I wanted to trymehandatit.Ilovedtheoneyoushowedme,soI thoughtI’d use that as my model.Whynot?Youcan’t improveonperfection.Theonly thingIdidwasputsomemoregoldinithereandthere.”I put my hand up like a

studentwithaquestion. “Butwho’sDixie?”Lenna smiled and said, “I

am.Thatwasthesecretname

Imadeup formyselfwhen Iwas little. The only otherperson who knew it was mysecret friend.” She stuck herthumbinhisdirection.“Wonderful!SonowDixie

fountain pens, which arelousyrip-offsofSinbads,willbeboughtbyeveryassholeinNewYorkwhocanafford tobuy a Piaget watch or aHermes briefcase. It makesme sick.” Michael glared at

the other man and waitedbelligerentlyforareply.Mr.Fiddlehead’sreplywas

to laugh like WoodyWoodpecker. Which crackedbothLennaandmeup.Which sent her husband

stormingoutofthekitchen.“Isittrue?”Theybothnodded.“But I had an imaginary

friend, too,whenIwaslittle!The Bimbergooner. But I’ve

neverseenhimforreal.”“Maybe you didn’t make

him real enough.Maybe youjustcookedhimupwhenyouwere sad or needed someonetotalkto.InLenna’scase,themore she needed me, themore real I became. Sheneeded me a lot. One day Iwasjustthereforgood.”I looked at Lenna. “You

mean he’s been here sinceyouwere a girl?Livingwith

you?”She laughed. “No. As I

grewup I needed him less. Iwas happier and had morefriends.Mylifegotfuller.Sohe was around less.” Shereachedoverand touchedhisshoulder.Hesmiled,butitwasasad

one, fullofmemories. “Icangiveher pots of gold and dogreat tricks. I’ve even beenpracticing ventriloquism and

can throw my voice a little.But you’d be surprised howfew women loveventriloquists.“Ifyoutwo’llexcuseme,I

thinkI’llgointheotherroomandwatchTVwith theboys.It’sabout timeforTheThreeStooges. Remember howmuch we loved that show,Lenna? I think we saw oneepisodeatleasttentimes.Theone where they open up the

hairdressing salon down inMexico?”“I remember. You loved

Moe,andIlovedCurly.”Theybeamedateachother

throughthesharedmemory.“But wait, if he’s...what

you say, how come he camebacknow?”“You didn’t know it, but

MichaelandIwentthroughaverybadperioda littlewhileago. He even moved out for

two weeks, and we boththought that was it: no moremarriage.OnenightIgotintobed crying like a fool andwishing to hell Mr.Fiddleheadwas around againto help me. And thensuddenly there he was,standinginthebathroomdoorsmilingatme.”Shesqueezedhis shoulder again. Hecovered her hand with hisown.

“God,Lenna,whatdidyoudo?”“Screamed! I didn’t

recognizehim.”“Whatdoyoumean?”“I mean he grew up! The

Mr. Fiddlehead I imaginedwhen I was a child wasexactly my age. I guess as Igotolder,sodidhe.Itmakessense.”“I’m going to sit down

now. I have to sit down

because this has been thestrangest afternoon of mylife.”Mr. Fiddlehead jumpedup and gave me his seat. Itook it. He left the room fortelevision with the boys. Iwatched him go. Withoutthinking, I picked upMichael’shalf-emptyglassofmilk and finished it.“Everything thatyou toldmeistrue?”She put up her right hand.

“Iswearonourfriendship.”“That beautiful man out

there is an old dream ofyours?”Her head recoiled. “Ooh,

do you think he’s beautiful?Really? I think he’s kind offunny looking, to tell thetruth. I love him as a friend,but”—she looked guiltily atthedoor—“I’dneverwant togooutwithhimoranything.”But Idid, sowedid.After

the first few dates I wouldhave gone and hunted ratswith him in theSouthBronxif that’swhathe liked. Iwascompletelygoneforhim.Theline of a man’s neck canchangeyourlife.Thewayhedigsinhispocketsforchangecan make the heart squawkandhandsgrowcold.Howhetouches your elbow or thebutton that is not closed onthe cuff of his shirt are

demons he’s loosed withouteverknowingit.Theyownusimmediately. He was athoroughlycompellingman.Iwantedtorisetotheoccasionofhispresenceinmylifeandbecomesomethingmore thanI’dpreviouslythoughtmyselfcapableof.I think he began to love

me, too, but he didn’t saythings like that.Only that hewas happyor that hewanted

to share things he’d held inreserveallhislife.Becauseheknewsooneror

later he’d have to go away(where he never said, and Istoppedasking),heseemedtohavethrownallcautiontothewind. But before him, I’dnever thrown anything away,caution included. I’d been acareful reader of timetables,made the bed tight andstraight first thing every

morning, and hated dishes inthesink.Mylifeatfortywascomfortably narrow andordered.Goinghaywireoroffthe deep end wasn’t in myrepertoire, and normallypeople who did made mesquint.IrealizedIwasinloveand

haywire theday I taughthimto play racquetball. Afterwe’dbatteditaroundanhour,weweresittinginthegallery

drinking Coke. He flickedsweat fromhis foreheadwithtwo fingers. A hot, intimatedrop fell on my wrist. I putmy hand over it quickly andrubbed it into my skin. Hedidn’t see. I knew then I’dhavetolearntoputwhateverexpectations I had aside andjust live purely in his jetstream, no matter where ittookme.That day I realized I’d

sacrifice anything for him,and for a few hours I wentaroundfeelinglikesomekindofholyperson,azealot, lovemadeflesh.“WhydoesMichaelletyou

stay?”He took a cigarette from

my pack. He’d begunsmoking a week before andloved it. Almost as much ashelikedtodrink,hesaid.TheperfectIrishman.

“Don’t forget he was theonewholeftLenna.Notviceversa.Whenhecamebackhewasprettymuchonhiskneesto her. He had to be. Therewasn’t a lot he could sayabout me being there.Especially after he found outwho Iwas.Doyouhaveanyplumpitsaround?”“Question two: Why in

God’snamedoyoueat thosethings?”

“That’s easy: becauseplums are Lenna’s favoritefruit. When she was a littlegirl,she’dhaveteapartiesforjust us two. Scott Joplinmusic,imaginarytea,andrealplums. She’d eat the fruit,thenputthepitonmyplatetoeat.Makesperfectsense.”I ranmy hand through his

red hair, loving the way myfingers got caught in all thethick curls. “That’s

disgusting. It’s just likeslavery!WhyamIgetting tothe point where I don’t likemy best friend so muchanymore?”“Ifyoulikeme,youshould

like her, Juliet—she mademe.”I kissed his fingers. “That

part I like. Would youconsider moving in withme?”He kissed my hand. “I

would love to consider that,but I have to tell youI don’tthink I’ll be around verymuch longer. But if you’dlike,I’llstaywithyouuntilI,uh,havetogo.”I sat up. “What are you

talkingabout?”He put his hand close to

my face. “Look hard andyou’llsee.”It tookamoment,but then

there it was; from certain

anglesIwasable toseerightthrough the hand. It hadbecomevaguelytransparent.“Lenna’s happy again. It’s

the old story—when she’sdown she needs me andcalls.” He shrugged. “Whenshe’s happy again, I’m notneeded, so she sends meaway. Not consciously,but...look, we all know I’mher little Frankensteinmonster.Shecandowhatshe

wants with me. Even dreamup that I like to eat fuckingplumpits.”“It’ssowrong!”Sighing, he sat up and

started pulling on his shirt.“It’s wrong, but it’s life,sweet girl.Notmuchwe candoaboutit,youknow.”“Yes, we can. We can do

something.”His back was to me. I

remember the first time I’d

ever seen him.His backwastomethen,too.Thelongredhair falling over his collar.When I didn’t say anythingmore,heturnedandlookedatme over his shoulder,smiling.“We can do something?

Whatcanwedo?”His eyes were gentle and

loving, eyes I wanted to seefortherestofmylife.“Wecanmakehersad.We

canmakeherneedyou.”“Whatdoyoumean?”“Just what I said, Fiddy.

When she’s sad she needsyou.Wehavetodecidewhatwould make her sad a longtime.Maybesomethingtodowith Michael. Or thechildren.”His fingers had stopped

moving over the buttons.Thin, artistic fingers.Freckles.

TheFoolyTERRYDOWLING

Terry Dowling is one ofAustralia’s most awarded,versatile, and respectedwriters ofscience fiction, dark fantasy, andhorror. In addition to havingwritten the internationallyacclaimed Tom Rynosseros saga

and Wormwood, a collection oflinkedsciencefictionstories,heisthe author of several excellentcollections of horror fictionincluding An Intimate Knowledgeof theNight,BlackwaterDays,andtheretrospectiveBasicBlack:TalesofAppropriateFear.This lastwonthe 2007 International HorrorGuildAward forBestCollection.Dowling’s stories have beenpublished in such anthologies asDreaming Down Under, Wizards,TheDark, Inferno, andDreaming

Again, and been reprinted inTheYear’s Best Science Fiction, TheYear’s Best SF, The Year’s BestFantasy, Best New Horror, andmany times in The Year’s BestFantasyandHorror.

It was a new town, a newchance, a new shortcut homefrom a new pub. All sosimilar, yet so different,walking this lonely road on

thiscool,windynight.The choosing was what

made it special for CharlesRatray.Thechancetochoose,the ability to do it. He hadlost so much, before, duringandafterKatie, truthbe told,butherehewas,attheendofthat hardest choice, here inKareelainsteadofKaralta.It wasn’t so bad. Kareela

waslikeanyothersmalltownreally,atownyoucouldwalk

outofintenminutesitwassosmall; the Royal Exchangelikeanyothersmallpub.And this road across the

fields could have been adozen similar backroads atKaralta, the same clumps oftrees, same scrappy field-stone walls and barbed-wirefences,samegrassesblowinginthecoolnightwind.Somewould ask thenwhy

relocate at all? But they

didn’t know, couldn’t, orforgot to remember thehandful of reasons thatalways changed everythingforanyone.Katie was there. Karalta

washerplace.Warwick’stoo.Theirplace

now.Awaywasbetter.Youhad

to knowwhen to leave, howtomanage it, nomatter howdemanding it was, how

difficult.Andhehadmanaged.And

weren’t they surprised now?Iftheywere.Charles stopped, just stood

in the blowing dark andbreathedinthenight.How good it was to be

here,anywhereelse.“You’renew,”avoicesaid

andCharlesRatrayyelped infright.Therewasa figure leaning

against a field-stone wall, adarkman-shape,darkerinthedarkness,withaglitterat theeyes.“Youstartledme,”Charles

managed.“That’lldoforstarters,”the

figure said. “It’s all aboutpersuasion, you see. You’renew.”“Arrivedlastweek.I’mthe

new day supervisor out atFulton’sdairy.”

The eyes glittered. “Ihaven’t seen you on theroad.”“Shouldyouhave?”“Well, it’s my road, see?

I’mherealot.”“I can’t seeyouverywell.

There’s enough moonlight. Ishouldbeable—”“Part of the effect,” the

figure said. “Adds to themood. I’m a specialist inmood lighting.” There was a

hint of smile below theglitter.“You’re a fooly, aren’t

you?”“Awhat?”“You know, a fooly.

Something in my mind. Afigment.Mymind is playingtricks.”“Well, in a sense that’s

right. I’m already tweakingyourmindabit,see?There’llbemore later. It’ll getworse

once I start bringing up thefear.Slippinginabitofterroranddespair.Walkwithme.”Charles had been walking

home anyway. He startedalong the road again. Thefiguresteppedawayfromthewalland joinedhim,walkingin an odd crimped walkCharlesfounddisconcerting.“You’re a ghost,” Charles

said.“That’smorelikeit.”

“You don’t seem veryfrightening.”“They all say that at first.

That’sthecome-on,see.Startouteasy.Builduptoit.Theynever tell you about that inghost stories. What it reallyinvolves.”“Like what?” Charles

asked.“Howwe adjust themind,

the feelings. Being in chargeof something means

everything. That’s what it’sallabout,livingordead.”“Ineverknew.”“See? It’s the thing that

mattersmost.It’slikeaworkof art really, judging themoment, bringing up thedisquiet, the dread. Hard tobelieve it right now, I know,Mr—?”“Ratray. Charles Ratray.

Charles.”“Good,Charles.Alwaystry

forfirstnames.That’spartofit.I’mBilly.BillyWine.See,much less threatening.They’ll tell you about me intown.”“Thenyoushould let them

do that. I’ll ask around. Dothisanothernight.”“Toolate,Charles.Charlie.

Had your chance. Theyshould have told you aboutBilly Wine already. Baddeath. Awful death. Five

people at the funeral.Disappointing all round,really.”“Sonowyou’remakingup

forit.”“That’s it exactly. Hey, I

like you, Charles. You’requick.You’reinterested.”“That won’t change

anything.”“Not a bit.Not at all.You

took this road. But no onetoldyou?Nooneat thepub?

Nooneatthedairy?”“About the road? No.

Haven’tbeenhere long.WillIsurvivethis?”“Probably not. But you

have to understand. I don’tgetmanyalongthisroadsoIliketodrawitout.SometimesImisjudgetheheartbusiness.Scarefolkstoomuch.”“I thoughtghosts justgave

you a quick scare and thatwasit.”

“That’s the quick shockapproach. The publicrelationssideofit.Wecandofarmore.Thatnameyousaid.Fooly. We like to bring thevictim—the subject—thescaree—to the point wherethey’renotsure if it’s realorin theirheads.Yougetmuchmore panic once you get tothatpoint.”“Maybeyoucouldjustgive

me a quick scare now and I

can come back tomorrownight.”“Hey,you’rea realkidder.

You wouldn’t, of course.Surprised no one told youaboutmethough.”“Maybeyouhadsomething

todowiththat.”“Boy, you’re quick.

Charlie, I really like you.Whereareyoustaying?”“Out at the Dickerson

place.Six-monthlease.”

“Well, there you go then.That explains it. Theyprobably figured you for arelative of old SamDickerson.Shutterswould’vecome down the minute yousaid.”“Or maybe you did

something to stop themtellingme.”Billy Wine grinned. “That

too. Lots of things arepossible.”

Charles smiled to himself,at least meant to. It wasactually rather pleasantwalking in the night; windy,blustery really, but cool, notcold.Thegrasswassoughingon the verge. The treesweretossing. There were houselightsfarofftotheright—andmorebehindwhenheglancedback,thehomesofpeoplehedidn’t know yet, and rightthere,thepatchoflightwhere

Kareela sat in the night, liketheglowofashipatsea.He kept alert for the fear,

the thinnest edge of terror,but felt nothing. Perhaps hewasimmune.Maybeitdidn’tworkforhim.“Shouldbefeelingitsoon,”

the fooly said. “Your senseswill go a bit, bring in weirdstuff. You smelling the seayet?”Charlescouldn’thelpit.He

sniffedthewind.Andhedid.Hecould.The

salttang,impossiblyfarawaybutthere.Charlessmelledit.BillyWine’seyesglittered,

a paring of smile beneath.“Seabirds?”They were barely there,

thin, far-off, wheeling four,fivefieldsaway,butthere.“Why the sea?” Charles

asked.“Always loved the sea,”

Billy Wine said. “Youhearingtrains?”Trains, yes! Nowhere near

as surprising; there was astationatKareela,afterall.“But steam trains!” the

ghost of Billy Wine said,anticipating.And that’s what Charles

heard, chuffling, snuffling,stolen back, there and gone,thereandgone.“Circus!”

A calliope whooped andjangled in the night, forlorn,distant,dangerous.“Weeping!”And,oh,therewas.Fullof

ocean-lost, clown-sad,missed-train sorrow, desolateon the wind. Billy Winebrought it in. Made Charliedothebringing.“Getting you ready,

Charlie,myman!Thinknow—all the things you’ve had

takenfromyou.Allthethingsyounevergot to say.All thebitter.”Notbitterness.Bitter.Billy

had the way of it, theghostingknack,sureenough.Charles kept walking.

“WhatcanIgive?WhatcanItrade?”“Trade? Don’t need souls.

Nothing to hold ’em in. Oldfoolyjoke.”“Fooly?”

“Just using yourterminology, Charlie, myman. Don’t get excited!Maybe an invitation to theExchange. That’d be worthsomething.”“Icangoback.Seewhat I

cando.”“You wouldn’t. You

couldn’t.Theydon’tseeyou.Theyservedyouup.”“You did that,” Charles

said. “Stopped ’em warning.

Tweakedtheirminds.”The eyes glittered. The

paringofsmilecurvedup.“Taking care of business,”

Billysaid.“It’swhatyoudo.”“I’mnearlyhome.”“You’ll never get there.”

The smile sharpened.“Walking’s getting harder,isn’tit?”Itwas.Suddenlywas.Charles felt so heavy. His

legs were leaden, wooden,

twin stumps of stone. Thiswas feeding Billy, Charlessaw.Thepower.Thefinesse.Billy read the moment.

“Time for a flourish. LookhowscaryI’vebecome.”And he had. Oh, how he

had,Charlessaw,felt,knew.That awful darkness. That

blend of glitter-gaze, crimp-stepandpareddarklingsmile.In spite of everything,knowing it was coming,

Charles saw that Billy wasthe same but not the same.Nevercouldbe.The wind was slippery

now, pushing, coddling,blustery and black-handed.The grass blew, hushed andblew again, reeling them in.No,notthem.Him.Him.BillyWine lunged, strode,

tottered, stayed alongside yetflowedahead,allatonce.Hewas sharps, dagger edges,

razor-gazeandgutteringgrin.The dark of him was toomuch, too close, too stinkinghot.Butmostly it was the gut-

wrenchsuicidecocktailinsideCharles Ratray, three partsdread, two parts despair, oneblossoming nip of revulsionslippedinsideways.Charles could barely

breathe.He staggered, breathto breath, inside and out,

fighting to remember whatbreathing was, what walkingwas,whatselfwas.Thisdeadly,crimp-stepped

Billy trulywas good atwhathedid.Close up, there was his

sudden,awfulintimacy,whileout there, oceansclosed overships, birds plucked at eyes,calliopes screamed into thefall of colliding trains, andKatie was denied, denying,

againandagain.Charles screamed and

stiltedandpropped,foughttobreathe.No part of the nightwas satisfied to hold him. Itpushedhimaway,hurledhimfrom itself back into itself,made panic from the stilting,flailing pinwheel he hadbecome. He screamed andyelled because Billy wantedhimto.ThoughBillyknewtostop,

ofcourse, to relaxandsavor,to settle for shades and ebband flow. He had a wholenight,awholesplendid,new-to-town Charlie Ratray toteachthelastofalllessons.But Charles managed to

keephissenseofselfthroughit all, didmanage,and he letthe Dickerson house be thefocus, off in the distance, itssingle yard light showingwhereitwas.

“I made it,” Charles said,knowing how Billy wouldrespond.“Did you? Have you? Are

yousure?”Thehousesweptaway,one

field, two, road threadingbetween, single yard lightjiggering, dancing off like asmalltightcomet.“Too bad,” Billy Wine

said. “We’re almost at theendofit.”

“Weare?”“It’ll be quick. You’ll be

fully aware.” Billy soundedgleeful.“Butit’sstillearly—”“I know. And do be

disappointed! That bad deathIhad.Onlyfivepeopletoseemeoff.Itmakesyouhard.”“But you have the whole

night. Surely there’s morefear?Moredread?”“No need. All that’s just

window dressing anyway.Absolute clarity is best. Justthe anguish. Thedisappointment. Enoughdespair. You go outknowing.”“Billy—”“Nomore,Charlie.Timeto

go. It’ll hurt just a bit.Well,quite a bit. Well, a lotactually,painbeingwhatitis.Butmaybeyou’llgettocomeback.Somedo.”

“MaybeIalreadyhave.”And Charles Ratray was

gone, spiralling away as atwistoflightonthewilddarkair.“Hey!What?What’sthat?”

Billy Wine demanded, butknew,hadeven imagined thepossibility, though had nevereverexpectedit.For who else watched the

watchmen, hunted thehunters, haunted the

haunters?Who else fooled the

foolies?All that remained of Billy

Winestoodonthedarkwindyroad and felt the ache ofdisappointment tear at himagainandagain.

TheTollPAULWALTHER

Paul Walther has had stories innumerous small press and onlinemagazines including New Genre,Niteblade,andHorrorLibrary.Hisstory “Splitfoot” was reprinted inTheYear’sBestFantasyandHorror#21.Inadditiontowritingstories,Paul has collaborated with

filmmaker Brian Lilly on severalscreenplays through Brian’s LionBellyproductioncompany.

Paul lives in Hopkins,Minnesota,withhiswife.Youcanfind more information aboutPaul’s stories and screenplays at:www.paulwalther.com.

The end of the summer is

near. Maybe that’s why thewater of Pine Lake looks alittle darker, a little more

menacing.Maybe that’swhythe azure sky overheadappears mildly ominous,despitethelackofclouds.Maybe that’s what makes

Bohanan look slightlymalevolent on this day—instead of simply ridiculous,as he usually appears. Herehe is, standing on the beachwith his toes curled into thehot sand, his hand restinglightly on the calf of the

lifeguard sitting high up inherwoodenchair.She isMary Joan Schmitt,

and as she looks downbenevolently at the crown ofhis head she thinks sheremembers her mothermentioninghim—didhedatean aunt, an aunt’s friend?There is a story to Bohanan,shejustcan’trememberwhatitis.He’s a tall man, skinny,

with his stomach muscleswell defined and his slenderlegs perfectly, darkly tanned.From a distance he looksyounger than he is—theskimpy swim suit, the long,carefully tended hair, theflashy sunglasses on a thickcord—he could pass for anyof the well-built young menstrutting the beach. It’s onlyup close that the illusionevaporates like one of those

shimmering heat mirageshovering above the hot sand.Hisfaceislined,andhissun-bleachedhairisgettingthinatthe crown. His hands areveinedandtheskiniscoarse.Another summer is endingandhere is Bo, vainly tryingto hold time still for anotheryear.It’s been said that

everybody is who they werein high school.Well, Jeffrey

Bohanan is preciselywho hewas in high school. Exactly.He dresses the same way,talks the sameway.Hishair,though thinner, is styled inexactlythesameway.Hestillhas the same job—the verysame jobhestartedpart timein high school and went fulltime to his senior year. Andhe still spends every singlesummerafternoonhereat thebeach, atPineBeach, just as

hedidinhighschool.Mary Joan Schmitt isn’t

staying the same. She hasbeenchanging—gettingmoretan and more blond as thesummergoeson.Here,inlateAugust, her skin is the colorofabrownhen’seggandhereyebrows have actuallydisappeared. In two dayswhen this summer is finallyover, she is going to changesome more. She is going to

havealife.As contemptuous as she is

of Bo and his endlesssummer, she isn’t reallyannoyed by his hand on herperfectly browned calfbecausesheneedshim.She’susing Bo, right this instant.He’s actually fulfilling apurpose,foronce.How:Boisa walking encyclopedia ofdeathinthetinytownofPineLake. For twenty years he’s

worked at the Pine LakeCemeteryasagroundskeeperandhecantellyouhowmanypeople have been killed inauto accidents, howmany ofcancer, how many fromsuicide. It’s not like he hasanything else to do with histime.Mary Joan isquizzinghim

againtoday,warminghimupfor her real question. “Bo,how many people have died

frompoison?”“One—but that was never

totallyproved.”“Motorcycles?”“Two—three, if you count

Morrie Murdoch—his blewup in the garage and burnedthehousedown.”She lets a slight pause

comebetweenthem,pretendstowatchthewater.Now,shethinks,isthetimeforherrealquestion: “Drowning?” she

asks.“Five,”hesayscalmly.He

seems utterly unaware thathishandisgentlystrokingherleg.“Five? That’s just since

youstarted?”“Yes.” Bo is also known

forhavingagoodideaof thehistorical statistics on causeof death. Whether he’sreading tombstones orcemetery records or what,

nobody knows, but his talentisn’t just confined to whodied of what during histenure. He can give a solidnumber for a given causerightback to the inceptionofPine Lake as a town. “Youwant the total? Maybeseventeen, eighteen, in all.Lessthantwenty.”“Twenty!”Shealmostfalls

offherchair.Itseemslikeanimpossibly high number for

such a tiny community. Ontheotherhand, thebeachhasbeen around a long time. Inthe lifeguard shack there areoldphotographsof thebeachin the thirties, with lumpyblackcarsinthebackground,and in the twenties, whenwomen wore funny bathingsuits and everyone broughtbig hampers and stiffclothing. There are even afew very dim, very blurred,

reproductions of what mustbe tintypes, or plates, orwhatever they were, beforeKodak. It doesn’t matter; itall looks amazingly,depressingly, the same—except for certain details.Noneoftheoriginalbuildingssurvived, of course. Thebathrooms and concessionstandspoppedupinthefiftiesand the big diving platformsout in the deep water were

built in the seventies. That’swhen Mary’s father was alifeguard, in the sillyseventies,when his hair wasas long as hers is now. Hemet her mother here. Hisfatherwas a lifeguard beforethat,machoandseriousinoldblack and white photographsin the family album. Behindhimthebeachisthesame;thelakeisthesame.Theoppositeshore is the same, with the

dark spires of pine treespokingintothegraysky.All the pictures are filled

withmonotoneswimmersandsun bathers and kidsfrolicking in the water. Andsome of those people, itsuddenlyoccurstoMary,oneatleast,mightbeoneofthosewho have drowned. One ofthetwenty.“Depressing thought, eh?”

says Bo, grinning. “What’re

youdoingthisfall?”She’s going away to

college. Bo’s problem isobvious—he’s spent so longstuck in the summer afterhigh school that all thewomen his own age havemoved too far beyond him.They’re all married, ordivorced with kids, workingat real jobs, not living withtheir mothers, driving theirmothers’cars.

“You ever know any ofthem?”“Who—the people who

drowned? Nah. What’s yourworry?”“No worry.” And she’s

abouttobrushhishandawaythe way she would a bitinghorsefly,but thesunisgoingdown.Thebeachcloses,asithas for a hundred years, alittle before dark. Not thatMary is afraid of the dark

—notachance.As the sun sets, it shines

right across the flat expanseofPineLake—as it has for ahundred, a thousand years—more. As it reaches the topsof thepinesopposite, it is solow that it lights everythingfrom behind, so that all thefeatures are lost and thewhole beach becomes awaving, shrieking, splashing,happyamalgamofpeopleand

liquid nearly inseparable bythenakedeye.To a lifeguard it’s a

dangerous time of the day,squinting into that blindingsun—especially hard forMary.Shehastotakeoffhersunglasses to see anything inthewater, andher sunglasseshold a secret. They areprescription lenses andwithout them...well, it’s notthat she can’t see. Of course

she can see. To continuelifeguard duty without hereyeglasses just becausethey’re...eyeglasses,wouldbea dereliction of duty, if shecouldn’t see without them.Shecan.Just not quite aswell. She

tried contact lenses but theywould neverwork for her; itwaslikehavingatarpdrapedovereachsuffocatingeyeball.In the daytime, even in

cloudy weather, nobodyquestions sunglasses on abrowning, bleaching blondlifeguard. But at night—thatwouldraisequestions.That’s when her problems

begin—when she takes offher sunglasses. Things lookdifferent with her sunglassesoff—and not just lighter.Withthesungoingdownandeverything back lit and hereyesight impaired the water

looksslightly...overpopulated.Is that the best way to

describeit?The screaming, splashing,

colorfulmultitudeissuddenlyjoinedbyothers.That’swhatMary calls them when shethinks of them to herself.Theyaredarker than the rest—completely thrown intoshadow by the setting sun.They move with the rocking

rhythmof the shiningwaves,heads inscrutable, bodiesnarrow,armslongandtippedwith slender hands thatextendaboveeverythingelse,waving. Mary has beenwatching them all summerlong and it seems as if theirnumbers increase as thesummerwanes.She’s tried to find a

rational explanation: it’spossible that they’re just

people; that they only lookdifferent because they’re alittle farther out, just beyondthe beach rope. It’s not thatthey’re any more blurred,after all, than anyone else inthe water—or any lesssubstantial looking. They’rejust not as colorful. Still,there’smorethanthat.Itisn’tjust how they look, it’s howtheymove.Thatslowrockingmotion, those long, waving

arms—the general outline ishuman,butthereisaserenity,alifelessness,aboutthem.That brought Jeffrey

Bohanan, and his peculiarknowledge, tomind. So nowshe has Bo, rubbing upagainstherleglikeanadoringIrish setter, and she hasthought of another good useforhim.“Bo,” she asks. “How fast

can you swim out to the far

platformandback?”“I don’t know—four

minutes?”“Noway!Notachanceyou

coulddoitthatfast.”“It’sasimplefact.”“I’d think it’d take you at

leastsix,atyourage.”“We’llshowyou.”He’s got some kind of

giant, overly complicatedchronometer on his wrist—apparently waterproof—and

he sets it with an electronicbeep as he jogs down to thewater. Mary watches as hewades through the shallowwater to the rope, ducksunderit,andbeginspaddling.She can see as he passesthrough the arm-wavinglegionofblackfigures.Noneseemto impede his path andhetakesnonoticeofthem.Infact, whether it is an opticalillusion or not, he seems to

pass right through one withhis long-armed strokestowardthetallplatform.He touches off one of the

platform’s pilings and swimsbackthroughtheringofblackfigures. He splashes throughthe closer swimmers andhurriesupthebeach,stoppinghis watch with a triumphantgesture as he reaches herperch.“There you go,” he says,

showing her the time: 3:52minutes.“Impressive,” Mary says.

“How’sthewater?”“Fine. A little colder, just

pasttherope.Nothingscary.”“Who says I thought there

wassomethingscary?”“Justlikeyourmom;won’t

admitathing.”“Bo, do us both a favor.

Don’ttalkaboutmymother.”“You know she almost

drownedouthere?”“Of course I do. That’s

howshemetmydad.”“That’s right. Dragged her

rightoutofthewater,thebighero.Iremembernow.”“Youwerethere?”“I’m always here; don’t

youknowthat?”His hand is on her leg

again, this time inside thethigh.Sheswingsherwhistleropewith the bundle of keys

attached and hits him in theforehead.“Ow!”“Sorry, Bo. I wasn’t

looking.”“Well,keepaneyeout.”It’s odd to think of Bo

knowing her mother whenshe was, well—her age. Shecannot get the image of Bo,young, on the same beachwith her mother, before shewas...Mother.

As the sun sets and thefinal whistle blows, theswimmerscomeupthebeachanddrift into theparking lot.Thedarkfigures in thewaterare long gone. As the suntouches the water they sink,waving their long arms anddisappearingunderthewaveslike tree branches overcomebyaflood.Mary comes out of the

guard shack after she’s

changedintoherclothes.Shestands and looks at the stillwater of the beach in theincreasingdarkness.The lakeis so calm now—without aripple.Whydoesitmakeherthink of the bodies of thedrowned, sinking slowly,placidly, to their waterygraves?And Bo is right—her

mother was almost one ofthose. If it wasn’t for Dad,

shewould have slipped rightunder those waves anddisappeared.Walking to her car in the

darkness,Marythinksofhowwell she knows this beach.She was probably at thisbeach before her memorybegan—she’s certain that shewas, knowing her parents. Itmakeshersmile to think thatshe was probably at thisbeach in the womb; that’s

how long she’s been cominghere.Wasn’t she just a littletyke, taking her first stroke?Didn’t she picnic for yearswith her parents up on thegrass?This iswhereshefirstheld her breath under water,hadherfirstkiss,herfirst...allofit.Andinthreedaysshe’llbe gone, theway hermotherthought she would be goneuntil she met Dad. Thedifference is that Mary is

really going. She’ll wasteaway her summer tan outEast, where nobody knowshername.She takes a deep breath of

the pine-scented air, looks atthesky.It’sstilltooearly forstars: just the vague graynothingness framed by theblackness of the pine trees,just the same old Chevroletherparentsgaveher, just thesame old asphalt parking lot

she’s burned her feet on ahundredtimesin thehotsun.Athousandtimes,maybe.A thousand times. This

thought sticks in her headbecause there is somethingnext to her car—someone,standing, tall and thin and ithadbetterbeBo,because...“Bo,” she says, disgusted.

“Whatareyoudoinghere?”“DidIscareyou?”“No.”

“Wanttogoforaride?”“No, Bo, I want to go

home.”Mary has an odd

revelation. He’s a little bitfrightening, standing there inthe dark. She’s never eventhought of him as a fullgrown man before. She’snever thought of him as athreat.“You’re not scared to be

aloneouthere?”

“I’m not alone though, amI?”He’s too close, leaning in

on her with claustrophobicintensity. She wonders for amoment if he means to kissher—doesn’t give him achance, if that’s his idea—pusheshimawayandturnstogetintohercar.“There’splentytobeafraid

of,outthere.”“Out where?” But why is

she even bothering to talk tothis idiot? “Nevermind. I’vegottogo.”Sosoftlyshe’snotsureshe

heard it: “You’re not goinganywhere.”“What?”“Areyoureallygoingaway

to school? That’s what yourmother said she was doing,too.”“Iknow,Iknow.Thenshe

metDad.YouthinkIhaven’t

heard that corny story amilliontimes?”And then he’s just Bo

again,hopeful,pitiful, frozenin time like that cave manthey found in the Alps, orwherever. Shewaves at him:“Saygoodnight,Bo.”She’s annoyed to find that

he’s unsettled her. On herway home the streets seemespecially black, the housesabnormally bleak. The long,

dark hands of themysteriousswimmers reach through hermind and cast shadows overherthoughts.Therewouldbea certain comfort to leadingthe life Bo leads—unchanging, unchallenging.Perfected, in a way. As shedrives by his cemetery, herbraindisobeysher, sendshergaze up the dark andtombstone-coveredhill.Here and there little lights

flicker—like candles, onlylargerandnotaswelldefinedas flames. Just a few,widelyspaced throughout thegraveyard, flickering silentlyabove tombstones.Shecocksher head, blinks her eyes,tries to identify the opticalillusion. That’s worse,though.Themoreshetries tosee the cause of the illusion,themore the flickering lightsdefy easy explanation. An

uneasy—and unfamiliar—dread rises in her throat andsheturnsherattentionbacktotheroad,bearingdownonthegaspedal.Whenshedares toglance in therearviewmirrorshecanseesomeonestandingat the cemetery gate—a tall,thin man silhouetted againstthelitirongates.At night Mary dreams of

thebeach—emptyandstillonamoonlitnight. Shewatches

from the water just beyondthe rope. She can see thebeach but it is empty, andautumn leaves skitter acrossthe sand. In the sky, low,blackcloudsseemtothreatensnow. Where is summer,whereisthewarmth?Shecanfeel the ice creeping in fromthe shoresof the lakeas if itis creeping into her ownveins. On the desolate beachalonefiguremoves—skinny,

tall,somehowhideouslyevil.When she wakes up it is

Labor Day, the last day, theend, and Mary is exhausted.She feels as though she hasspentthewholenightrunning—orswimming.Byteninthemorning it’s seventy, bynoon, eighty-seven. It’s thelast day of summer, the lastdaythebeachisopen,andforthe lifeguards, it’s like thelast day of summer camp.

Simmering romances aresuddenly boiling over. Asense of ecstatic grief hangsovertheguardshack.Maryisstanding there, transfixed,looking at all those oldpicturesonthewalls.Theonethat holds her gaze is themost mundane—who knowswhenitwastaken.Thebeachis unadorned by any of themodern paraphernalia—noconcession stand, no guard

shack, no sun umbrellas orbeach blankets or inflatablerafts, no lifeguard chairsdown by the water. Just aplain sand beach apparentlyuninhabited by anything butsome big pines, pines thatmust have been cut down alongtimeago.Maryisstruckby the sheer familiarity of it:without a single landmark itis clearly, by its shape andslope and location, this very

same place. There are rocksnear thewater—not bouldersbut big stones—andinconvenient outcroppings ofscrubby plants, and campfiresmoke rising in the distance,butthisiswheretheyused toswim. This is where they’vealways gone swimming. Infact, up close, there are darkblurs that might be movingpeopleonthesand,andasshelookscloser,darkblursinthe

water as well. The peoplehave always been there,always, just unrecorded bythe technology of the times.To Mary it’s as if thosepeople lived in a differentuniverse—oneofsilence,oneof landscapes uninhabited byhumans except as blurs asfineandfleetingasthewingsofahummingbird.Andbeforethat:what?“Bo’s looking for you,”

somebodytellsher.“Great.”She steps outside; the

beach is crazy. It’s so noisyit’s impossible to pick outindividual sounds, so busyit’s impossible to separateone person from another. Itlooks like every square inchofsandhasbeencoveredwitha blanket. Like one of thoseWild Kingdom rookerieswhere the birds are sunning,

mating, socializing, shovingeachotherforanestnear thewater.“It’s a zoo,” says Jane,

coming up off the sand,swinging her whistle on itscord, “Good luck gettinganybody to listen. Yoo-hoo,Mary, Bo’s been looking foryou.”“Iheard.”ThenMary’s down on the

sand with a towel wrapped

around her waist and hershades in place and Bo isuponherbeforeshecanevenreachthechair.Hemustworknights, or something—buthowcanhe?“Beenlookingforyou.”“Iheard.”“Well,” he says, taking up

hispositionandlayingahandon her leg, “hell of a day,huh?”“Hell of a day,” she says,

squinting, daring the darkshapes to come out in broaddaylight, when her eyes aresharp.There’s no room for them,

though. The water isabsolutely frothywith bodiesand out on the tall dockthey’re packed like arcticpenguins pushing each otherforspace.It’saperfect,sunnyday, a day for the recordbooksatPineLakeBeach,for

history,andhereshe is, rightinthemiddleofit.“This is it, eh? Then it’s

winter.”“Buzz off, Bo. I didn’t

sleepwell,I’mtired,andI’mreallyinnomood.”“What?”“Buzzoff!Christ,youmust

be twicemy age.Why don’tyougetalife?”Insteadofgettingangryhe

juststandsthere,silent.Mary

swatshishandoffherlegandhe stands there still, eitherpetrifiedortoodumbtoknowhe’sbeingbrushedoff.“Just likeyourmother,”he

finallysays.“Yeah, except that I really

amgettingaway.”“She did, too,” he says,

softly.What is his problem?

Anyone looking on wouldthink they were in

conversation, or collusion, orfriends. He is like a stone,like an obelisk, sticking outof the sand at a slight angle.If they tookoneof thoseoldpictures rightnow,Bowouldbe crystal clear, sharp, withall the rest of the beachblurred incomprehensiblyaroundhim.“Whydon’tyougoaway,”

she says clearly, not takinghereyesfromthewater.

“I beat my time,” he sayscheerfully.“Whattime?”“My time—the timeout to

the dock and back I setwithyou.Ibeatitthismorning.”“Whatever,”shesays.Ishe

really so stupid? “Anyway,you didn’t set it with me.Thatwas justa joke. Ididn’tmean for you to take it soseriously.”It’s cruel, she knows,

but...where does he get thesecrazyideas?His face has fallen; he

looks suddenly old, suddenlyhis age. She feels acompletely unwelcome rushofguiltandchagrinandpuremeannessandisalmostreadytorecant,when—“I had your mother,” he

says,surprisingher.“Dropdead.”“I laid her, before your

father.”“Go away. I’ve had

enough.”He has his hand on the

insideofherthighagain.“Hetook her away fromme.Didyouknowthat?”“No, I didn’t know that.

ShouldIcare?”“He owes me one.” He

looks so evil now she canhardlyrecognizehis face.Heisterrifying.

“Getawayfromme.”“That’sthewayyouwantit

tobe?”“Getawayfromme!”“Listen,” he says softly,

grinning horribly at her. “IthinkIhearachildcrying.”Godhelpher,shedoestoo.

Above the din of the beach,above the cacophony ofsounds,impossibly,shehearsachildscreamingforhelp.“Bettergogetit,”Bosays.

“I don’t see it!” she says,standing up in her chair,scanningthewater.“Right there,” Bo says,

pointing,andattheendofhisoutstretched finger a childmagicallyappears,screamingand waving its arms, justbeyond therope.“Goget it,”hesays.She blows short blasts on

her whistle; leaps from thechair and throws down her

sunglasses to find that theshapes are there, they arethere in broad daylight. Thechild is crying, though,screaming, and she dashesintothewaterandtakeslong,broad strokes toward therope. She goes under thefloat-studded rope like adolphin,andontheotherside—nothing. The child isn’tthere:shedivestofindit.Instant silence, instant

calm.The cold water envelopes

Mary’s head. Her eyes areopen but the darkness of thewater limitshervisionasshedives deeper, reaching aheadwithheroutstretchedarms tofindthechild’ssinkingbody.Andthenitallgoesterribly

wrong. At first she doesn’tassociate the horrible weighton her back with anotherhuman being, but as the arm

swingsaroundtoforcetheairfromherlungs,shecatchesaglimmer of that huge silverwatchandseesherlifeescapeto the surface in a boil ofsilver bubbles. Down, down,her attacker pushes her, andasherlungsscreamforairanextraordinary thing happens.Instead of getting darker asshe is pushed deeper, thewater suddenly begins to getlighter. She pulls water into

her lungs and it seems as ifshe can see sunlight comingupthroughthewater,asifshecan see the moving legs ofswimmersbelowher.Oraretheyaboveher?There are people, people

with their legs above her inthe bright water—a widevariety of swimsuits—andbodies. There are fat legs instriped pants, naked hairybodies from before township

days, thick suits from theforties and the fifties, bikinisfrom the sixties. They treadwater slowly; their pleasant,welcomingfacespeerintothewater as if it is a fun-housemirror. Mary knows it’swrong,andnotjustwrongbutunbelievable: faces from thepast,peeringdownatherlikeshe’sanerrantfishswimmingtowards the beach, but theirlegsarereal,solidinfrontof

herface.Notasshadows,butin the pink and blue hues ofhumanfleshunderwater,oldas the lake, decrepit ascasket-bound corpses, butreal, real, and terrifying forthatreason.Theirhandsreachdowntopullherup.Like a fever dream she

knows them, knows theirnamesandknows their faces,knows their lives as if theyare neighbors, as if their

families are something otherthandry,dustyboneslyinginthevaultsuptheroadandupthehill.Cheerful,welcoming,smiling down through thesunny water, they trap herwith their water-prunedfingers. Up there, she thinkslongingly, things must neverchange; up there, they mustliveinsummereveryday.She pulls herself toward

the light, but as she breaks

surface things are not at allwhat they had seemed theywould be. She is all alone,and the beach she knows sowellisasdesolateasitwasinher dream. The sand ispacked hard and thewater isstiff as ice. The finalreminders of summer—abandoned Styrofoam cupsandpaperhotdogsheathes—blow across the empty sandon a coldwind. It is the day

after the last day of summer,andshesuddenlyunderstandsthat it lasts forever here, allunder the baleful eye of thegaunt, agingwolfwho pacesthe frozen sand of the beachlikeademonsentry,throwingbackhisheadtohowladark,deepandmalevolentlaugh.Terrified, she submerges

again.Thewateriswarm,andfriendly. She takes a deepbreath of water and feels it

flow into her with a heavy,calmingsurge.Whatwassheso worried about a momentago? She can’t evenremember. The happy facessmile down at her again.Their soft fingers caress herbody, touch her convulsingmouth. She could stay hereforever,warmandsafe.

ThePennineTower

RestaurantSIMONKURTUNSWORTH

SimonKurtUnsworthwasbornin

Manchesterin1972andcurrentlylives on a hill in the north ofEngland with his wife and childawaiting the coming flood,wherehe writes essentially grumpyfiction (for which pursuit he wasnominated for a 2008 WorldFantasy Award for Best ShortStory). His stories have beenpublished in a number ofanthologies, including At Easewith theDead, Shades ofDarkness,ExoticGothic3,GaslightGrotesque,Never Again, and LovecraftUnbound,andhavebeencollected

in Lost Places,Quiet Houses, andStrange Gateways. A fourthcollectionwilllaunchtheSpectralPress “Spectral SignatureEditions” imprint in 2013. HisstorieshavealsobeenreprintedinfourMammoth Book of Best NewHorroranthologies.

Introduction

Thisisnotfiction.

I should, perhaps, explainhow I came to write this.Before I became self-employed, I worked for anumber of years in localgovernmentandthevoluntarysector.Ididnotalwaysenjoythe work, and I never reallyenjoyed being an employee,but there were some nicethingsabouttheexperience. Imet my wife whilst workingfor a charity in Manchester

and my best friend (andsubsequent godfather to myson) working for LiverpoolCity Council. Indeed, thisaspectof thework is theonething I miss now that I amself-employed, and that Ienjoyed most at the time,meeting a wide range ofpeople, some of whom I amproudtonowcallfriends.One department I dealt

withwashousing,andovera

period of months I workedcloselywithamemberof thecommittee dealing withplanning applications; duringthis time we became, if notfriends, then at least friendlyacquaintances.Wediscovereda shared enjoyment ofsupernatural fiction and coldlager, thatwehadboth spenttimeinScotlandandthatbothof us wanted to make adifference to the people’s

lives by doing our jobswell.This probably sounds like acliché, I know, butnonetheless it was true ofmost of the people I metworking for the council. Nomatter how hard or stressfulthe work or how muchpressure people were under(and theywereoftenunder alot) I rarelymet anyonewhodidn’tbelieveintheworkthattheydid.Despiteclientswho

were sometimes hostile,managers who didn’tunderstand what theirworkers were doing,workloads that wereunmanageable and agovernment obsessed withtargets rather than clientwelfare, my colleaguescarried on with littlecomplaint because theybelievedinwhattheydidandsaw its benefit to the public

theytriedtoserve.Mycolleaguefromhousing

was involved in all sorts ofcouncil tasks and projects,andatthetimestruckmeasaman who was working longhours and driving himselfhard to do the best job hecould. He was unceasinglycheerful, always helpful andfor a few months, wesupported each other andenjoyed each other’s

company. Like many of therelationships made at work,however, I lost contact withthis person after I left andthought little about him untilhe got in touch by email outoftheblueatthebeginningoftheyear.Theemailread:

HiSimon

Please helpme. Iknow it’s been a

long time andwedon’t worktogether anymore but I don’tknowwho else toask andwe werefriends enoughfor you to trustme, I hope. Iknow you’ve hadsomesuccesswithyourwriting, andIhaveastorythat

needs telling andyou’re the onlyperson I knowwhohasachanceof understandingit. Of believingme. I’m not aftermoney for this,nor anyrecognition. Idon’twantyoutonameme at all ifpossible. Ihavea

family and I’mthe only incomewe have, and Ican’t afford tolose my job. I’vebeen told that if Ispread any more“rumours,” I’llbe fired.Rumours! Thosestupid idiotswon’t see whatI’mtellingthemis

true. I can’t riskmy wage, but Ican’taffordtoletthis go either.People’slivesareatrisk.

What I want totell you isamazing,unbelievable, butit’s true.Everythingcanbe

checked—all theinformation ispublicallyavailable. ThePennine TowerRestaurant isdangerous, andwe have to dosomething. Idon’t know what.Something.Anything. Stop itopening again,

keep it closed.Burn the placedown ifneedsbe.I’ve told thehighest people atthe council, butthey didn’tbelieveme,calledmealiar.Mostofthemwon’t speakto me now.You’re my onlyhope. Can you

help me? PrayGodthatyoucan.

Please can wemeet?

At the time, I was wary.Although it hasn’t happenedoften, one of the things thatI’ve noticed since gettingpublishedisthatpeopleseemto want to tell me ghoststories. Sometimes, these are

“real” stories, sometimesfictions,andnormallythey’reprefaced by the phrase“Here’s something you canuse...” I’ve never beenentirely sure what peopleexpectfrommewhentheydothat—to write the story butgive them credit, perhaps, ortell themhow towrite it andthengivethemthenameofafew friendly publishers? It’snot a frequent thing,but it is

an irritation, and I expectedthatthiswouldbemoreofthesame. I repliednoncommittally and heardnothing for a few weeks.Then, another emailappeared, theninshortorder,another and then more, eachmoredesperate-soundingthanthepreviousones.Eventually,I agreed tomeet, asmuch tostop the messages asanything. I thought it would

be simple, that I would givehimachancetotellhisstory,and then walk away andforgetit.Itwasnot.Wemet in the car park of

Forton Services, with thePennine Tower Restaurantstretching up above us. Myex-colleagueparkedatthefarendofthecarparkandwhenIgotinthecar,Iwasshockedby the change that had

occurred in him. He lookedill,hishairdirtyandhisskinbad. The car was full ofpapers and folders and bags,and food wrappers werecrumpled around my feet onthepassengerside.Theinsideof the car smelled stale. Hesmelledstale.Ashe talked, Isaw that he would not somuch as glance at therestaurant, telling me thewhole story sitting in the

driver’s seat and with theenginerunning.At first, Iwondered if this

wasacomplexjoke,howeverunlikely that might seem. Itstruckmeasunlikely,though.TherewasaninsistencyaboutwhatIwastoldthatmademethink that, even if it weren’ttrue, my ex-colleaguebelieved it and I began towonder about his sanity. Hemusthaverealised that I had

my doubts, because at onepointhesaid,“It’smadness,Iknow, but it’s true.” Iremember very clearly thatthiswastheonlypoint in thewhole of our time togetherthat he looked up at therestaurant,adarting look thatlasted only a fraction of amoment.“It’sanevilplace.Ifit opens again, people willdie,”hesaid.Peoplewilldie.

The Pennine Tower isn’tmuchtolookat.Atowerwitha wide, circular top level, itlooks shabby now, like arusting flying saucer that’sbeen abandoned. I’d alwaysknown that it was arestaurant,ofcourse;mywiferemembers eating there, andher friend ran it for a periodintheearly’80s.Ialsoknewit had been shut down in thelate ’80s because of fire

regulations or asbestos orsomething similar. It’s apopular local landmark, andthe subject of occasionalretrospectives and campaignsto have it reopened. It’shardly threatening, and notthesortofplaceIwouldhaveimagined making anyonefearful.At the endofourmeeting,

myex-colleaguesaidonelastthing to me: “I know you

don’tbelieveme,butyoucancheck it allout.Nothing I’vetoldyouissecret.I’vewrittenit all down. Here, take it.Check it. Please.” He gavemeabagfullofloosepapers,printed sheets and cuttingsand photocopies all coveredin handwritten notes. On thetop of the file was a reportwhichhesaidhe’ddistributedas far as he could butwhichhadbeenignored.

“They think I’m mad,” hesaid. “Or stupid or lying ordrunk. Something. I don’tknow. I’m tired. Promisemeyou’ll read it. Promise me.Write it up if you can. Thatbuilding iswrongandpeopleneed to know. You need totellthem.”And then he was gone.

Truthfully, I was glad to seehim go. I’ve worked withmentally ill people in the

past, and those with activepsychoses frighten me eventhough I know that they’rerarelyadangertoanyonebutthemselves. I felt very sorryfor my ex-colleague, andsorrier for his family whowere going to have to dealwith him and the results ofhis illness, but ultimately Iwas glad he was gone. Ididn’treadthepapersstraightaway. Instead, I left them in

my car and tried to pretendthat they weren’t therebecausereadingthemfeltlikeitwouldbegivingvaliditytomy ex-colleague’s paranoias.A fewweeks later, Iwent tothrow the bag away, butfound that I couldn’t; Iremembered the way he hadsaid,“Peoplewilldie,” and Ithought that maybe I shouldat least look at what he’dgivenme. I hadn’t promised,

not exactly, but I had comecloseenough to feel guilty, Ithought,ifIdidn’tatleasttry.So I read them and then,because it seemed sopreposterous, I reread themandthenImadesomechecksand I found that everythinghe’d given me, every facthe’d written or copied orunderlined,wastrue.What follows is my

collationandrewritingof the

reportandthemessofpapers.It includes some of what Iwas told that overcastafternoon, and some things Ifound out later through myown research and throughinterviewing those peoplewho were prepared to talkwithme.IwasasthoroughasIcouldbeandwhatIpresenthere are the examples thathave the most evidence toback them up, are the most

provable, but bear in mind:this is not all. There are,literally, hundreds ofincidents and suspicions, andsuppositionsthatIcouldhaveincluded but haven’t forreasons of space or becausethere was no proof. What Ihave included here isverifiable;Ihavechecked theinformation aswell as I can,and what I present is asdetailedandaccurateasIcan

makeit.Ihaveusedfootnotestoprovide references (shouldspecificones exist) or to addadditional information and/orclarification. I started this byhopingtoprovideyouwithaninteresting story about aplace, nothing more, but ithas become somethingmuchbigger.What you make of the

followingisuptoyou.

Background

Alittlehistoryfirst:The Pennine Tower

Restaurant is located at themotorway service station(Forton Services) adjacent toJunction 33 of the M6motorway. It is 7 milesdistant from the village ofForton, south of Lancasterand around 7 miles north ofPreston. The restaurant is on

the northbound carriageway,although the service stationhassitesonbothsidesof theroad, linked by a coveredfootbridge.Constructionontheservice

station and the PennineTower Restaurant itselfstartedmidway through1964and was complete by early1965. Originally owned bythe Rank group, it was builtbecause of its position

(almost exactly halfwaybetween London andEdinburgh) to capitalise onboth the passing trade andalso to tap into the largenearby catchment areas ofLancaster, Preston andBlackpool (whoseinhabitants, it wasanticipated, would want totravel to the new, futuristrestauranttoenjoyitscutting-edgedesignandcosmopolitan

menu). Forton was designedby the London-based firmT.P.Bennett,whoallocatedthework to Architect in ChargeBill Galloway and JobArchitectRayAnderson;bothrecallastress-freebuild,withthe exception of the death ofone worker in a fallingincident.1The design of the

restaurant itself isanunusualoneandisclearlyofitstime;

a twenty-metre-tall2 steel-frame tower with twocantileveredfloors, the lowerproviding an enclosed diningarea and the upper anobservation platform. Accessto the restaurantwasvia twolifts and the spiral staircasethatencircledthem,whilsttherestaurant itself consisted of120seats inawaiter-assistedsilver service establishment.Tables were constructed

against theouterwall,givingunparalleled views of thesurrounding area. For thosewho preferred it, food couldalso be taken at Americandiner-style chairs liningcounters looking into thekitchens. In its day, thePennineTowerwasapopularestablishment, with peopletravelling from across thenorthwest just to experiencethis new dining experience

whilst enjoying the excellentviews.3Ultimately, many factors

workedagainstthesuccessofthe Pennine Tower, mostobviously the cost ofproviding a silver servicerestaurant that could not seatmore than120. Inanattemptto keep it operational, it wasconverted to a truckers’ rest-stop and staff roombut eventhis proved too expensive to

run and, in 1989, therestaurantclosed.Theclosureitselfwasduetotheproblemsassociated with evacuating120 people down a narrowspiralstaircaseintheeventofafireorotheremergency,andthe consequent refusal togrant a fire safety certificate.The cost of fixing this (byconstructing an external fireescape), along with the factthatasbestoshadbeenusedin

the original construction(which, although stable,needs removing if membersof the public are to beallowed back in) means thatthe building has not beenused as a public venue sinceitsclosure.The building was not

completely closed, however.Most of its fixtures andfittings were removed andplaced into storage and its

space was partitioned,enabling its use asadministrative offices. In2001itwasrefittedasastafftraining venue, a capacity inwhich it continued to serveuntil early 2008 when thetraining function wasrelocated and the PennineTower was, essentially,mothballed. It is currentlyusedforstorageonly.Whilst there are no current

plans to reopen the PennineTower Restaurant, this mayonedaychange;manypeoplebelieveitshouldbelistedasanational heritage site due toits uniqueness, and shouldthis happen the owners maybe forced to carry outrepairs/improvements. Inthese circumstances, theymay see this as a reasonableopportunity to make theinvestment needed to reopen

the venue as a viablebusiness. Also, as buildingmethods become moreadvanced(andoftencheaper),there is the increased chancethat reopening the restaurantwillbecomeaneconomicallyviable investmentopportunity. Already,preliminary investigationshave taken place intoreopeningjusttheobservationplatform.4 Although the cost

of this (somewhere in theregion of £300,000)5 isprohibitive in the currentfinancial climate, this maychange as constructiontechnology or the economyimproves.

1965tothePresent

There is another history forthePennineTower.Likemosthistories, it is made up of

small things, tiny pieces thatseemunrelated until they areplacedtogetherinaparticularway, revealing that they aresegments of a larger whole.This other history tells adifferent story about thePennine Tower Restaurant,oneofshadowsanddarknessand the conclusions itsuggests are bothuncomfortableanddifficulttoaccept. It is a history formed

into an apparent chain, onethatlinkseventtooccurrenceto suspicion andwhich leadsto somewhere I suspect fewofuswillwillinglygo.

October 1964: The Healthand Safety Executive reportintothedeathoftheworkman(DavidPrentiss)killedduringthe building of the towerfoundthatitwasanaccident,but witness statements taken

at the timeare interesting: “Ilooked up and saw Davebackingoutonto thescaffoldplatform.Hewasholdinghishandsoutinfrontofhimanddidn’t lookaround. I shoutedup, but it was like he didn’thear me. Even when he hitthescaffold,heneverstoppedmoving. He just sort ofslipped and fell. He nevereven lookedback.”6 Prentiss’foreman, George Toms,

described him that morning:“Dave was fine when hearrived, just as cheerful asever.Hewasoneofmybestworkers, always on time,knew what he was doing,never took risks, could betrusted to just get on. I senthim to the restaurant floor tocarryonputtingintheframesfor the windows, just likehe’d been doing for the lastfew days. I was in the

staircase, and about half pasteleven, I heard him shoutsomethingandthenscream.IwasjustwalkingupseewhattheproblemwaswhenIheardeveryoneelsestartscreamingandshoutingand I foundouthe’dfallen.”7

July 1965: On a sunnyWednesday afternoon, some27 people in the PennineTower spend ten minutes

listening to the “sound ofsomething grunting andbreathing like a largeanimal.”8The noise seems tocome from all around therestaurant at once. A fullsearch of the building iscarried out, but noexplanationforitisfound.

November 1966: Theobservation platform and thenarrow balcony that runs

around the outside of therestaurantfloor(forusewhenoutside access is required tocarry out repairs) are foundcoveredindeadbirds.Severalbreeds of bird are identifiedas being among the dead(including pigeons,blackbirds, sparrows andseagulls), and althoughseveral autopsies are carriedout by a local vet (BayVeterinary Services), no

cause of death is identified.The number of dead birds isestimated to be between oneandtwothousand.

February 1967: Therestaurant’s manager, OdetteWilkinson, isworking late intherestaurantwhenshehearsa sound like “faintbreathing”.9 She watches asthecontentsofaworksurface(including eggs, pans and

cups) slide to the floorwithout anyone or anythingtouching them. When shetries to leave the kitchen,Wilkinson finds she cannotopen thedoor.The breathinggets louder, to the pointwhere she is convinced thatsomeone is in the roomwithher. It is only when shescreams that the sound stopsand the door opens, bangingherfaceandcuttingherlip.

April 1968: Gina Reading,a cleaner, is found in theladies’toiletof therestaurantweeping uncontrollably. Shebecomes hysterical whenapproached, screaming aboutsomething “in the mirror,”onlycalmingdownwhensheis forcibly removed from thebuilding. She refuses toreenter the Pennine Towerand is allocated duties inother areas of Forton

Services. Previously a“happy, cheerful girl,”10 hermoodchangesdramaticallyinthe months following thisincident. In June 1969, Ginakillsherself.Hersuicidenotesays simply “I don’t want toseeitagain.”

September 1968: Twotruckers, Daniel Moffat andHarvey Allen, are in therestaurant at around three in

the morning. It is otherwisedeserted although Moffatthinks that there may havebeen “a cleaner and a cookaround.”11 Not wellacquainted, they do knoweachotherwellenough to sittogether and, according toMoffat, “...were chattingquite happily, just guys withsimilar concerns, the two ofus driving and away fromhome in the middle of the

night, when I heard a noise.I’m not sure that Harveyheard it at first, but I did.Jesus, it was horrible. It waslike a grunting sound, likesomething massive was inthere with us. I was lookingaround when I hear Harveysay,‘What’sthat?’andIsaidsomething like, ‘I don’tknow, can you hear it too?’andthenheshouted. I turnedback to the table in time to

see him stand up and backaway. He looked frightened.No, not frightened, terrified.Hewas lookingatsomethingbehindmeandbackingawayfrom the table, staring at thewindow. He dropped hiscoffee and knocked over hischair,andallthetimeIcouldhear the noise, the sound ofsomething panting orgruntingfromallaroundus.Idon’tmeanitwasechoing,or

it was hard to tell where itwas coming from, I mean itsounded like it was comingfrom everywhere at once. Ilookedaroundagain,toseeifIcouldseewhatHarveywasseeing,but therewas just theempty restaurant and thosebig windows looking out sothat you could see the roadand the lights of the cars astheywentalongit.“Harveyshoutedagainand

I looked back around and hehad fallen over and was onthe floor and I knew hewashaving a heart attack orsomething. He’d gone red,bright red, he was twitchingandhe’dgot spitcoming outof the corner of hismouth. Ishouted for help but it wasuseless. He was dead inseconds, and that fuckingsound just carried on, allaround me like something

washugeandhungry.”12The coroner’s report into

thedeathfindsthatAllenhadsuffered a massive heartattack, despite having beengivenacleanbillofhealthbyhisGP only twoweeks priortohisdeath.

August 1969: Alice Pearlstops for a meal in thePennine Tower Restaurant.She is seen eating whilst

seatedatoneofthetablesthatlooksout over theTroughofBowland, and has not beenseen since.None of the staffor customers see her leave.HercarisfoundabandonedinLancaster several days laterwith a driver’s side windowbroken and steering columndamaged. Alice was asometime prostitute withknown mental healthproblems, and the police put

herdisappearancedownto“achaotic lifestylecoupledwitha desire not to be found.”13TheinvestigationintoAlice’sdisappearance lasts only afew days, and is carried outby an inexperienced juniorofficer.

March 1971: GeorgeHarrison gives an interviewinwhichhestates:“Therearesome places you go, you

know, that aren’t happy.There’snothingyoucanpointto, nothing obvious, they’rejust miserable, unhealthyplacesfullofnegativeenergyor worse. We used to go tosomewhere, the four of us,anddrinkcoffeeandlookoutat the hills and the sea andenjoy the view, but westoppedbecauseIalwaysleftfeeling horrible. John too. Iused to think things like that

were only in old buildings,ghosts and the like, but Iknow different now. Agedoesn’t matter, there areplaces in the world that arejustwrong.”14

November 1974: JenniferAshe and her daughter,Rosemary,stopatFortonandvisit the Pennine TowerRestaurant to eat. Jennifer ismoving from Liverpool to

Carlisle to escape an abusivehusband, but vanishes fromthe toilet of the restaurant.Rosemary is found in acubicle by herself, her pantsaround her ankles and sittingin a puddle of urine. She islater diagnosed as being insevereshockandevenassherecovers, the only thing shewill say is “teeth.” She iseventually committed to along-stay mental institution,

where she still remains. Notrace of Jennifer is everfound. Suspicion initiallyfalls on Jennifer’s estrangedhusband,Rory,buthehasanalibiforthetimeofJennifer’sdisappearance. No chargesareeverbrought.15

December 1976: NickBirchill vanishes mid-shiftfrom his job as a cleaner inthe Pennine Tower

Restaurant.Heisseenat2:20a.m. by two customers, whostate that he seems cheerfuland that he spoke to them,commiseratingwiththemthatthey were visiting therestaurantinthemiddleofthenightandsoweremissingtheviews. He goes out of sight,following the curve of thewall and mopping the floor.Perhaps five minutes later,the two customers hear a

“terrible scream”16 and thesound of something fallingover. When they investigate,Birchill’smopisfoundonthefloorandhisoverturnedmopbucket next to it. Beside thespilledwater are three dropsofblood.Police later discover that

Birchillwasinaconsiderabledebt and come to theconclusion that he ran toescape his debtors. Several

months later, on 16th April1977, a badly burned anddecomposedbodyisfoundinthe Lancaster Canal.Although its teeth have beendamagedand its featuresandfingerprintsmostlydestroyed,it is similar enough in shapeandbuildforpolicetodecidethat it is Birchill and,accordingly, the casebecomes a murderinvestigation, although one

which makes little progress.In early 2003, followingrepeated applications fromBirchill’s mother, police testthebody’sDNAanddiscoverthatit isnot,infact,Birchill.The case is reopened as amissingperson’s enquiryanddespite a high profilerelaunch, including anappearance in a segment ofthe BBC TV showCrimewatch,17 no witnesses

are found and no newinformation discovered. Thecaseremainsopen.

March 1978—TheMaracott Photograph: Johnand Irene Maracott aretravelling from Dundee toBristol with their childrenLucyandMark.Whilsteatingin the restaurant, they askanothercustomertotaketheirphotograph.Whendeveloped,

the photograph shows someunexpected details. Althoughat first dismissed by theMaracottsasfaultyfilm,theyeventually show the pictureand the camera it was takenontoafriend,whopersuadesthem to share it with thepress. Initially printed by thelocal paper, it is quicklyreprinted around the worldand is the subject of muchdebateinboththemainstream

press and specialistphotographic and paranormalinterest publications. Aninitial investigation carriedoutat theKodak laboratorieson both the picture andcamera finds that there is“...no evidence of tamperingor fakery.”18 Variousexplanations for thephotograph are put forward,includingthat it isacomplexhoax by the Maracotts

themselves (with or withoutthe aid of the person whotook the picture, who hasnever been publicallyidentified) or a weatherinversion of some kind thatcaused heat patterns to formon the glass. It is alsosuggested that the imagescould be sunlight reflectingon puddles in the car park.Kodak dismisses all of thesesuggestions.19

In the early eighties, JohnMaracottsellsthepicturetoaprivate picture library whichlicences its use strictly andrefusestoallowitsreleaseforfurther investigation.20 Mostpeople who have seen andstudied thepicture agree thatit shows something, althoughthey disagree preciselywhat.In the picture, the Maracottsareseatedatoneofthetables,facing away from the

windows and towards thecamera. All are smiling, andareframedby thewindow.Itis a bright day, and the viewthrough the window shouldbeexcellentbutitisobscuredby what look like faces.There are three, two femaleand one male, apparentlyprinted on the glass behindthe group. All three haveopenmouthsandclosedeyesand appear to be in torment.

Around the edges of thewindow frame are furthershapes on the glass: jagged,uneventrianglesthatlooknotunlike shark’s teeth. Thefamily are insistent that thewindowwas unmarkedwhenthephotographwastakenandthat they saw no images ontheglass.

June 1980: Travellingsalesman Martin James is

found on a sunny afternoonhalfway down the spiralstaircase, curled into a balland weeping. He becomesviolentwhenstafftrytomovehim and both the police andambulanceservicearecalled,finallyhavingtoinjectJameswithatranquiliserbeforetheycan calm him enough toremove him from thebuilding.Onceathospital,hetellsthisstory:21

I picked the hitchhiker upsomewhere outside of Boltonand she told me that shewantedtogotoScotland.ShesaidhernamewasMary,butI thought it probably wasn’ther real name. She was likelots of them, children tryingto be adults, and sheremindedmeofmydaughter.She looked so hungry and Isaid I’d buy her some food.Allthroughthemealshekept

tellingmethatshecouldheara funny noise. I mean, Icouldn’t hear anything and Ithought she was just havingsomesortofdrugreaction,orshewashigh.She looked thesort,all thin andwasted andpathetic, like she needed agood hug and a warm bathandsomeone to loveherandtell her everythingwas okay,youknow?

Anyway, it got to thepointwhere she wouldn’t stay inthe restaurant anymore so Isaid we’d go and I followedherout.Shewouldn’tusethelifts, instead she went downthestairsandshewasnearlyrunning. She kept saying shecould still hear it, and I said“What?What?”andshesaid“Theanimal”andthen I lostsightofherforjustasecond.Shegotabitfaraheadofme,

disappearedaroundthecurveof the staircase. I couldn’thearheratallandwhenIgotthere, she’d gone. I went allthe way to the bottom of thestairsandthenlookedaroundthe shops and car park andwentbacktotheplaceonthestairswhere I’d seenher buttherewasnosignofher.AsIstood there, wonderingwhether she’d just run fast,found another lift before I

sawher,Iheardsomethingabit like a choking sound andit sounded like her, and justfor a minute I heardsomething else, somethinglike the growls of a lion orwolforsomething,somethingthat’smalicious, thateats forfun and not just for food. Iturned to go down the stairsand it was below me so Iturned to go up and it wasaboveme and all aroundme

and then I don’t remembermuch till I woke up in thehospitalbed.

Although the policeinvestigate,theyfindnotraceof a hitchhiker and no oneremembersseeingJameswitha girl. However, hisdescription of her is accurateenoughforsomeinvestigatorsto believe that James hadpicked up Denise Arron.

Arron is reported missingseveral weeks after theincident with James at therestaurant, having been lastseenleavingherhomeon theday of the incident after anargument, and has not beenseensince.Sheclaimedatthetime that she was going “toScotland,” which she hasdone before, staying with afriend for “a week or two”22before getting in contact.

Arron has never been found,and (despitebeing repeatedlyinvestigated and questionedbythepoliceinrelationtothedisappearance) James stickstohisstoryfor theremainderof his life, going as far as torepeat it on a documentaryabout missing teenagersshownbyITVin1993,23twoyearsbeforehisdeath.

October 1982: Gordon

Harrow vanishes from thetoilets of the Pennine TowerRestaurant;he is6yearsold.Hisparentswatchasheentersthetoilet,andbothhismotherand father (Mary andFrederick)keepwatchon theouter door leading to thecubicles. Both insist thatGordon does not come out,andnooneelseenterswhilstthey watch. After tenminutes, Frederick goes to

find Gordon but discoversthat all the cubicles areempty. He alerts therestaurant manager, whoimmediately instigates a fullsearch of the restaurant andtherestofthesite,tonoavail.The police are called, whoalsosearch.Duringthecourseof the next three weeks, themotorway is shut severaltimesasover1000policeandvolunteers are organised into

one of the biggest missingperson hunts (includingfingertips searches of thesurrounding grounds androads) that Lancashire hasknown.RumoursaboundthatGordon has been taken by“gypsies” or “travellers,”stories seized upon “by anational press keen to attackthe increasing influx offoreign nationals and otherperceived ‘undesirables’ into

Britain.”24 No evidence ofthis is found, however, andGordon’s parents eventuallybecome themain suspects intheir son’s disappearance“solely because no othersuspects have beenidentified.”25 They areinvestigated by anincreasingly desperate policeforce, and are questioned atlength in the final week ofOctober.Themediainterview

a local psychic, MadameRowena, who states thatGordonis“screaming”andis“somewhere close to therestaurant.”26 The policedismiss her claims, althoughthe media continue tointerview Madame Rowenawhenever the case ismentioned. No trace ofGordonis foundandhe joinsAlice, Jennifer and Nick asone of the region’s unsolved

disappearances.

October 1985: Britainsuffers its worst motorwaycrash since the motorwayswere first opened when 13people are killed and manymore are seriously injuredwhen a coach and ten carscollide close to Junction 33and within sight of thePennine Tower Restaurant.The incident happens on a

clear, sunny day around sixhundred yards before a pointwhere themotorway narrowsdue to two closed lanes. Thesubsequent investigation andreport state that the accidentwascausedbyacombinationof excessive speed andpossible mechanical faultswith one or more vehicles.However,in1992,oneofthesurvivors goes on record tostate that these are not the

only reasons: “I was severalcarsbackfromthecoachandthe car in the lanenext to it,and we weren’t going thatfast. Suddenly the car aheadstarts to wobble and veeracross the lane. I saw thecoach shift to get out of thecar’s way, but it wasn’t fastenough.Thenextthingisthetwocrash intoeachotherbutbeforetheyhittogether,Isawpeople on the coach pointing

upatthatbuildingatthesideoftheroad,theonethatlookslike a Frisbee on a pole. Ididn’t see anything myself,becauseIwastoobusytryingto avoid hitting the car infrontofme.”27Other survivors of the

accident have, generally, notwished to speak about theirexperiences—of the 7remaining alive andcontactable, none agreed to

go on the record about whatthey saw or heard.However,onedidagreetospeakonthecondition that their identitybe hidden. They claim28 that“there was something wrongwith the windows of therestaurant. Iwas looking outof the car window and Ihappened to look up at [it]and the windows were grey,darker than they should havebeen, and it looked like they

were moving, that the edgeswere flexible and ragged.Spikey. I went to saysomething to [the driver] buthe’d already seen it.When Ilooked again, the windowslooked huge, like they hadopened up and they werecompletelyblack.Iknowthatthis must sound stupid, butit’s the truth of what I saw.The windows had gone,somehow, and in their place

wereopenings.Ican’texplainitanybetterthanthat.”

August 1989: Workmenconverting the restaurant tooffices following its closurefind badly mutilated cats’bodies on the observationfloor,alongwiththebonesofbirdsandat leastonedog.Apolice veterinary surgeonidentifiespiecesfromat least17 different cats, although

noneofthecorpses iswhole.Thecrimeisblamedon“localteens,”29 despite the fact thatthe doors were locked uponthe workmen’s arrival andthere is no evidence of abreak-in. How the animalsgot to the top of the towerremains a mystery, and nooneischarged.

July 1991: Two bloodyhandprints are discovered on

the inside wall of therestaurant below a window,and a further smear of bloodisdiscoveredcovering7stepsof the staircase between theground and restaurant floorsof the tower. The blood istested and found to be ofanimal origin. Police dismissthe blood as “a prank” andblame“universitystudents.”30

November 1993: During

the morning session of atraining day, trainees areconstantly interrupted by thesound of low growling.During the 10 to 15 minutesof the lunch break that theroom is unoccupied one ofthe white boards in thetraining room is vandalisedbeyond repair, having beencracked and splintered andcovered in “slimy liquid.”One trainee says that the

board looks “chewed.”Despite the level of damageinflictedon theboard (whichis torn from the wall soforcefully that the pieces ofthepartitionwallarealsotornloose) and their proximity tothe room, none of thedelegates hears anything. Aninternalinvestigationputsthedamage down to “probabletrespassers,” despite the factthat no one on site that day

recalls seeing anyonesuspicious-looking.31

June1999: NayanGowda,a freelance photographer, isphotographing the PennineTower for a proposed articleon ’60s architecture for themagazine ArchitecturalReview. He takes 133photographs during his visitto the tower, but finds whenhedevelops themthatalmost

allareentirelyblackorblackand grey. In two, takentowards the windows “ashape like a shark’s jaw”32canbeseen.33

November 2004: GaryYoung is carrying out a siteinspection on the mostlydisused building for theHealth and Safety Executivewhen he stops to ring hiswife,Lorna. In themiddleof

the call, Lorna hears Youngsay “What’s that?”presumably in response tosomething he has heard orseen. There is a brief pauseandthenhescreamsonceanddropshis phone.Lorna hearssounds she describes as “adragging noise and a roar”andthenherhusbandscreamsagain.Panicked,Lornabreaksthecalloffandtelephonesthepolice, who have an officer

on the scene withinminutes.Young’s phone is found onthe floor of the formerrestaurant’s kitchen area,andnearby are streaks in the dirtanddust on the floor.Youngis found in the elevator,unconscious and battered.When he awakes, he claimsto remember nothing abouthisordealandisdiagnosedassuffering from severeconcussion.

Several weeks later ahomeless man with mentalhealth problems, NeilMcDonagh, is arrested atForton and charged withdrunkenness and publicdisorder offences. He is aregularvisitortothecafeandshops of the service station,and further investigationsshowhewastherethedayofthe Young attack. He ischarged with actual bodily

harm in relation to thisincident. McDonagh, whilstneverdenyinghispresenceinthe abandoned restaurant onthe day of the attack, stateshis innocence and claims,consistently, that he sawYoung attacked by “a greatblack thing from the wallsandwindows”.34Whenaskedto draw what he saw by hispsychiatrist, he draws apicture of what looks like a

crude mouth with large,uneven teeth. The picture isused as evidence during histrial, at which he is foundguilty and remanded to thecustody of a securepsychiatricunit.35

February 2006:Paramedics are called toattendtoadeliverymanwhohas had an asthma attackwhilst carrying crates up to

the first floor of the PennineTower.Oneparamedicleavesthe tower shortly afterarriving and refuses toreenter, saying only that shefeels “stalked” in thebuilding.

April 2007: During one ofthe regular inspectionsof thesite, a large pool of liquid isfound in the restaurant. Itproves tobeamixofanimal

blood, cholesterol,glycocholic and taurocholicacids and lecithin.36 Thesource of the liquid is notfound.

Conclusion

Even faced with thediscovery that the incidentsmy ex-colleague had writtenabout in his notes and report

were true, I did not believethat his conclusions werecorrect. After all, how couldthePennineTowerRestaurantbe a danger to anyone whostepped inside it? It’s abuilding, after all, aconstruction of concrete andsteelandglassandwood,andnothing else. Looking at theseparate events, I was struckby how easy it is to takerandom things and make

them into a chain, creatinglinks that do not exist. Oncethatisdoneeverything seemsto fit into the pattern youhave imposed upon what is,essentially, patternless. Whyaretherefewerincidentsafterthe restaurant closes to thepublic in the late 1980s?Because there are fewerpeople there in total orbecause there is a moresinister explanation? Are

those incidents that haveoccurred since it closed thenormal vandalism anyisolated, underused buildingundergoes, or are they resultof more malign forcesworking?Andsoitgoes.It is easy to see how

psychosis starts. Anunfortunate coincidence, aseries of events or bad luck,get woven into a thread thatimplies a consciousness, a

directedness, rather than thesimple blind chaos of auniverse that has no guidinghand to oversee it nor grandplan to guide it. Once youhave an idea that a patternexists, everything starts to fitthe pattern. It even has aname,confirmation bias, andeven then, it was what Ibelievedwashappeninghere.The things that had occurredat the Pennine Tower

Restaurant over the yearswere, I told myself, a seriesof unrelated tragedies andmysteriesandnotrelated.Goto any place and I am sureyou’d find a similar set ofoccurrences, particularly inplaces around roads andmotorways which, by theirverynature,implymovementand travel, escape andrelocation.Myex-colleague’sideas were nonsense, a dark

fairy story created bysomeone struggling to makesense of a world that waschaotic and threatening.Opening the Pennine Tower(assuming the asbestos andfire regulation issues whichhad led to its closure in thefirst place could be solved)wouldbenomoredangerousthan opening any otherrestaurant. However, twoseparate press reports

changedmymind.In late 2008, the Museum

of Lancashire opened anexhibition celebrating thedevelopment of the Britishmotorwaysystem.Oneoftheexhibitswasare-creationofasectionofthePennineTowerRestaurant, using an originaltable and chairs, tiles, platesandcutleryandevenasectionoftheoriginalflooring,allofwhich had been in storage

since the late eighties orearlier. On 19th December,Malcolm Skilling visited theexhibit with his wife, Genie.He was particularly excitedabout the Forton section,having been a professionaldriver before retiring andtherefore remembering thePennine Tower well. Justbeforethemuseumclosedforthe night, Genie went to thetoilet,leavingMalcolmatthe

Pennine Tower exhibit. TheLancashire Evening Postreportedthat:

Byherreckoning,Genie was awayfor no more thanfive minutes.When shereturned,Malcolm hadvanished.Acheckwiththeguardon

the front deskshowed thatMalcolm had notleft the museumby that exit, andnone of theemergency exitshad been openedor alarmstriggered. Athorough searchof the museumrevealed no sign

of Malcolmexcept for hisbag, which waslyingon the floorbythetableinthePennine TowerRestaurantexhibit. Despiteintensiveinvestigations, notrace of him hasbeen found andpolice are

growingincreasinglyconcerned for hissafety.37

I think that I might evenhave dismissed this, put itdown to chance, were it notfor thesecondarticle.Icameacross it severalmonthsafterreading through the papersandcuttingsgiven tome thatfirstdayinthecarpark.Ithas

alteredmyperceptionofwhathasbeenhappening,mademethink more seriously abouttheimportanceofwhatIhavewritten.In summer of 2009, the

motorway exhibition movedfromtheLancashireMuseumto Lancaster’s smallermuseum.Severalweekslater,in a light-hearted pieceentitled “It’s Official!Lancashire Is the Most

Haunted County in theCountry!”38publishedonJuly23rd, it was reported that aguard carrying out hisovernight rounds in themuseum had heard a strangesound, which followed himfor the duration of his hour-long patrol. It was, he says,like the “breathing of a hugedog.”Thisisnotfiction.

SimonKurtUnsworthSeptember2009

________________

1 Not uncommon in the 1960s, aperiod when health and safetyregulationswerelessstringentthantoday.2Original plans had the height ofthetowerat33metres,butthiswasreduced by 13 metres by theplanning committee of the localcouncil. The tower is constructedto allow the addition of a thirdfloor, should permission ever be

given.3 It is well known that, early intheir career, the Beatles oftentravelledtothePennineTowerasitwas one of the only places in theNorth West that offered thecosmopolitan experience of speed,travelandcappuccinos.4The current owners have deniedthis,althoughtheydidtellmethatit is something that they mayconsider as they get "5 or 6"requests a day to visit the towerfrom people who stop at theservicestationbelow.

5Alsodenied.6 Statement given to police byfellow workman Alex Scott,October13th1964, releasedunderFreedom of Information Actregulations.7 Statement given to police byForeman George Toms, October13th 1964, released under theFreedom of InformationActregulations.8 Manager of the restaurantMichael Lovell, quoted inLancaster Guardian, "StrangeSounds in New Restaurant Baffle

Diners,"July22nd1965,p.5.9 Rank Group Accident Report#271,HealthandSafetyExecutive,released under the Freedom ofInformationAct.10 Desmond Reading, Gina'sfather, interviewed by SKU,January2009.11Inconversationwiththeauthor,January2009.12 Statement given at LancasterCoroner'sCourt,December1968.13Police statement quoted inTheVisitor,August21st1969,p.3.

14Missionmagazine,Vol.1,Issue2, "Harrison Up Close andPersonal,"April1971,p.31–33.15 One of the survivinginvestigating officers, DI AndrewCharlesworthy (Ret.), toldme (onNovember11th2008):"Thiswasadisappearance thatmadeno sense,none. Jenny was a hard-working,stable woman, she loved her kid,she was well-liked and happybecauseshe'descapedthehusband.Weknewsomethinghadhappenedto her, but for the life of us, wecouldn't find out what. We never

found anything that pointed ustowardssomeone.Imean,wewereso convinced it was the husband,but his alibi was cast iron,watertight. It still bothers me. Iwonderwhathappened,whereshewent and what happened to makethatpoorkidsodamaged."16 Transcript of police statement,released under Freedom ofInformationAct.17 Broadcast date August 22nd2003.18 Internal scientific report,Kodak,March1976,quotedinThe

Times,May22nd1979.19 Also from the Kodak reportquotedinTheTimes.20 I was unable to licence thepicture for inclusion here becauseof the costs involved, althoughanyone interested in seeing it cando so relatively easily. Severalscansofit(ofvaryingquality)canbe foundonline, although thebestreproduction of it remains the onecontained in the now out-of-print Photographs of theSupernatural World (CharlesBramley,EdgingtonPress,1979).

21 Transcript of police statement,released under Freedom ofInformationAct.22 Statement of EliseMainwairing, Denise's friend, topolice, repeated in conversationwiththeauthor.23 Lost Children, ITV/Philipspictures, first shown May 26th1993,Dir.EdwardHampson.24 "Investigating theInvestigations: How the MediaHelps and Hinders the Police inMissing Persons' Cases," Dyer etal, Community Care Magazine,

July2001.25 DCI Eric Banning, LancashireConstabulary (Ret.) during atelephone conversation with me,May20th2009.26LancasterGuardian,November2nd 1982, widely quoted bynationalpressintheweeksafter.27 Paul Gallagher, quoted inAccidents and Causes: MotorwayDriving and Safety and the UK,Chapter 6: Fortan and Beyond,DysonandPimblett,UniversityofManchester,1992.28 In an email to me, dated

January11th2009.29LancasterGuardian,August5th1989.30 Statement to the press by DIAndrew Bellamy, LacashireConstabulary,August1st,1991.31 All Quotes from IncidentReport #342 (Company records,held at HSE, releasedunder Freddom of InformationAct).32 Nayan Gowda, quoted inForteanTimes,September2000.33Bothphotographscopyrightthe

Fortean Picture Library:www.forteantimes.com34 Court Transcript, Crown vsMcDonagh,March2005.35Permissiontoreprintthepicturehere was refused by McDonagh'sfamily.36Commoningredientsinbile.37 Lancashire Evening Post,"Local Man Still Missing,"December22nd,p.3.38 Lancaster Guardian, "It'sOfficial! Lancashire Is the MostHauntedCounty in theCountry!,"

July23rd,p.6&7.

DistressCallCONNIEWILLIS

ConnieWillisisaninternationallyknown science fiction author andthe winner of an unprecedentedtotalofsevenNebulaAwardsandeleven Hugo Awards, and is thefirstauthortohaveeverwonbothawards in all four fiction

categories. In 2009 she wasinducted into the Science FictionHall of Fame, and in 2012 wasnamedaNebulaGrandMasterofsciencefiction.

Willis is the author ofDoomsday Book, winner of theNebulaandHugoawardsforBestScience Fiction Novel; Lincoln’sDreams, winner of the John W.CampbellAwardforBestScienceFictionNovel;Remake;UnchartedTerritory; Bellwether; To SayNothing of theDog,winner of theHugo Award for Best Science

Fiction Novel, and Passage; andthe short story collections FireWatch, Impossible Things, Miracleand Other Christmas Stories, andTheWindsofMarbleArch,butsheis probably most famous for hershort stories, including “FireWatch,” “Even the Queen,” and“TheLastoftheWinnebagos.”

Her most recent novel is theNebula- andHugo-winning two-volumeworkentitledBlackoutandAllClear, a time-travel saga set inWorld War II, in themiddle ofthe evacuation of Dunkirk, the

intelligence war, and the LondonBlitz.

She is currently working on anew novel about iPhones,Facebook, tweeting, andtelepathy. It is, of course, acomedy.

Caroline was not in the

room. Amy could hear hercrying somewhere down thehall. Her crying soundedlouder,asthoughsomeother,

all-pervading sound hadsuddenly ceased. “Theengines have stopped,” Amythought. “Wearedead in thewater. Something hashappened,” she thought.“Somethingterrible.”She had gone to get

Caroline,togetheroutofthishouse, and Caroline had runfrom her, sobbing in terror.Had run fromAmy, her ownmother. She had found

Caroline with the women,clinging onto their graydrifting skirts. They haddressed her like themselves.“When did they do that?”Amy thought frightenedly. “Ihaveletthingsgotoofar.”She had said firmly, so

they wouldn’t know howfrightenedshewas,“Getyourthings together,Caroline.Wearegoinghome.”“No!” Caroline had

screamed,hidingbehindtheirskirts. “I’m afraid. You’llhurtmeagain.”“Hurt you?” Amy said,

bewildered and then furious.“Hurt you? Who has beentelling you that, that Iwouldhurt you?” She reachedangrily into the protectivecircle of the women forCaroline’s hand. “What haveyou been telling her?” shedemanded.

Debra stepped forward,graceful as a ghost in thedrifting gray, and smiled atAmy. “She wanted to knowwhy she got so sick at thepicnic,”shehadsaid.Amy had had to hold her

handsstifflyagainstherbodytokeepfromslappingDebra.“What did you tell her?” shehad said, and Caroline hadshotpasther,outthedooranddownthehalltotheparlor.

Caroline had hidden underthe big séance table in theparlor.Amyhadgottendownon her knees and crawledtoward her, but Caroline hadbacked away from her untilshewasalmosthiddenbythemassive legs of the carvedchair.Amyhadcrawledoutfrom

under the table so shewouldnotfrightenher,andsquattedback on her heels, her arms

extended to the six-year-old.Caroline stayed huddledbehindthechair.“Comehere,Caroline,”shehadwhispered,horrified that she should bereducedtohavingtosaysucha thing, “I won’t hurt you,honey.”Caroline shook her head,

thetearsstillwetonherface.“You’ll poison me again,”she whispered. Amy couldhardlyhearher.

“Poison?”Amywhispered.Caroline in her arms anddying,andthenJim,carryingher across the park to thehouse,sherunningafterhim,her heart pounding, runninghere because the policestationwas on the other sideof theparkandshehadbeenafraid Caroline would diebeforeJimgother there. Jimcarrying her here, to thishouse, which was so much

closer. To these people.Thinking hysterically asIsmay took Caroline’s limpbody from Jim’s arms, “Weshould not have brought herhere.”“Somebodypoisonedyou,”

Amy had said, and knew itwas true. She had been soshocked that for a longminuteshehadnotbeenableto say anything. She’dcrossed her hands on her

breast as if she had beenwounded there andwhispered, so quietly someonestandingbehindhercouldnot have heard her, her lipsmoving in almost silentprayer, “I would never hurtyou,Caroline.Iloveyou.”

The sound of Caroline’scrying was louder again, asthough someone had openeda door. “I must go find

Caroline,”shesaidaloud,andtried to keep that bravethought in her mind as shewent out the open doortoward the sound of thecrying. But before shereached the roomwhere theyhadCaroline, shewas sayingover and over, like a prayer,“Something terrible hashappened, something terriblehashappened.”She stopped, standing in

the open door, and lookedback toward the parlor. Thelampsinthehallwaveredlikecandles and then steadied,dimmer thanbefore.Thehallwasicy.“Ishouldgobackformy coat,” Amy thought. “Itwill be cold on deck.” Andthen the other thought, evencolder,“Imustn’tgointhere.Something terrible hashappenedintheparlor.”

Ismay had taken her into theparlor to wait while thedoctor saw Caroline. Amyhadbeenstandingat the footof the wide stairs, clutchingthe newel post, trying not tothink, “She’s going to die,”for fear she would know itwastrue.“Don’t give up hope,” one

ofthegray-hairedwomenhadsaid,pattingAmy’s clenchedhands as she went up the

stairswithablanket.Shewasdressed in the floating grayall the women, even theyoung one, wore. They hadclusteredlikespectresaroundCaroline’s limp body, andAmyhad thought, “It’s somekindofcult.Ishouldn’thavebrought her here.” But theyoung one—Debra, Jim hadcalled her—had goneimmediately for the doctor.Debra had led the doctor up

the stairs past Amy, saying,“The little girl collapsed inthepark.Theywerehavingapicnic.Herfatherbroughtherhere,” and she had soundedso normal, in spite of thedrifting ghost’s dress, thatAmy had begun to hopeagain.“Hopepersists,doesn’tit?”

someone said behind her.“Even with the most blatantevidencetothecontrary.”

“What do you mean?”Amy stammered. This wasthe man Jim had calledIsmay. Debra and Ismay.How had he known theirnames?“Did you know,” he said,

“itwasnearlyanhourbeforethepassengerson theTitanicknew that she was sinking?Thentheylookeddownatthelightsstillshiningunderneaththewateron the lowerdecks

and said, ‘How pretty! Doyou think perhapswe shouldgetintoalifeboat?’”Amy was very frightened

at what this talk of sinkingships might mean, and shehalf-started up the stairs, buthis hand closed over hers onthe banister, and he said,“Theywon’tletyouupthere.The doctor’s still with her.And your husband.” Hemoved his hand to her arm

andledherintotheparlor.“Caroline’s dead,” she

thought numbly, and lookedunseeinglyattheparlor.“Thebodyislikeaship.It

doesnotdie all at once. It isstruck by death, the fataliceberg brushing past, but itdoes not sink for severalhours.And all that time, thepassengerswander thedecks,sendingoutS.O.S.’storescueships that never come. Have

youeverseenaghost?”“There were survivors on

the Titanic,” Amy said, herheart pounding so hard ithurt.“Helpcame.”“Ah, yes,” Ismay said.

“The Carpathia steamedboldly up at four in themorning. Captain Rostronstumbled about among theicebergs for nearly an hour,thinkinghewasinthewrongplace. He was too late. She

wasalreadygone.”“No,” Amy said, and she

knew from the panickedsound of her heart that thisconversation was not aboutsinking ships at all. “Theyweren’t too late for thelifeboats.”“A few first-class

passengers,”Ismaysaid,asifthe survivors did not matter.“Did you know that all thechildren in steerage

drowned?”Amydidnothearhim.She

had turned away from himandwaslookingattheparlor.“What?”shesaidblankly.“Isaid,theCalifornianwas

only ten miles away. Shethought their flares werefireworks.”“What?” she said again,

and tried togetpasthim,buthe was behind her, betweenher and the door, and she

could not get out. “What isthis place?” she said, andcould not hear her voiceabovethesoundofherheart.

Amy stood in the doorway,lookingbacktotheparlor.“Imust go back there,” shethought clearly. “Somethingterrible has happened in theparlor.”“Mama!” Caroline said,

and Amy turned and looked

inthroughtheopendoor.The women stood

motionless around the littlegirl, their hands reaching outawkwardly to comfort her,Debra kneeling at her feet.“They should be getting herlifebelt on,” Amy thought.“Theymustgetherup to theboatdeck.”CarolineheldoutherarmsinjoytowardAmy.Amy said, “We’re going

home now, Caroline.” But

before she finished saying it,one of the women said, notinterrupting but insteadsuperimposing her wordsover Amy’s so that Amycouldnothearherownvoice,“Yourmother’sgone,darling.Shecan’thurtyounow.”“Sheisnotgone,”Caroline

said.Thethreewomenlookedup at the little girl and thenanxiouslyatoneanother.“You miss her, of course,

but she’s happy now. Youmustforgetallthebad thingsandthinkofthat,”Debrasaid,patting Caroline’s hand.Caroline yanked her handawayimpatiently.“Do you think we should

giveherasedative?”saidthewomanwhohadspokenfirst.“Ismay said she might bedifficultatfirst.”“Caroline,” Amy said

loudly.“Comehere.”

“No,” said Debra, and atfirst Amy thought she wasansweringher,but shedidn’treachouttorestrainCaroline,and her voice sounded as ithad when she was playingghost at the séance. “Perhapsshedoesseehermother.”Ashudder, like the sudden

settling of a ship, wentthroughthewomen.“Caroline?” Debra asked

carefully. “Where is your

mother?”“Right there,” Caroline

said,andpointedatAmy.The women turned and

looked at the doorway.“Perhaps she does seesomething,” Debra said. “Ithink we should tell Ismay,”and she went out the doorpast Amy and down the halltotheparlor.“Oh,somethingterriblehas

happenedintheparlor,”Amy

thought,“andIsmayhasdoneit.”The parlor was the room

she had seen from the park.HandingCarolineherglassofmilk, she had looked at theheavy gray drapes in thewindowsandwonderedwhatthe gaudy Victorian housewas like inside. She hadimagined it like this room,richwoods and faded carpet,buttheroomtheyhadhurried

Caroline into upstairs wasbarren, a folding cot, graywalls, and she had thoughtagain, “The house has beentaken over by some kind ofcult.”Near the windows was a

large round table with chairsarounditandcandlesburningin a candelabra in the center.One of the chairs was moremassive than the others andheavily carved. “The

captain’s table,” she thought,thinking of theTitanic, “andthecaptainsitsinthatchair.”She had turned away from

Ismay, and in turning, seenwhat was behind her, dimlywhite in the darkness of theroom. An iceberg. Acatafalque. A bier. “I haveseen it too late,” Amythought, and tried to get pastIsmay,buthewasatthedoor.“The Titanic went down

very fast,” he said. “A littleunder two-and-a-half hours.People usually take longer.Ghosts have been seen foryears afterwards, although itismyexperiencethattheygodowninamatterofhours.”“What is thisplace?”Amy

said.“Whoareyou?”“I am a man who sees

ghosts, a spiritualist,” Ismaysaid, andAmynearly faintedwithrelief.

“Youholdyour séances inhere,” she said, relieved outofallproportiontohiswords.“Yousitinthischairandcallthe ghosts,” she said giddily,sitting down in the carvedchair. “Come to us from theother side and all that. HaveyoueverhadaghostfromtheTitanic?”“No,” he said, coming

around to face her. “EveryghostishisownTitanic.”

He made her uneasy. Shestood up and looked out thewindow.Across the park shecould see the police station,andshewasovercomebythesame wild relief. The policewithin signaling distance andthedoctorupstairs,andalltheghostly ladies only harmlesstableturners who wanted totalktotheirdeadhusbands.Inthis roomIsmaywouldmakethe windows blow open and

the candles go out, hewouldcause ghosts to hover abovethe catafalque, their handsfoldedpeacefullyacross theirbreasts, and what, what hadshebeenafraidof?“I had a progenitor on the

Titanic,” he said. “Rather acad actually. He made it offin one of the first boats.DidyouknowthattheTitanicwasthe first ship to use theinternational distress signal?

AndtheCalifornian,onlytenmilesaway,wouldhavebeenthe first to receive it, ahistoric occasion, but thewirelessoperatorhadalreadygone to bed when the firstmessageswentout.”“The Carpathia heard,”

Amy had said, and hadwalked past him and out thedoor,togotowhereCarolinewas already getting better.“CaptainRostroncame.”

“Therewere ice reportsallday,”Ismayhadsaid,“buttheTitanicignoredthem.”

Amy leaned against the wallafter Debra passed, pressingher hands to her breast asthough she had beenwounded. “I must find Jim,”shethought.“Hewillseeshegetsinoneoftheboats.”She had a very hard time

with the stairs. They seemed

to slant forward, and it tookall her concentrated thoughtto climb them and she couldnot think how she wouldmake Jim hear her, how shewould convince him to saveCaroline.Even thehall listedtoward her, so that shestruggled toward Debra’sroomasupasteephill.Whenshe came to the closed door,she had to stand a minutebeforeshehadthestrengthto

putherhandonthedoorknob.When she did, she thoughtthe door must be locked.Thenshe lookeddownatherhand. She dropped it to herside,asifithadbeeninjured.Debra opened the door,

leaning her graceful bodyagainstit.“Don’tworry,”shesaid.“Youcan’tjustleaveherin

there,”Jimsaid.“Whataboutthepolice?”

“Why would the policecomeunlesssomeonewenttogetthem?Wedon’thaveanyphones.Theoutsidedoorsarelocked. Who would go getthem?”“Caroline.”Amycameintotheroom.Debra shook her head.

“She’sonlysixyearsold,anditisn’tasifshesawanything.We told her hermother diedinhersleep.”

“No,” Amy said. “Thatisn’ttrue.Iwasmurdered.”“I’dfeelsaferifIsmayhad

taken care of her, too. Shemight have seen somethingafterwards.”“Shedid,”Debra said, and

watched thecolordrain fromJim’s face. “She thought shesaw her mother thismorning.” She hesitatedcruelly again. “Ismay hasdecided to have a séance,”

she said. She waited to seethe effect on him and thensaid,“Whatareyouafraidof?She’s dead. She can’t doanything to you.” She wentoutthedoor.“You poisoned her,” Amy

saidtoJim.“Shewasn’tsick.She was poisoned. Youplanned the picnic. It was atrick to bring us here, toDebra,whosenameyouknewbefore. To bring us here so

Ismaycouldmurderme.”Jimwaswatchingthedoor,

thecolorslowlycomingbackinto his face. He took aplastic prescription bottle outofhis shirt pocket and rolleditinhishand.Amythoughtofhim standing in the park,looking first at the policestation and then at the housewith the gray curtains,measuring the distances andwhistling, waiting for

Carolinetodrinkhermilk.“Iwillnotletyoukillher,”

Amy said. “I am going tosave Caroline.” She tried totake the poison out of hishand.Jim put the bottle back in

his shirt pocket and openedthedoor.

She had gone to the séancebecause Caroline was betterand she could not be

frightened by anything, evenJim’s unwillingness to leave.The windows had bangedopen and the curtains haddrifted in, flickering thecandles. Amy had thought,“Heisdoingsomethingunderthe table.” She’d lookedsteadily through the candles’flameathim.“Come to us, oh spirit,”

Ismay said. He was sittingnext to the big carved chair,

but not in it. “We call you.Cometous.”It was Debra, projected

somehow above the bierthough she had not let go ofAmy’s hand.Debramade upwith greasepaint and dressedinflowingwhite.Shehoveredthere, her hands crossed onher breast, and then driftedtowardthetable.“Welcome, spirit,” Ismay

said. “What message do you

bringusfrombeyond?”“It is very peaceful,” the

ghostofDebrasaid.Ismay slid his hand under

thetable.Thestarswereverybright, glittering off the ice.The ship hung like a jewelagainstthedarksky,itslightstoo low in the water. “He isdoing something,” Amythought. “Something tofrighten me.” She tried tofight it, watching the phony

ghost of Debra drift to thetable. The candles gutteredand went out as she passed.She drifted down into thecarved chair. “I bring youwordfromyour loved ones,”shesaid,herhandsrestingonthecarvedarms.“Theyareatpeace.”Thesternoftheshipbegan

toriseintotheair.Therewasaterriblesoundaseverythingbegan to fall: the breaking

glass of the chandeliers, thetinny vibrations of the pianoasitsliddowntheboatdeck,thepeople screaming as theystruggled to hang onto therailings. The lightswent out,flickered like candles, andwentoutagain.Thesternrosehigher.“No!” Amy blurted,

standing up, still holdingJim’sandDebra’shands.Ismaydidsomethingunder

the table and the lights cameon. The ghost of Debradisappeared. They were alllookingather.“I heard...everything

started to fall...the ship...wehave to save them.” Shewasveryfrightened.“Some see the dead,”

Ismaysaid.“Somehearthem.Youshouldhavebeenon theCalifornian.Theydidn’thearanything until the next

morning.” He waved theothers out of the room. Hewas still seated at the table.The candles had relitthemselves.“Did you know that when

the Titanic went down, shecreated a greatwhirlpool, sothat all the people whoweretoo close to her were pulleddown, too?”he said, and shehad bolted past him out thedoor, running to find

Caroline, who had sobbedandrunfromher.

Jimleftthedooropenandshehurried after him, but at theheadofthestairsshestopped,too frightened to go down,afraid that the parlor wouldalready be underwater. “Imust hurry. I must saveCaroline,” she thought.“Before all the boats areaway,” and she went down

theslantingstairs.They were at the table in

the parlor. “Come to us,Amy,” Ismay said. “We callyou.Canyouhearus?”“I hear you,” Amy said

clearly.“Youmurderedme.”Ismay was not looking at

her. He was watching thecarved chair, and there wassomeone in it. “I am happyhere,”theghostofAmysaid.Debra made up with

greasepaint, sitting with herhands easily on the carvedarms. “I wish youwere herewithme,darlingCaroline.”“No!”Amy screamed, and

triedtogetacrossthetabletothe image of herself, but thefloor was tilting so that shecould hardly stand. “Don’tlisten to her,” Amy sobbed.“Run!Run!”Ismay turned to Caroline.

“Would you like to see your

mother, dear?” he said, andAmyflungherselfuponhim,beating against his chest.“Murderer!Murderer!”“We’llgoseehernow,”he

said, and hemoved from thetable, holding Caroline’shand.“Nuh-oh!”Amyshoutedin

a hiccup of despair andswung her arm against himwitha force thatshouldhaveknocked him against the

table,spillingthecandlesintopools of wax. The candlesburnedsteadilyinthestillair.“Help, police! Murder!”

she screamed, scrabbling atthe window latches thatwould not open, hammeringher hands against thewindows that would notbreak. They could not hearher. They could not see her.NotevenIsmay.Shedroppedher hands to her sides as if

theywereinjured.Ismay said, “The

shipbuilder knewimmediately, but the captainhadtobe told,andeven thenhedidn’tbelieveit.”She turned from the

window.Hewas not lookingather,butthewordshadbeenintended for her. “You canseeme,”shesaid.“Oh,yes,Icanseeyou,”he

said, and stepped back from

thebier.Theyhadwashedoffthe blood.They had pulled asheet up to her breast andcrossed her hands over it tohide the wound. Of coursethey could not see her,wandering thehalls, shoutingovertheirvoicestobeheard.Ofcoursetheycouldnothearher. She was here, had beenhere all along, with heruseless hands crossed overher silent breast. Of course

shecouldnotopenthedoor.“I cannot save Caroline,”

she thought, and looked forher among the women, butthey were all gone. “Theyhaveputherintheboatsafterall,”shethought.Ismay stood by the séance

table, watching her. “We areontheice,”hesaid,smilingalittle.“Murderer,”Amysaid.“I can’t hear you, you

know,”Ismaysaid.“Icantellwhat you are sayingsometimes by watching you.The word ‘murderer’ comesthroughquiteclearly.But,mydear, you do not make asound.”She looked down at her

body, at her still face thatwould not make any soundagain.“The dead do make a

sound,” Ismay said. “Like a

ship going down. S.O.S.S.O.S.”Amylookedup.“Oh, my dear, I see you

hope even yet. Isn’t thehumansoulastubbornthing?S.O.S.Saveourship.Imaginetapping out such a messagewhen the ship cannot besaved. TheTitanic was deadthe moment she struck theiceberg, as you were themoment after I discovered

you at your prayers. But ittakes some time to go down.And till the very last thewireless operator stays at hispost,tappingoutmessagesnoonewillhear.”Therewassomethingthere,

hidden in what he had said,somethingaboutCaroline.“It is apparently a real

sound, dying cells releasingtheirstoredenergy,althoughIprefer to think of it as dying

cells letting go of their lasthope. It’s down in thesubsonicrange,soitsusesarelimited.ThelovelyDebraandafewhiddenspeakersarefarmore practical in the longrun.Butit’susefulatséances,although its effect is notusuallyas theatricalas itwasonyou.”He had reached under the

table. The forward funneltoppled into the water,

spraying sparks.Therewas adeafeningcrashasitfell,andthen the sound of screams.The ship hung against thesky,nearlyonend,foralongminute, then settled back atthe stern and began to slide,slowly at first, then gainingspeed,intothewater.She must not let him do

this to her. There wassomething before, about herbeingatherprayerswhenhe

killed her. He thought she’dbeenkneelingunder the tableto pray, but she hadn’t been.She’d been looking forCaroline.He turned the sound off.

“The range is, as I said,verylimited, and the wirelessoperator on the Californianshuts down at midnight,fifteen minutes before thefirstcall.”“The Carpathia,” Amy

said.“Ah, yes,” Ismay said.

“TheCarpathia.It’strueI’vehad the police at my doorseveral times, but theystumbled about in the fronthall among the icebergs ofapology and foolishexplanationforanhourorsoandthenwentaway, thinkingtheywereinthewrongplace.By then, there was not evenany wreckage for them to

find.”“Caroline,”Amysaid.“You think I would be so

foolish as to let her lead thepolice in here? No, she willbeinnopositiontoleadthemanywhere,” Ismay said,misunderstanding.Amy thought, “I must not

let him distract me.” Therewas something aboutCaroline. Somethingimportant. He had killed her

atherprayers.Atherprayers.“Why did you kill me?” shesaid,makinganefforttoformherwordsclearlysohecouldreadthem.“For the most prosaic of

reasons,” he said. “Yourhusbandpaidmeto. It seemshe wants the lovely Debra.Did you think I was vainenough to murder you fortrying to find out my tricks?Snooping about under my

séance table like a childlookingforclues?”“He did not see Caroline

underthetable,”shethought.“He does not know she sawme murdered.” But thatmeantsomething,andshedidnotnowwhat.“He has paid me for

Caroline, too,” he said, andwaitedforherface.“I won’t let you,” Amy

said.

“Youwon’t?”hesaid.“Mydear,youstillwillnotgiveuphope, will you? I could useyour body as an altar onwhich to murder yourbeloved Caroline, and youcouldnot lift a finger to stopme.”He had been standing by

the séance table. Now shesaw that he was leaningcasually against the door.“The end is very near. I

wouldliketostayandwatch,but I must go find Caroline.Don’tworry,”hesaid.“Iwillfindher.All the lifeboatsareaway.”Heshutthedoor.“Hedidnot seeherhiding

under the table when hemurderedme,”Amythought,and now the other thoughtfollowed easily, mercilessly,“Sheishidingtherenow.”“Imustlockthedoor,”she

thought, and she waded

toward it across the listingroom. The lock was alreadyunder water, and she had toreach down to get to it, butwhen her hand closed on it,she saw that it was not thelock at all. It was her ownstiff hand she touched. Shehadnotmovedatall.“The end must be very

near,”shethought,“becauseIhave no hope left at all.S.O.S.,” she cried out

pitifully,“S.O.S.”She stood very straight by

herbody,nottouchingit,andat first theslight listwas notapparent, but after a longtime,sheputherhandsoutasif to brace herself, and herhands passed through andinto her body’s hands, andshefoundered.

Carolineletthepolicemenin.They had a search warrant.

Caroline said clearly andwithout a trace of tears,“They killed my mommy,”andledthemtothebody.“Yes,” the captain said,

pulling the sheet up overAmy’sface.“Iknow.”“We have had a tragedy

here, I’m afraid,” Ismay saidcoming into the room. “Thelittlegirl’smother...”“Was murdered,” the

captainsaid.“Whilesheknelt

by this table.With her handscrossed on her breast.”Caroline silent behind thechair, watching. Amy’s lipsmoving as if in prayer. Thesudden explosion of bloodfrom behind her hands, andCaroline backing against thewall,thetearsknockedoutofher. “Murdered by you,” thecaptainsaid.“Youcannotpossiblyknow

that,”Ismaysaid.

Jim ran in. He sank to hisknees by Caroline andclutchedhertohim.“Oh,myCaroline, they’ve murderedher!” he sobbed. Carolinewriggled free and went andputherhandinthecaptain’s.“It’s no use,” Ismay said.

“It would seem thesegentlemen have received amessage.”“Caroline!” Jim said,

moving threateningly toward

her. “What did you tellthem?”“Caroline didn’t tell them

anything,” Ismay said. Hereached under Jim’s jacketintohisshirtpocketandtookout the medicine bottle. Hehanded it to Caroline. “Youhave been rescued,” he saidto her. “All the first classchildrenwere,exceptforlittleLorraine Allison, only sixyears old. But your name

isn’tLorraine. It’sCaroline.”He looked up at the captain.“And yours, I suppose, isCaptainRostron.”“Who sent a message?”

Jimsaidhysterically.“How?”“Idon’tknow,”Ismaysaid

calmly.“Idoubtifeventhesefinepolicemenknow,inspiteof their search warrant andtheirfamiliaritywiththefactsofthecrime.ButIwillwagerI know what the message

was,” he said, watching thecaptain’s face. “‘Come atonce. We have struck aberg.’”

TheHornSTEPHEN

GALLAGHER

Winner of British Fantasy andInternational Horror Guildawards, Stephen Gallagher isdescribed by London newspaperThe Independent as “the finestBritish writer of bestselling

popularfictionsinceleCarré.”HisfourteennovelsincludeNightmare,with Angel,Red, Red Robin, andThe Spirit Box, along with twocollections of short fiction. Hismost recent novel is The BedlamDetective, continuing the exploitsof ex-Pinkerton man SebastianBecker, first introduced in TheKingdomofBones.A thirdBeckernovel, The Authentic WilliamJames, is the current work inprogress.

Extractfromthecourtrecord,Crown v Robson, 24thSeptember1987:

COUNCEL: You lured herto this quiet spot on thepretextthatyouweregoingtorunawaytogether.ROBSON: I neverpromisedheranything.COUNCEL:Thenyoubeather senseless and left herfordead.

ROBSON:Holdon,chief!Itapped her once to calmherdown,that’sall.COUNCEL: Are you nowsaying that you weren’tresponsible for hermurder?ROBSON: She was fitenoughwhenIlefther.COUNCEL:Sohowdoyousupposethatshedied?ROBSON: That wouldn’tbeuntilthenextmorning.

COUNCEL: When,exactly?ROBSON:Aroundthetimethey poured the concretein,Iexpect.

“We’ve got heat, we’ve gotlight, we’ve got shelter,”Micksaid.“Theladsevenleftus some dirty books. We’vegot everything we’ll need toride out the bad weather, sowhy don’t we just sit tight

untilitallblowsover?”ThesingleflameofMick’s

gas lighter put giants’shadows onto the walls andceiling. “Winds must’vebrought the line down,” hesaid.The other man, whose

name was David somethingor other, said, “Anything wecouldfix?”“Not me, pal. I’d rather

live.”

“What do we do, then?Burnthefurniture?”“Then we’d have nowhere

to sit.” The big man who’dtoldustocallhimMickheldthe flame higher, and ourshadows dived for cover.“Look, there’s still candlesand a gas ring. Nothing’saltered.We can even have abrew.”“The kettle’s electric and

the water pipes are frozen,”

David said promptly. Micklookedathim,hard.“Icouldreallygooffyou,”

hesaid.“D’youknowthat?”The candleswere the dim,

slow-burning kind in smalltin dishes, and they’d beenusedbefore.Thegasringranfromabottleunderthetable,and a kinked hose gave us amomentary problem ingetting it going. The candlesburnedyellow,thegasburned

blue, and our faces werewhite and scared-looking inthelightthatresulted.Mick, David, me. Three

separate stories of blizzardand breakdown andabandoned vehicles, threelifelines that probablywouldn’t otherwise havecrossed but which had cometogether in this fragile cabinat the side of a snowboundmotorway.

“Well, here goes nothing,”Mick said, and he grabbed apan and went outside to getussomesnow.TheonecalledDavid went over to try thedeadphoneyetagain.I’dbeenthelasttofindthe

place, and I’d knownimmediately on entering thatthese two hadn’t beentravelling together. Theywere an unmatched andprobably unmatchable pair.

Mick weighed in at aroundeighteen stones and had thelookof—well,there’snokindway of putting it, a slobhoweveryoumightdressandgroom him. If you had toguess his line of work youmight well place him as oneof those vendors who standwiththeirpush-alongwagonsnear to football grounds,selling hamburgers andhotdogsthathavethelookof

having been poached inbodilyfluids.David (he’d told me his

second name, but it hadn’tstuck inmymind)wasmorelike one of those peopleyou’ll often see driving acompany car with a spareshirtonahangerintheback;he’d said that he was “insales,”which I took tomeanthat he was a salesman. Hewas about my own age, and

hadreddish-blondhairsofinethat he seemed to have noeyelashes.ThestoryasIunderstoodit

was that Mick had beenaiming for the big servicearea about two miles furtheralongtheroad,buthadfoundhiswayblockedandhadbeenforcedtoabandonhisvanloadof rubber hose in order towalk back to the only lightthathe’dseeninmiles;when

he’dmade it to the hut he’dfound David already there,crouched before the electricfirewithaworkman’sdonkeyjacket that he’d found andthrown around his shoulders.I’djoinedthemabouthalfanhour after that, and no onehadarrivedsince;theweatherwasworseningbytheminuteand it seemed unlikely thatanybody else was going tomake it through. The

motorway must have beenclosedforsometimenow.“Jesuswept!”Mickgasped

whenhe fell back in throughthedoorthreeorfourminuteslater; I’d thought that he’dsimply intended to take twosteps out to fill the pan andthen return, and so I said,“Whatkeptyou?”Some of the colour started

to seep back into him as hestoodovertheheatofthegas

ring,handsspreadlikehewasmakingablessing.He’dhavemade a pretty rough-lookingpriest. “I went down for alook at the road,” he said,“just in case there was anysign of a gritter goingthrough.”“Seeanything?”“I’mluckyIevenfoundthe

way back. I didn’t get morethantwentyyards,anditblewup so hard that I might as

wellhavebeenblind.Nothingelse is moving out there.Looks like we’re in for theduration.”“Oh, great,” David said

heavily.“You want to stick your

nose outside and see foryourself,” Mick suggested.“It’s worse than before—it’slike walking into razorblades, and I’ll tell yousomething else. When the

wind gets up in those wires,it’s just like voices. YoulistenlongenoughandhonesttoGod,youstarthearingyourownname.YouknowwhatIreckon?”“What?”Isaid.“It’s all the dead people

they’ve scraped up. They’reallcoldandlonelyoutthere.”And he winked at me as hesaid this, I suspect becausehisbackwas turned toDavid

andDavidcouldn’tsee.“For Christ’s sake,”David

muttereddarkly,andhewentover to the other side of thehut and started rummagingaround in the cupboards formugsandteabags.Mickwasgrinninghappily

now,butIwasn’texactlysurewhy. Lowering my voice sothatDavidwouldn’t hearme—he’d half-disappearedheadfirst into one of the

cupboards by now—I said,“What’sallthatabout?”“Haven’t you seen the

noticeboard?”Micksaid,andhepointedtothewallbehindme. “Take a look. We’vefound a right little HappyHouse to get ourselvessnowed into. Desmond wasreadingallaboutitwhenIgothere.”“It’s David,” corrected a

muffled voice from

somewhere inside thefurniture and Mick said,unruffled,“Ofcourseitis.”I picked up one of the

candlesandtookitovertothewall where the spacealongside some lockers hadbeen papered with oldnewspaper clippings. Therewere a few yellowing PageThree girls, but the rest ofthem were news stories.Some had photographs, and

the photographs were all ofmangled wreckage. It tookme a moment to realise thatthey were all motorwaycrashes, and that the stretchof motorway where they’dtaken place was the one thatran by under three feet ofsnowrightoutside.“This must be where the

lads wait for a callout whenthere’s something nasty,”Mick said from just behind

me. He’d come around andwas inspecting the collectionover my shoulder. “Some ofthe things they must haveseen, eh? Rather them thanme.”Amen to that, I thought,

althougheveninthedimandunsteady candlelight I foundthat I was browsing throughthe details in some of thepieces with the kind ofdetached fascination that I

always seem to be able tomanage when it’s a questionof someone else’s misery.Entire familieswiped out. Ateenaged girl decapitated.Lorry drivers crushed whentheircabsfoldedaroundthemlikestepped-uponCokecans.An unwanted mistress—thisone really got me lookingtwice—an unwantedmistressdumped, Jimmy Hoffa-style,into the wire skeleton of a

bridge piling that had beenboxed-up ready to takeconcrete the next morning.entombed alive! the headlinesaid,buteventhatpalednextto the disaster involving theold folks’ outing and thepetfoodtruckfullofoffal.I gathered from the

collection that this hut wasthebaseforthecleanup teamwho worked the road forsome distance in either

direction, and that they tookan honest pride in theirgruesome occupation; Iimagined them trooping outto their breakdown wagon,whistling as they pulled ontheir jackets and thinkingabout next year’s holidays.And then,at theotherendofthe drive, getting out withtheirbagsandshovelstogivetheirprofessional attention tothe loved ones of some

cheapskate who’d saved thecost of a cabin on the carferry or skipped a night in ahotel todriveonthroughandget an extra half-day out oftheholidayflat.Where the team would be

rightnow,Icouldonlyguess;Iimaginedthatthey’dmovedalong to the service area assoon as the weather hadstarted to clamp down,because thehutwasnoplace

tobemaroonedoutofchoice.TheServiceswouldprobablybe starting to resemble arefugeecentrebynow,cutoffbutreasonablyself-sufficient,and I wished that I could bethereinsteadofhere.Thegasring behind us was runningwiththevalvewide-open,andstill I could seemybreath intheairinfrontofme.David, over by the table,

said,“Didyoufillthis?”

Itoremyselfawayfromtheinteresting stuff on the walland followed Mick over tothe ring, where David waspeering into the aluminiumpan.Wherebeforeithadbeensooverfilledwithsnowthatithad looked like a big tub ofice cream, now it held aboutaninchofwater.Mick observed, “It melts

downtonothing,doesn’t it?”And then the silence that

followed was like the slowrace in a restaurant to reachforthebill.But then, finally, I said,

“I’llgetussomemore.”I don’t know how to

describe theway the coldhitmeasIsteppedoutofthehut.It was almost like walkingintoawall,muchworse thanit had been when I’d mademy way up there. The windwas the most disorienting

factor, filling my eyes withhail and batteringme aroundso hard that I could barelydraw breath; but then,thankfully, itdroppedalittle,andtheairclearedenoughforme to see without beingblinded.Visibility was somewhere

between fifty and a hundredyards, beyond whicheverything just greyed-out asif reality couldn’t hold

together any further. I couldseeabouthalfadozenof theoverhead sodium lightsmarching off in eitherdirection, their illuminationblanketedanddiffusedby theamountofsnowclouding theair; of the motorway itself Icould make out the parallellines of the crash barriers ashardlymorethanpencilmarkssketched onto the snow, andthat was it. A few of the

lightweightplastic cones thathadbeenusedearliertocloseoff lanes had been blownaround and had lodgedthemselves here and therelike erratic missiles, butnothing else broke the evencover.Ididn’tseewhatMickhad

been talking about. I didn’thearanyvoices,justthewindin the wires somewhere offtheroadandoutofsight.The

sound meant nothing specialtome.I had a Baked Bean can,

catering size, that was theonly other clean-lookingcontainerthatI’dbeenabletofind, and I stooped and triedto fill it with snow. Thenewly fallen stuff was toofine, it juststreamedawayasItriedtoloaditin,butthenItriedwedgingitintosnowballnuggetsanddidratherbetter.

I was already starting toshakewiththecold.Ipausedfor amoment to wipe at mynose with the back of myglove, and realised with akind of awe that I couldn’tevenfeelthecontact.Ifellbackintothehutlike

a drowning man pluckedfrom an icy sea. I’d beenoutsideforlessthanaminute.David looked up from the

phone. I wouldn’t have

believed how welcoming theplace could look with itscandlelight and comparativewarmth and the road gang’smugssetoutready,eachwiththenameofanabsentpersonwritten on the side in whatlookedlikenailvarnish.IdidmybesttomakeitlookasifIhad a grip on myself, andwentovertosettherestofthesnowtomeltasMicksecuredthedoorbehindme.

“Still dead?” I said toDavid, with a nod at thephone.“It’s not exactly dead,” he

said, jiggling the cradle forabout the hundredth time.“It’s more like an open linewith nothing on the otherend.”“It’ll be like a field

telephone,” Mick said fromover by the door. “Ifnobody’s plugged in, then

there’snoonetohear.How’sitlookingoutside?”“I’d still rather be in here

thanoutthere,”Isaid.Mick made the tea with a

cateringbagandsomeofthatnon-dairywhitener that looksand smells like paint. It wastheworstI’devertasted,andthemostwelcome.The threeof us pulled our chairs inclose toget into the circle ofwarmth around the gas ring,

and we grew heady on themonoxide fumes. Inevitably,the conversation returned totheclippingsonthewall.“You want to see it from

their point of view,” Micksaid.“It’llbelikeworking ina morgue. You get baddreams for the first fewweeksandthenafterthat,it’sjustanotherjob.”“How would you know?”

Davidsaid.

“I’ve got a brother-in-lawwho’sanurse,he’sjustaboutseenitall.Imean,thelikesofme and you, we don’t knowthehalfofwhatit’sabout.”Daviddidn’tcomment,but

Isuspect thatby thenhewasstarting to read somethingpersonal into everything thatMick was saying. I believedthat I’d recognised his typeby now. Some people’sreactiontopressureisto look

around for someoneconvenient to dump on; theyget angry, they get sarcastic,and if you pull through ittends to be in spite of themrather than withmuch in theway of help. I knew whatMick was talking about. Icould imagine the teamsittingthere,patientlyreadingor playing cards whilewaiting for carnage. Theywere one up on us...we’d go

through life telling ourselvesthat it was never going tohappen,but theyknewthat itwould. The knowledgewasn’t even anything specialtothem.Mickseemedtobetheone

whowasholdingustogether,here. I’m not sure that rightthen I’d have wanted to relyon David for anything. Hewasfrowningatthefloor,hisborrowed donkey jacket

sitting uneasily on hisshoulders. Had he reallystruggled from his car to thecabininjustasuitjacketandno overcoat? He must haveseenthewaythattheweatherwas going before he set out,but he didn’t look as if he’dtaken any account of thepossibilitythathemighthaveto step much beyond thewarmth of a heated buildingoramovingcar.Somepeople

have too much faith ineverything.I’mtheopposite.I’d been heading for my

girlfriend’s place over in thenextcountywhenI’dcometomy own unscheduledjourney’send.Shewaswithabig retail chain who weremoving her around andpayingherpeanuts,andIwasjust about holding down oneof those jobs that they kepttellingmemightormightnot

turn out to be somethingpermanent.Theonlywaythatwe could ever get togetherwas at weekends, hiding outfromthelandladyinherone-roomed flat.Minemust havebeen one of the last cars toget onto the road beforethey’d closed it; I’d had tostop as a jackknifedarticulated lorry had beenclearedfromthesliproad,andthenittooktwopolicemento

getme rolling again becausemytyreswouldn’tgripontheicysurface.Theyadvisedmeto stay in low gear and tokeep my revs down, and Iremember their lastwords tome as I managed to getmoving again: Rather youthanme,pal.ItgotworseasIwenton.Afterhalfanhourinfirstgear,followingthecrashbarrier like a blind manfollowing a rail, the

temperature needle crept upinto the red zone and thenfinally both hoses blew. Istopped and taped them andtopped up the water, but theengineseizedsoonafterthat.Mickwastheonlyonewho

seemed to be listening as Itold them the story. He said,“I’ve been driving this routesince they opened it. I’venever known it this bad. Itlooks like the end of the

world.”“You’ve got a knack of

seeingthebrightside,Mick,”Itoldhim.“You haven’t seen that

road train about half a mileon,” he said. “A big newwagonandtwotrailers.Itwasblockingtheroadall thewayacross, that’s why I had togiveupandwalkback to thelast light I’d seen. Thosethings are like dinosaurs,

they’ll go on throughanything. But it couldn’t getthrough this. What do youreckon,Desmond?”“It’s David! David!” His

suddenshoutwas startling inthe enclosed space of thecabin, and I think evenMickwassurprisedby thereactionhegot.“All right,” he said, “I’m

sorry.”“Well, bloody get it right,

then!”“I said I’m sorry. I was

only asking what youthought.”“I just want to get home,”

Davidsaidmiserably,lookingdownat the floor again as ifhe was embarrassed by hissuddenoutburst.And then Mick said, with

unexpected gentleness,“Nothingtoarguewith there,Dave.”

Itwasthenthatthegasringbegan to make a poppingsound.Weall turned to lookand I heard somebody sayOh, shit, and then I realisedthatithadbeenme.Theflamedidn’texactlygo

out,notrightaway,butitwasobviously into some kind ofterminal struggle. Mickreached under the table andheaved out the squat metalcylinder; when he raised it

two-handed and gave it ashake, there sounded to beabout a cupful of liquidsloshing around in thebottom.“There’ssome left,”David

saidhopefully.“You always get some in

thebottom,”Micksaid.“Stillmeansit’sempty.”Therewasanothercylinder

under the table and right atthe back, but this one

sounded just about the same.By now the ring was givingoutnoheatatallandmakingsuch a racket that nobodyobjected when Mick turnedthevalvetoshutitoff.Thesilencegottousbefore

the cold did. But the coldstartedgetting tous a coupleofminuteslater.Webrokeopen the lockers

in the hope of finding morecoatsorblankets, but all that

we found were tools andempty lunch buckets andmud-encrusted work boots.David’s earlier remark aboutburning the furniture nolongerseemedlikeajoke,butthe truth of it was that therewasn’t much about thefurniture that wascombustible; the chairs weremostly tubular steel and thetable was some kind oflaminate over chipboard,

whichleftastackofsoft-coreporno magazines and a fewpaperbacks and one deck ofcards. By now, the hut hadturned from a haven into anicebox.Davidwastheonewhoput

itintowords.He said, “We’re going to

have to go out and findsomewhere else, aren’t we?”He made it sound as if theplace itself had done a

number and betrayed us.“This is great,” he saidbitterly. “This really puts thefuckingtinlidonit.”Possibly we could have

stayedput,joggedonthespotalittle,doneourbesttokeepgoinginthesub-zeroairuntilthe worst of the weatherreceded and rescue camepushing through. But Mickwas already going throughthelockersforasecondtime,

as if looking again forsomething that he’d alreadyseen.“ThewayIseeit,”hesaid,

“there’s only one thing wecando.”“The Services?” I

hazarded.“We’d never make it that

far. It’smore than twomilesand it might as well betwenty. I reckon we can domaybeaquarterofthat,atthe

most.”“Which gets us nowhere,”

Davidsaid.“Itgetsusasfarasthatbig

road train that’s blocking thecarriageway.” So saying,Mick reached into the thirdlocker and came out with ashort, hooked wrecking bar.Holding up the jemmy hewent on, “If we can get intothat and get its enginerunning, we can sit tight in

thecabwiththeheateron.”“Until the fuel runsout,” I

said, probably a touch toopessimistically.“Those things never run

out. They’ve got tanks likeswimming pools. We caneither wait for thesnowploughtofindusorelsestrike out again as theweather improves. What doyouthink?”“It’ll have a radio,” David

said, with a sense ofdiscovery that seemed tosurpriseevenhim.Webothlookedathim.“A CB radio,” he said.

“Don’t most of these bigtrucks carry them? We cantellsomeonewhereweare.”“Thatwecan,Dave,”Mick

saidwith a note of approval,and thenhe lookedfromhimtome.“Areyougame?”“Let’sgo,”Isaid,sounding

about four hundred per centmore eager than I felt. ButMick raised a hand as if tosay,slowdown.“Justwaitonaminute,”he

said. “There’s no point in allofusscramblingouttogether.What I reckon is, one of usstrikes out and does thenecessary,andthenhesoundsthe horn as a signal for theotherstofollow.”“I wouldn’t know what to

do,”Davidsaidbleakly.“Meneither,”Isaid.“Well,” Mick said, “since

we’re talking about breakingand entering and a littlecreativerewiring,I’dsaythatI’m the only one with theeducation in the appropriatesubjects around here. Am Iright?”Hewasright,andasfaras

I was concerned he couldmake all the jibes about

education that he wanted aslongashegotusoutof this.He turned up his collar andbuttoned up his coat, and hepulled on his sheepskingloves as I moved with himtothedoor.Daviddecidedtogivethephoneyetanothertryas I made ready to let Mickout into the unwelcomingnight.I said, “You’re mad, you

knowthat?”

“I hadmy brain surgicallyremoved,” Mick said. “I’vebeen feeling much betterwithout it.” Then he turnedserious. “I’m going to getdowntothecrashbarrierandfollow it along, otherwisethere’s no knowing where Imay end up. Keep listeningfor the horn.” He glanced atDavid. “And keep an eye onhim.”“He’llbeallright.”

“If he messes you about,dumphim.Imeanit.”There was a blast of cold

air for thebrief secondor sobetweenMick going out andme getting the door closedafter him, and this time itstayed in there with us likesome unwelcome dog thathad dashed in and wasstanding its ground. Davidhadslammedthephonedownwithacurse,asifitsnon-co-

operation was a matter ofdeliberate choice, beforesettling on one of the chairswith his hands thrust deepinto the pockets of hisborrowed coat and the collarupoverhisnosetorecirculatethe heat of his breath. Helookedlikesomeoddkindofanimalretreatingintoitsblueworstedshell.“I heardwhat he said, you

know.” His voice was

muffledbythethickmaterial,andsoundeddistant.“He didn’t mean anything

byit.”“Yeah,Ibet.Andwhodoes

he think he is? Scott of theAntarctic?”“Idon’tcare ifhe’sScotty

of the Enterprise. If he getsusoutoftroublehe’llbeokaybyme.”Hesettledindeeper.“Well,

don’t goworrying aboutme.

I’mnodeadweight.”“Never said I thought you

were.”There was silence for a

while.Then he said, “Pretty

serious,though,isn’tit?”Yes, Iwas thinking, itwas

pretty serious...but it couldhavebeenworse.Worsewasbeing sliced in two at acombinedspeedofahundredand fifty miles an hour, just

because someone else chosethe day of your trip to crossthe central reservation andcome looking for suicide inthe oncoming traffic. Worsewas being buried alive inconcrete, so deep that evenX-rays couldn’t find you. Itwas sitting with your handsonthewheelwhileyourheadlay on the back seat. It wasany one of the fifty or soexamples of a messy and

uncontrolledexit tobe foundin the road gang’s privateBlackMuseumover thereonthewall.“We’vestillgotoptions,”I

said. “That puts us one stepahead.”“As long as he makes it,”

Davidsaid.The next twenty or thirty

minutes seemed to lastforever. David wasn’t greatcompany, particularly after

the way that Mick’s partingwords had stung him. Iwondered what I ought toexpect;moreof theball-and-chain act, or would hebecome dangerously gung-ho? If the latter, then I wasgoing to be happy to let himgooutfirst.Finally,thewinddroppeda

littleandweheardthedistantsoundofahorn.I said, with some relief,

“Ourcall,Ithink.”David said that he was

ready. I asked him if hewantedtotakeonelastshotatthephone,buthesaidno.“The greaseball was right

in one thing,” he said. “Youlisten for long enough, andyou do start to hear themcallingyourname.”I let him go out ahead of

me.Myspiritofoptimismtook

an instant hammering as thedoorwasbangingshutbehindus; compared to this brutalstorm, the wind that had setthewireskeeningonmy lastexcursion had been a preciseand delicate instrument. Allsound and sense wasdestroyed on contact, and Iwasbeginning topanicwhenI felt David’s rough grip onmyarm, shovingmeforwardintotheblindhaze.Thesnow

had drifted high in places,masking the contours of theground beneath and makingprogress even more difficult;we stumbled and floundereddownhill toward the roadsurface,andaswedescendedfromthemoreexposedslopesthewindmercifully lessened.We got across to the centralcrash barrier, a constantmistof snow streaming from itsknife-edged top, but by then

I’d become as disoriented asifI’dbeenpoppedintoaboxandshaken.“Which way?” I shouted,

andDavidhadtoputhisfaceright up to my ear to makehimselfheard.“Northbound!”heroared.“What?”“This way!” And he gave

me a hard push to get memoving.I wouldn’t have believed

how heavy the going couldbe.Itwentfromthigh-deeptowaist-deep and then back tothigh-deep again, and thebarrier disappeared for entirestretches so that we had tonavigate by the yellowsodium lights above us. I’dbreakthetrailforawhile,andthen David would move upand replace me. Any tracksthatMickmighthavelefthadbeen obliterated, but then

there was the sound of thedistant horn to lead us onwhenever the storm took outabeattoletitthrough.He’dmadeit.SowouldI.I reckoned that we’d been

going for about three hours,althoughamorerational partofmymindknew that it hadactuallybeenclosertofifteenminutes,whenwereachedthefirst place where we couldstopandrest.Itwasaflyover

bridge,toohighandtoowideto feel likemuchofa shelterbutofferingarespitefromthecuttingedgeof thewind.Westaggeredinsoall-overnumbthat we might as well havebeen on Novocaine drips forthe last quarter hour, andwecollapsedagainstthewalllikefootsoldiersinsomeforgottenwar.“Are you okay?” I said to

David, my voice oddly

flattened by the carpet ofsnowthathadblowninunderthebridge.“You must be fucking

joking,” he gasped, and thatwasallIcouldgetoutofhim.Itriedtoknockoffsomeof

thedrysnowthathadcrustedonto my clothing. I didn’twanttoriskanyofitmeltingand soaking through only torefreeze as we pushed on. Itcame off in chunks. David

was hunkered down andhugging himself, presentingassmallanareaforheat lossashecould.Ifwestayedherefortoolong,wemightendupstayinghereforgood.Ilistenedforthehorn.Even though the bridge

was open at the sides therewas an enclosed, somehowisolated feeling about thatfew yards of shelter; it wasbrighter here than outside

because there was nothingclouding the air between thesodium lights and thereflecting snow and, as I’dalready noticed when I’dspokentoDavid,soundswentdead as if they’d run intosomething soft. There wasscaffoldingaround thebridgesupport across thecarriageway, but I could stillmake out the spraycannedgraffiti in amongst the repair

workbehinditasifthroughagrid;itreadrobsonyourdeadwhenyouget out, and it hadbeen written in red. MyfavouritegraffitiwasonethatI’d seen on a beachfrontbuilding, the simple andelegant i feel a bit normaltoday,butitwasabeachfrontthat seemed about a millionmilesawayfromthehereandnow.The wind outside must

havedroppeda littlebecausea snatch of the horn camethrough,anditsoundedcloserthan ever. It acted on Davidlike a goad. He suddenlylurchedtohisfeetandsetoutagain, stumbling and flailinghisarmsas ifhehadn’tquitebrought his limbs undercontrol yet. Wearily, Iwondered if I’d ever be ableto raise theenergy to follow;butevenasIwaswondering,

Iwasstartingtomove.Davidwasmutteringashewent,butI couldn’t hear anything ofwhathewassaying.I stumbled, because there

seemed to be all kinds ofjumbledcrapunder the snowhere;myfoothookedupwhatlooked like a length ofcompressorhose,andIhadtokick it off. Over on whatwould normally be the hardshoulderIcouldseethehalf-

buried shapes of machinery,big generators with tow-hitches and a small dumperthat might have been theanswer to our prayers if ithadn’tbeen jacked-upwith awheelmissing.Itlookedasif,until the bad weather hadintervened, they’d beendrillingouttheconcretelikeabad tooth; canvas on thescaffoldinghadconcealedthework, but the canvas had

been ripped by a through-wind to leave only a fewflapping shreds around thehole.Thecageof reinforcingwire inside the piling hadbeen exposed, and the wirehad been burst outward as ifby a silent explosion. Itlooked as if they’d gone sofar, and then the freeze-uphadenlargedtheholefurther.I suppose I could have

thought about it harder. But

there are some things, youcan thinkabout themashardas you like but you’ll neveranticipate what you’reactuallygoingtosee.And the sight that I was

concentrating on, to theexclusion of just abouteverything else, was that ofthe road train firming-up inthe blizzard about a hundredyardsahead.ThefirstdetailsthatImade

outwereitshazardlights,andthere were plenty of them;almost enough to define itsshape, rather like thosediagramsthattakeascatteredhandful of stars and connectthem up into someimprobable-lookingconstellation. They wereflashing on and off in timewith the horn, and theywereabout the most welcomewarning that I’d ever seen.

Ahead of me, David wasstriding out like a wind-uptoythatnothingcouldstop.It was a big Continental

articulated rig in threejackknifed sections, a truemonster of the road thatwouldlooklikealandslideonthe move. The distant parp-parp that had led us so farhad now become a deep,regular airhorn bellow aswe’d drawn closer. David

tried to break into a run forthecab,buthehadtobeclosetoexhaustionbynow.We helped each other up

and in.An alarmbeeperwassounding off inside the caband in synchronisation withthehornandthelights.Therewas no sign of Mickanywhere.Isaid,“Whereishe?”“God knows,” David said,

studying a dash that looked

like a piece of the SpaceShuttle. “He might at leasthavelefttheenginerunning.”“Maybe he didn’t get that

far.”But David pointed to a

bunchofwires thathadbeenpulledouttohangbehind thesteering column. “What’sthat, then?” he said. “Heinzspaghetti? You check theradio.”Icheckedtheradio.

“I don’t think it’sworking,”Isaid.Sixty seconds after our

entry, the alarms cut and thehorn stopped. The silencealmosthurt.Davidhadfoundthestarter

bynow,andhewastryingit;the first couple of times itstayed dead, but he jiggledthehangingwireslikeachildpatting a balloon into the airand this must have helped

some weak connection,because on the third attemptthe engine somewherebeneath the cab floor turnedoverwithoutanyhesitationatall. After a few seconds, itcaught; but then, almostimmediately, it faded awayanddiedagain.“Bastard thing,” David

said, and tried again; buttherewasnopersuading it tocatchforasecondtime.

Hefloppedbackheavilyinthe driver’s seat. I said,“Maybewecanjuststayhereanyway.”“There’s still no heat,” he

said. “It may seem warmer,butthat’sjustthecomparisonwith being outside. If wecan’tgettheblowersgoing,Idon’tseeanyadvantageoverbeingbackinthehut.”He tried the starter again,

butstillnothing.

“There’syourreasonwhy,”hesaidsuddenly,andpointedto a part of the dashboarddisplay. If what he waspointingtowasthefuel levelreadout, it was readingsomethinglikeempty.“These things never run

out,”hesaidbitterly, inwhatI assume he intended to bemimicry of Mick’s voice.“They’ve got tanks likeswimming pools.” And he

punched the steering wheelhard,andfloppedbackinthedriver’sseatagainwithafaceasdarkasabruisedplum.And somewhere out in the

night, another horn began tosound.Webothlistened,lostitfor

a while as the wind howled,and then heard it again. Oursignal was being repeatedfrom somewhere furtheralongtheroad.

“Here we go,” David saidwearily, and he opened thedooronthefarsideofthecabto climb down. This time hedidn’t even flinch when thehail hit him. All right, Iwanted to say, Case proven,you’re no deadweight, nowwhydon’twejusttrystickingitouthereawhilelonger,butinstead I levered myself upand clambered awkwardlyacross the cab. I could have

droppedandslept,rightthere.And probably died, ready-chilled and prepared for themorgue,butatthatmomentIhardly felt as if it wouldmatter.Mick’s sheepskin gloves

wereonthecabfloor.Ireacheddownandpicked

them up. I wasn’thallucinatingthem,theywerereal enough. He must havetakenthemoffforthedelicate

work of hotwiring...but howcomehe’dallowedhimselftobe parted from them? I waswearing my clumsy skigloves, andeven inside thesemy hands were feeling deadfrom the knuckles out. IfMickhadgonethedistancetothenextstrandedlorry,asthesoundingof this secondhornseemed to suggest, then Ireckoned that he’d better notbe planning any piano

practiceforawhile.Islidoutofthecabandhit

thesnowagain.Iwasnowonthe northern side of the bigvehicle. David had launchedoff without me, hooked bythe call like some deep-seafish being drawn up to thegaffe. The horn wasn’t soregular this time, but it wascomingthroughmoreclearly.Andme,Iwasn’thappy.The forgotten gloves were

only one part of it. Anotherpartofitwasthefactthatyoudidn’tputariganditscargo,total value anything from aquarter of a million up, intothe hands of a driver who’sgoing tobewalking the hardshoulder with a can to getsomedieselbecauseheletthetanks get empty. And theradio—the radio should havebeenworking,evenifonlytogiveoutwhitenoisetomatch

thesceneontheothersideoftheglass.I was looking around the

side of the road trainwhen Ifell overMick’s body in thesnow. He was lying face-downandalreadyhewashalfcoveredby drift,which for amoment gave me the absurdhopethathemighthavebeeninsulated from the chillingeffect of thewind andmightbebasicallyokay.ButwhenI

triedto turnhimoverhewasas stiff as a wet sheet hungout in winter, and when IfinallygothimontohisbackI could see that there was aspike of reinforcing wirefrom the concrete flyoverdriven right up under hischin.Icouldseeitpassingupthroughhisopenmouth as ifhis head were somethingspitted for a barbecue. Hiseyes were half-open, but

plugged with ice. The shortjemmy was still in hisungloved hand, held tightlylike a defensive weapon thathe’dnevermanagedtouse.Thishadhappenedrightby

the big diesel tanks behindthecab.Thetanksthemselveshadbeenslashedopensothatall the oil had run out andgone straight down into thesnow. And when I sayslashed,Imeanrakedopenin

four parallel lines as if byfingernails,not justspikedorholedbysomethingsharp.David had stopped, and

waslookingback;buthewastoo far away to see anythingandonly juston thevergeofbeing seen, a smudgy ghostpainted in smoke. Hebeckoned me on with a big,broadgesturethatlookedlikehe was trying to hooksomethingoutof the air, and

even though I yelled “No!Don’t go! That isn’t him!,”he simply shouted backsomething inaudible andturned away. He walked on,and the blizzard sucked himin.And from somewhere

beyond him came the soundofthehorn,thematingcallofsome dark mistress ofnightmares with her skinoiledandherbackarchedand

her long silver knives at theready.Istartedtorunafterhim.Icallitrunning,althoughit

wasn’t much in the way ofprogress. I reckon you couldhavelitupasmalltownwiththe energy that I burned justto close up the distancebetweenDavidandme.CloseitupIdid,butnotenough.Hedidn’t even glance back. Isaw him duck at a near-miss

from something windborneandIfeltmyheartstopforamoment, but I think it wasonly one of the plastic conesor some other piece of roaddebris. David couldn’t havebeen distracted by nunsdancing naked in the air bythat stage, because he wasnowwithin sight of the nexttruck.Thetruck.Itwasmucholder than the

firstone,andnotsomuchofagiant.Itwasoveronthefarsideof thebarrierand facingmyway;itlookedasifithadcome to a long, sliding haltbefore being abandoned andhalf-buriedwhere it stood. Ithad a crouched, malevolentlook, its engine running andbreathing steam, paleheadlamps like sickbed eyes.David reached the cab andpoundedon theside tobe let

in,andIstoppedat thecrashbarrierandcouldonlywatch.Thehornceased.Thedoor

opened. The cab’s interiorlight blinked on, but theinsides of the windows wereallsteamedupandrunnyandthere was only the vagueshape of someone visible.David had already hoistedhimself halfway up with hisfoot in the stirrup over thewheel, but now I saw him

hesitate.Thedoorhadswungout and was screeningwhatever confrontedhim...and then suddenly hewas gone, jerked in at animpossible speed, and thedoor was slammed and thelightwentout.Iwincedattheloud, long and intensemuffledscreamingthatbeganto come from the cab, but IknewtherewasnothingthatIcould do. I thought about

those long slashes in thediesel tank and, for David’ssake, I could only hope thatwhatever was happeningwouldbeoverquickly.Itwasn’t.Andwhen it finallyended,

andafterthelongsilencethatfollowed, I saw the dooropening out a crack like atrap being reset. Lightstreamed out into the snow-mist, a narrow slice falling

likearainofsomethingsolid.I looked up at the truck’swindows and saw that thenow-lit windshield had beensprayedredontheinsidelikethe jug of a blender, and itwasjuststartingaslowwash-downas thecabsweatbeganto trickle through it. Iwatchedawhilelonger,butIcouldn’t see anythingmoving.I was calculating my

chancesofmaking it throughtotheservicearea.Whathadseemed like a completeimpossibility before nowhadthelookofthemostattractiveavailable option. I had tohave covered a good part ofthedistancealready,didn’tI?And having just had aglimpse of the alternative, Iwassuddenlyfindingthattheprospectofpressingonhadacertainappeal.

Thefirstmovewouldbetocrossthecarriagewayandputasmuch distance as possiblebetween me and the truck.There was nothing that Icoulddo forDavidnow, andit made no sense to stay outwhere the overhead lightsmadeatunnelofdaythroughthe blizzard. It was as I wasstrikingoutatanangleacrossafieldofwhitethathadoncebeen the fast lane, a

stumbling and deep-frozenbodywithawhite-hotcoreoffear, that the horn beganagain.That was okay, that suited

me fine. As long assomebodywasleaningonthebutton then they weren’t outhere with me, and that wasexactlythewaythat Iwantedit. I was trying to rememberthe route from the times thatI’ddrivenitbefore;myguess

was that I was just about tocome to an exposed andelevated curve that wouldswing out to overlook areservoir before entering thehills where the service areawould be sheltered. Iwouldn’tbeabletoseemuch,ifany,ofthis,butI’dknowitbecause the intensity of thewind was bound to increase;high-sided vehicles took abatteringonthisstretchatthe

best of times. I’d have towatchmyfooting.Onaclearnight I’d have been able tosee right out to the lights ofsomemill townseveralmilesoutandbelow,butfornowallthat I could see was a densewhite swirling. Inmymind Icouldseemyselfholdingoneof those Christmas-scenepaperweights, the kind thatyou shake and thenwatch asthe contents settle, but in

mine there was a tiny figureof David hammering on theglass and calling soundlesslyto be let out. I saw myselfshakingtheglobeonce,andIsawthestormturnpink.Stupid, I know—I wasn’t

responsible for anybody, andI certainly hadn’t got behindhimandboostedhimup intothe arms of whatever hadbeenwaitinginthecab.ButIsuppose that when you’ve

just seen somebody meet anend roughly comparable tothe act of walking into anaircraft propeller, it’s boundto overheat your imaginationjustalittle.Maybethatcouldexplain some of what camelater.Butsomehow,Idon’tthink

so.Thetruckhornwasstarting

to recede behind me. Thenotes were longer now, like

the moan of some trappedbeast tiring of its struggles.Great, fine, I was thinking,you just stay there and keepat it, when the stormbrightened and a dark figuresuddenlyrosebeforeme.It was my own shadow,

castforwardintotheblizzardway out beyond the edge ofthe road so that it seemed tostandintheairovernothing.Ilooked back and saw that

there was some kind of aspotlightbeingoperatedfromthecabof the truck, thekindthatturnsonamountfixedtothe body and stays howeveryou leave it. This one waspointing straight at me; itwent on past, and I realisedthat I was too small and toofar away to spot with anyease.AndtherewasprobablysomuchsnowstickingtomeonthewindwardsidethatI’d

betoughtospotevenatcloserange.Any relief that I felt was

short-lived, though, becausejust a few seconds later thespotlightpickedupthelineofmy trail through thesnowfield. The bright lightand the low angleexaggerated it and left noroomforanydoubt.Thelightstopped roving, and the hornstopped sounding only a

momentlater.There followed a silence

that I didn’t like, filled withunstatedmenace.And then the cab door

opened, and its occupantsteppeddowntotheroad.Idon’tknowwhatI’dbeen

expecting.Anything but this.She was small, and slight.Her light summer dress wastorn and soiled and her hairwas lank and dusty and

blowing across her face.Herarms were bare, but sheseemed oblivious to the coldandthewind.Shestartedouttoward the point where mytrail angled out across theroad,andIknewthatIoughttobeturningandrunningbutIcouldn’tcomeunglued.Shewaswalking barefoot on thesnowand leaving nomark; Isaw her bend to touch thebarrier as she stepped over,

anditmighthavebeenastileout in the countrysidesomewhere in the warmestpartofthespring.Ifinallyturnedtorun.Igot

a brief impression of anotherof those plastic conestumblingby in thewind,andthenitboppedmeasIwalkedright into it. I went down. Itriedtostruggletogetupbutitwasas if I’dhadmywirespulled and crossed so that

none of the messages weregetting through in the rightorder.Icouldhearher light tread

over the wind as sheapproached.She came up and stood

right over me. Her skin wasas white as marble, andveined with blue; I couldn’tsee her face for the halo oflight from the cab spotlightbehind her. All I could see

was her ruined hair blowingaround a pitiless darkness inwhich something waswatchingme.Louie,shewhispered.Louie? I thought. Who’s

Louie? Because it sure isn’tme. I opened my mouth tosay something similar and IthinkImadeonetiny,almostinaudible croak. The winddropped and the night grewstill, and then itwas like her

eyes turned on like blazingtorches in the ravaged pit ofher face as she bent downtoward me, and I could feeltheir heat and the breath ofcorruption warming myfrostbitten skin. I could seenowthatherhairwasmattedwith concrete, and thatpatches of it had been tornout. The exposed skin waslike that of a plucked grousethat had been hanging in a

cellarforfartoolongatime.Louie, she said again, this

timewithakindofnightmaretenderness,andshetookholdofmydead-feelingfaceinherdead-looking hands and Irealised with terror that shewasraisingmeupforakiss.Isaw the darkness roaring inlikeanairshaftstraightdownto hell and I wanted toscream, but instead I think Ijustpeedmyself.

She stopped only inchesaway.Sheloweredmeagain.Ithinkshe’djustrealisedthatI wasn’t the one she waslookingfor.Then she raised her hand

and I saw the state of herfingers, and I knew howshe’dcausedthedamagethatshe’ddonetothedieseltank.I shut my eyes because Iknew that this was going tobe it. I stayed with my eyes

shut and I waited and Iwaited, and after I’d waitedfor what seemed like theentire running timeofConanthe Barbarian I managed tounstickoneeyeandlookup.Shewasstill there,butshe

wasn’t looking at me. Sheseemed to be listening forsomething. I listened too,butallIcouldhearwasthewindinthewiresoverhead.And then, only once and

very faintly, the single blastofahorn.Louie? she said. And she

startedtorise.Most ofwhat I know now

is what I’ve learned since.Louis Robson was aconstruction servicesmanager who drove aMercedes, and she was asupermarketcheckouttrainee.How she ever believed thathe’d desert his wife and run

awaywithherwillbeoneofthose eternal mysteries like,why do old cars run betterwhen they’ve been washedandwaxed;buthemusthavemade the promise one timeandshemusthavereplayeditoverandoveruntilfinally,hetold her to meet him onenight with her bags packedand a goodbye-don’t-look-for-me letter ready to mail.The place where she was to

wait was one of hiscompany’ssiteofficesbythenew motorway; he’d pull inoutside and sound the allclear on the car’s horn.Except that it was a signalthatshewouldhavetowaitalong time to hear becausewhen she got there, he wasalready waiting in the darkwith a lug wrench. Hedropped her unconsciousbody into a prepared mould

for abridgepilingand threwher cardboard suitcase after,and then he put the sealedletter into the post withoutrealising that it mentionedhim by name. This was allfiveyearsbefore.I don’t know if itwas just

the signal, or whether therewas room for anythingbeyondobsessioninthedark,tangledworm-pitofwhatwasleft of her mind; but she

lurched stiffly upright andthen, like a dead ship drawnto some distant beacon, sheset off in what she thoughtwas the direction of thesound.The blade of the

snowploughhithersquare-onas she stepped out into theroad.She wasn’t thrown; it was

morelikesheexplodedundergas pressure from within, a

release of the bottled-upforcesoffiveyears’worthofcorruption. She went up likean eyeball in a vacuumchamber,andtheentirebladeandwindshieldof theploughwere sprayedwith somethingthat stuck like tar and stanklikeordure.Ragsoffoulhidewere flung over a hundred-yard radius, showering downonto the snow with a softpattering sound. The

destruction was so completethat nothing would ever bepieced together to suggestanything remotely human.TheploughhadstoppedandIcouldseemeninorangeDay-Glooverjacketsclimbingout,stunnedanduncertainofwhatthey’dseen,andImanagedtoget up to my knees and towavemyarmsovermyhead.“Anybody else with you?”

theyaskedmewhenwewere

allinsideandIwasholdingathermos cup of coffee so hotthat it could have blanchedmeat.“Nosignofanybody?”I’d told them that I’d seen

some kind of a bird fly intothe blade, and it had allhappenedsofast thatnobodyhad a better story to offer.They’d told me their names,andI’drecognisedthemfromthe teamugs back in the hutthat they’d been forced to

abandonasabaseforawhile.I said that I hadn’t seenanybody else. Then one ofthemaskedmehow long I’dbeen out there and I said, itseemedlikeforever.“Youknowthepolicehave

jacked it in and closed theroad for the night,” one ofthem said. “We wouldn’thave come out at all if ithadn’t been for somebodyhearing your horn solo one

timewhen thewinddropped.You’ve got no idea howluckyyouare.”I raisedmy faceoutof the

steam.We all swayed as thebigchainedwheelsturnedthesnow into dirt beneath us aswe swung around for thereturnjourney,andsomebodyput a hand out to the seat infront to steady himself.They’d findMick andDavidwhenthethawsetin,andI’d

saythatIdidn’tknowadamnthing about either of them.AnddidIreallyhavenoideaofhowluckyIwas?“No,” I said pleasantly. “I

don’texpectIdo.”And I thought, You really

wanttobet?

EverybodyGoes

MICHAELMARSHALLSMITH

Michael Marshall Smith is abestselling novelist andscreenwriter,writingunderseveraldifferent names. His first novel,

Only Forward, won the AugustDerleth and Philip K. Dickawards.SparesandOneofUswereoptionedforfilmbyDreamWorksand Warner Brothers, and theStraw Men trilogy—The StrawMen,TheLonelyDead, andBloodof Angels—were internationalbestsellers. His Steel Dagger-nominatednovelThe Intruders iscurrently in series developmentwith the BBC. His most recentnovels are Bad Things and TheServants, the latter, a short novelpublished under the new

pseudonymM.M.Smith.He is a three-time winner of

the British Fantasy Award forshort fiction, and his stories arecollected in two volumes: WhatYouMake It andMore Tomorrow&Other Stories (which won theInternational Horror GuildAward).

Youcanfindmoreinformationabout him and his work at:http://www.michaelmarshallsmith.com.

Isawamanyesterday.Iwascoming back from the wasteground with Matt and Joeyand we were calling Joeydumb because he’d seen thishugespiderandhethought itwas a black widow orsomething when it was just,like, a spider, and I saw theman.Wewerewalkingdownthe

road towards the block and

laughingand I just happenedto lookupand therewas thisman down the end of thestreet, tall, walking uptowardsus.Weturnedofftheroadbeforehegottous,andIforgotabouthim.Anyway, Matt had to go

homethenbecausehisfamilyeatsearlyandhismomraiseshellifheisn’tbackintimetowash up and so I just hungoutforawhilewithJoeyand

then he went home too.Nothing much happened intheevening.ThismorningIgotupearly

becauseweweregoingdownto the creek for the day andit’salongwalk.Imadesomesandwichesandputtheminabag, and I grabbed an appleand put that in too. Then Iwent down to knock onMatt’sdoor.Hismomansweredand let

mein.She’sokayreally,andquitenice-lookingforamom,butshe’skindofstrict.She’sthe only person in the worldwhocallsmePeterinsteadofPete. Matt’s room alwayslookslikeit’sjustbeentidied,which is quite cool actuallythough itmustbea realpaintokeepup.Atleastyouknowwhereeverythingis.We went down and got

Joey. Matt seemed kind of

quiet on the way down as ifthere was something hewanted to tell me, but hedidn’t. I figured that if hewanted to, sooner or later hewould. That’s how it iswithbest friends. You don’t haveto be always talking. Thepoint will come round soonenough.Joey wasn’t ready so we

had to hang round while hefinished his breakfast. His

dad’s kind of weird. He sitsand reads the paper at thetable and just grunts at itevery now and then. I don’tthink I could eat breakfastwithsomeonewhodidthat.Ithink I would find itdisturbing. Must besomethingyouget intowhenyougrowup,Iguess.Anyway, finally Joey was

ready and we left the block.The sun was pretty hot

already though it was onlynineinthemorningandIwasglad Iwas onlywearing a Tshirt.Matt’smommade himwear a sweatshirt in casethere was a sudden blizzardor something and I knew hewasgoing tobepretty bakedbytheendofthedaybutyoucan’ttellmomsanything.Aswewerewalking away

from the block towards thewaste ground I looked back

and I saw the man again,standingon theopposite sideof the street, looking at theblock. He was staring up atthe top floor and then Ithoughtheturnedandlookedat us, but it was difficult totell because the sun wasshiningrightinmyeyes.Wewalkedandranthrough

thewasteground,nothangingaround much because we’dbeen there yesterday. We

checkedonthefortbutitwasstill there. Sometimes otherkidscomeandmessitupbutitwasokaytoday.Matt got Joey a good one

with a scrunched-up leaf.Heputitonthebackofhishandwhen Joey was looking theotherwayandthenhestartedstaring at it and saying“Pete...” in this really scaredvoice;andIsawwhathewasdoing and pretended to be

scaredtooandJoeyboughtit.“I toldyou,” he says—and

he’s backing away—“I toldyou there was blackwidows...”andwecouldhavekept it going but I startedlaughing. Joey lookedconfused for a second andthen he just grunted as if hewas reading his dad’s paperandsowejumpedonhimandcalledhimDadallafternoon.We didn’t get to the creek

till nearly lunch time, andMatt took his sweatshirt offand tied it round his waist.It’s a couple miles from theblock, way past the wastegroundandoutintothebush.It’sagoodcreek though. It’ssogoodwedon’tgotheretoooften, like we don’t want towearitout.You just walk along the

bush, not seeing anything,and then suddenly there you

are, and there’s this babycanyon cut into the earth. Itgetsalittledeepereveryyear,I think, except when there’snorain.Maybeitgetsdeeperthen too, I don’t know. Thesides are about ten feet deepand this year there was rainso there’s plenty of water atthe bottom and you have tobe careful climbing downbecause otherwise you canslipandendupinthemud.

Mattwentdownfirst.He’sbest at climbing, and reallyquick.Hewentdown first sothat if Joey slipped hemightnot fall all the way in. Forme,ifJoeyslips,heslips,butMatt’s good like that.Probably comes from havingsuchatidyroom.Joey made it down okay

thistime,holdthefrontpage,andIwentlast.Thebestwayto get down is to put your

back to the creek, slide yourfeetdown, and then let themgo until you’re hanging ontothe edge of the canyon withyour hands. Then you justhave to scuttle. As I waslowering myself down Inoticedhowfaryoucouldseeacrosstheplain,lookingrightalong about a foot up fromthe ground. There’s nothingto see for miles, nothing butbushes and dust. I think the

manwas there too,off in thedistance, but it was difficultto be sure and then I slippedand nearly ended up in thecreek myself, which wouldhave been a real pain andJoey would have gone onaboutitforever.Wewalkedalongthecreek

for awhile and thencame tothe ocean. It’s not really theocean,it’sjustabitwherethecanyon widens out into

almost a circle that’s aboutfifteenfeetacross.It’sdeeperthantherestofthecreek,andthe water isn’t so clear, butit’s really cool.When you’redown there you can’t seeanything but this circle ofsky, and you know there’snothingelseformilesaround.There’s this old door therewhich we call our ship andwe pull it to one side of theoceanandwealltrytogeton

and float it to the middle.Usually it’s kind of messyandIknowMattandJoeyarethinking there’s going to betroublewhen theirmoms seetheir clothes, but today wesomehowgot it right andwefloated right to the middlewithonlya littlebitofwatercomingup.We played our game for a

while and then we just satthere for a long time and

talked and stuff. I wasthinking how good it was tobe there and there was apause and then Joey tried tosaysomethingofhisownlikethat. It didn’t come out verywell, but we knew what hemeantsowetoldhimtoshutup and made as if we weregoing to push him in. Mattpretendedhehad a spider onhis leg just by suddenlylooking scared and staring

and Joey laughed, and Irealised that that’s wherejokes come from. It was ourown joke, that no one elsewould ever understand andthat they would never forgethoweveroldtheygot.Matt looked at me one

time,asifhewasabouttosaywhat was on his mind, butthen Joey said somethingdumb and he didn’t.We justsat there and kept talking

about things and movingaroundsowedidn’tgetburnttoobad.Oncewhen I lookedupat therimof thecanyonIthought maybe there was ahead peeking over the sidebutthereprobablywasn’t.Joeyhasawatchandsowe

knew when it was fouro’clock. Four o’clock is thelatest we can leave so thatMatt gets back for dinner intime. We walked back

towardsthewasteground,notrunning.Thesunhadtiredusout and we weren’t in anyhurry to get back because ithad been a good afternoon,and they always finish whenyou split up. You can’t getback to them the next day,especiallyifyoutrytodothesamethingagain.When we got back to the

street we were late and soMattandJoeyranonahead.I

wouldhaverunwiththembutI saw that the man wasstanding down the other sideof theblock,andIwanted towatchhimtoseewhathewasgoingtodo.Mattwaitedbacka second after Joey had runand said he’d see me afterdinner.Thenheran,andIjusthungaroundforawhile.Themanwaslookingback

upat theblockagain, likehewas looking for something.

He knew I was hangingaround, but he didn’t comeover rightaway,as ifhewasnervous.Iwentandsatonthewall and messed about withsome stones. Iwasn’t in anyhurry.“Excuse me,” says this

voice,andI lookedup toseethe man standing over me.The slanting sun was in hiseyesandhewasshadingthemwithhishand.Hehad a nice

suit on and he was youngerthanpeople’sparentsare,butnot much. “You live here,don’tyou?”Inodded,andlookedupat

hisface.Helookedfamiliar.“Iusedtoliveheretoo,”he

said, “when I was a kid. Onthe top floor.” Then helaughed,andIrecognisedhimfromthesound.“Alongtimeagonow.Camebackafterallthese years to see if it had

changed.”Ididn’tsayanything.“Hasn’t much, still looks

the same.” He turned andlooked again at the block,thenbackpastmetowardsthewaste ground. “Guys stillplaying out there on the’ground?”“Yeah,” I said, “it’s cool.

Wehaveafortthere.”“Andthecreek?”He knew we still played

there: he’d been watching. Iknew what he really wantedto ask, so I just nodded.Theman nodded too, as if hedidn’tknowwhattosaynext.Or more like he knew whathe wanted to say, but didn’tknowhowtogoaboutit.“Myname’sTomSpivey,”

he said, and then stopped. Inodded again. The manlaughed, embarrassed. “Thisisgoingtosoundveryweird,

but...I’ve seen you aroundtoday, and yesterday.” Helaughed again, running hishand through his hair, andthen finally asked what wason his mind. “Your nameisn’tPete,byanychance?”I looked up into his eyes,

thenaway.“No,”Isaid.“It’sJim.”The man looked confused

for a moment, then relieved.Hesaidacouplemore things

about the block, and then hewent away.Back to the city,orwherever.AfterdinnerIsawMattout

in the back car park, behindthe block. We talked aboutthe afternoon some, so hecould get warmed up, andthenhe toldmewhatwasonhismind.Hisfamilywasmovingon.

His dad had got a better jobsomewhere else. They’d be

goinginaweek.Wetalkedalittlemore,and

then he went back inside,looking different somehow,asifhe’dalreadygone.I stayed out, sitting on the

wall, thinking about missingpeople. I wasn’t feeling sad,justtired.SureIwasgoingtomiss Matt. He was my bestfriend. I’dmissed Tom for awhile, but then someone elsecame along. And then

someone else, and someoneelse. There’s always newpeople.They come, and thenthey go. Maybe Matt wouldreturn some day. Sometimesthey do come back. Buteverybodygoes.

TransfiguredNight

RICHARDBOWES

Richard Bowes has publishedsevenbooksandfiftyshortstories.He has won two World FantasyAwards, an International HorrorGuild Award and a Million

Writers Award. In 2013 he hasfour books coming out: hisLambda Award-winning novel,Minions of the Moon will bereprinted by Lethe Press; LethewillalsopublishanewnovelDustDevil on aQuiet Street;AqueductPresswillbringoutamodernfairytale collection The Queen, theCambion and Seven Others; andFairwood Press will release IfAngels Fight, which includes theeponymous World FantasyAward-winning novelette andthirteen other stories. His web

pageis:rickbowes.com.

“Irememberthisstreet,thishouse,” the one she calls theGuesttellsFrieda.Shestandsinherbig,tile-flooredkitchenkneading dough. Outside thewindows, beyond thescreenedporch,summerlightpoursdownonhollyhocks inthebackyard.“Ilivedaroundhere till I was fourteen,” he

says and touches the pocketofhisdenim jacket, feels thesmall leather sack and therelic insideit.Whenhedoes,a tingling in his spine, atightnessat thebottomofhisstomach, confirm that here,on re-gentrified Sears Hill,twenty minutes by Red Linefrom downtown Boston, allthe conditions exist tocompleteamagiccircle.She looks out the window

at tree-shaded, rambling,turn-of-the-century housesjust like hers. “This musthave been a greatneighborhood to grow up in,it’s like where the familylivedinFatherKnowsBestorsomething.Ican’tbelieveweownthis.”Frieda was raised rootless

on army bases all overWestern Europe and theAmericanSouth.“AndIcan’t

believe I’m seeing you againand that my street is whereyou were born. You werealways so mysterious, evenaboutyourname.That’swhywe started calling you theGuest,remember?”He smiles at thenameand

doesn’t explain to her thatSearsAvenueatthetopofthehillwas thebest street in theneighborhood.Backwhenhisfather was working his way

through the maze of citygovernment, they lived in asmall house close to thesubwayandCraySquare.Hisparents’ big ambition was tobe able to move. He’d feltlike a guest in theneighborhood even when helivedhere.She asks, “Is there anyone

stillaroundthatyouknow?”“I know a guy called Ron

whoI’msureisstillaround.”

Frieda is going to ask more,buttheGuestdistractsherbysaying, “The gray house atthe end of this block ishaunted, a place they daredyou to go on Halloween. Acouple of crazy old womenlivedthere.Oneofthemtookashotatthebunchofusoncewith an old pistol her fatherhad brought back from theCivil War. One kid, ChickyBoyle, got grazed in the

shoulderandhadtogoto thehospital. I think he ended upasacop.”She smiles, liking that, the

ghosts, the local history, theinsight into his past. Hersmile, just as he remembers,narrowshereyes, creases theskinabove them, gives her awicked look. Frieda brushesbackastrandofloose,honey-colored hair from herforehead.

Hemadeupthestoryoftheold lady and the pistol righton the spot. The atmospherehe’s trying for is nostalgiaslightly tinged with mystery.HewantstoremindFriedaofwhen she was young andgoingtoRadcliffandhecamethroughherlifeafewtimesayear bringing unorthodoxexcitement,awhiffofdanger.To remind himself of whyhe’s there, theGuest touches

thepocket,feelsthesackandthefingerinsideitandknowshe’scominghome.“This is going in the oven

now,” Frieda tells him,opening the door, sticking inthe bread. It’s a parent’shabit, he realizes, toannounce what you’re doingas you do it. From upstairscomes the sound of children,Jesse,agefive,andoneofherlittle friends at play. Three-

year-old Calvin, the otherchild, is watching SesameStreet. There is an au pair, ablond young woman fromFinland.Hewonders if she’sgoingtobeaproblem.“Let’ssitoutsideforalittle

while,” Frieda says. “Jasshould be home soon and Icould use an ice tea.Do youwantabeer?”“Tea is fine, if you have

it.” He stands up, hooks his

thumbs in his jeans pocketslike thekidheoncewas, thehustlerhe’ssometimesbeen.Frieda catches that as she

pours amber tea out of aplastic pitcher from thefridge. She brushes her barearmagainsthisbarewristandsays, “I can’t get over howgoodyoulook.”Eroticism is part of the

moodhewants to create, butestablishingthatseemedtobe

no problem. “You’re doingjust fine yourself,” he says,looking her up and down,winkingwhenhecatcheshereye.Asalways,FriedafeelsalittlesomethinglackinginherlifewithJason.Out on the porch, shaded

from the summer sun, theylisten to lazy Tuesdayafternoon sounds, a lawnmower two yards over, ashort burst from a car radio

passing down Sears Avenue.She’s wearing a t-shirt andtennis shorts. Her long legs,firmandtanned,arestretchedout in front of her. “Tell meabout this neighborhoodwhenyouweregrowingup,”she says. “We’ve only beenhere a couple of years. Itso....” She pauses for thepolite word. “So polarized.Blacks and Spanish at thebottom of the hill, white

preppiesuponthetop.”“This part of Dorchester

was allwhite andCatholic. Inoticedjustnowthatthetradeschool down in Cray Squareis a Family Planning andCommunity Health Center.We had none of that backthen.” He smiles as he talksand insects buzz and both ofthem listen for the sound ofJasoncominghome.Asheembroidersold tales

of derring-do, of dodginghomicidal nuns and re-enacting cowboy movies invacant lots,hethinksbacktowhat must have been thesummer of ’58. That’s whenhe was ten and had lost hisbest friend.Summervacationthen was another country.Julystretchedlikeaprairie.Abuddy moved severalneighborhoods away and itwas as if he’d fallen off the

edge of the world. Adults,parentsinparticular,werethenaturalforces,theirwhimsasdevastating as hurricanes orforestfires.Bobby’sfamilyhadmoved

toQuincy at the start of thatsummer. Each kid was tootough to let on howmuch ithurt.Soneithersetofparentsthought to let the two boysvisitorstayover.Bobby’s parents didn’t

much like him hangingaroundwiththeirsonanywayandtheGuest’sparentsneverliked his friends. So thatsummer,whentheballgamesbroke up in the baking,endless afternoons and thekids drifted off in twos andthrees, he found himself leftbehindandmissingBobby.Then one day, some

instinctmadetheten-year-oldsavage crouch in the hot sun

and run a finger along thebladeofapocketknife.Withblood on the blade, hesketched two figures in theplayground dust and drew acircle around them.With thesame bloody finger, hetouched the black of his hi-tops and murmured, “Giveme a new best friend.”Adding that most solemnincantation,“Blackmagic,nochanges,nonothing.”

A shadow fell over him.Standingupfast,hesawakidin jeans, t-shirt and sneakerslike the ones he wore, a kidwithablackcrewcut insteadof dirty orange like Bobby’sorblondlikehisown.Thekidasked, “Watcha doing?” andsmiled a crooked little smilelike one who knew alreadybutcouldn’tquitebelieveit.Erasing his drawings with

one foot, he answered,

“Nothing.” They circledwarilyliketwodogssniffing.“You live around here?” heasked because he had neverseenthiskidbefore.“We just moved in.” The

new boy gestured towardCray Square. “What aboutyou?”He pointed up the hill

towardhisparents’houseandasked, “What school you goto?”

“My mother doesn’t knowyet.” There was somethingfunny about theway the kidtalked.“Wheredoyougo?”“St. Michael’s. What’s

yourname?”“Ron.What’syours?”Thinking back to that key

meetingofhis life, theGuestremembers hesitating for amoment. The name hisparentshadbestowedonhimwas Timothy Conroy and he

resented it and them.Hewastired of being a Tim orTimmy, didn’t like beingcalled Conroy. Out ofnowhere, he said, “TC,” andliked the sound. It was analias.Thefirstofmany.His new friend,Ron, lived

with just his mother in athree-room apartment downon Cray Square. Previously,they had lived in Baltimore,distant, exotic, mean. Ron

couldn’trememberhisfather.Hismother worked eveningsandwashomeduringtheday,sleepingalot.TC never saw her.He and

Ron would no sooner be inthefrontdoor than her voicewould float out of thedarkened bedroom. “There’sa dollar on the table, take itand go to the movies.”Sometimes theywould spendtheafternoondownthestreet

attheDorchesterStrand.Theold “Chester,” huge, cold,almostdesertedatmid-week,reminded him of a secretcavern.Ron was real tough and

knewmorestuffthananyone.TC brought his new friendhomebuthisparentsweretoobusy even to notice thatRoncalledtheirsonTC.He liked knowing a kid

who lived with an invisible

mother and without a father.Itwasasecrethedidn’twanttoshare.When he thought of his

family, neighborhood andschool, the image that camewasofahugeunblinkingeyewatching over him. WithRon, he found a way ofdodgingthatgaze.When the two of them

weren’tplayingballorat themovies, they hung around

Cray Square wherecommuters from the MTAstationmingledwithshoppersfrom the A&P, the Five &Dime, the hardware andclothes stores and bakeries,thebars,theliquorstores,thedim little places on sidestreets.The first day they knew

eachother,RontookTCtoastore called Max’s on theground floor of the building

wherehelived.Thewindowsof Max’s were grimedarkened. On the counterwere newspapers, cigarettes,some stale candy andpretzels. In a corner was acooler full of bottled softdrinks. On shelves over theradiatorwere dusty stacks ofmagazines and paperbackbooks with their covers tornoff.The magazines were old

True Detective andUncannyTales, with dates from theearly fifties. The bookswerepaperback westerns andmysteriesandsciencefiction.Some of them were twostories stuck together, oneupsidedownfromtheother.The guy who worked at

Max’sandseemed to run theplacewascalledCy.Cy was gray-haired,

smokedcigarettesand let the

twoboyspawthroughtheoldmagazinesforaslongastheywanted. Customers wereinfrequent during the day. Acurtainedopeningonthewallbehind the counter led to adarkcorridor.Sometimes when it was

quiet,theyheardthesoundofmuffled voices, of phonesringing somewhere in thedistance.TC discovered early that

hisfriendhadalotoftroublereading. But Ron liked to beread to. Sometimes theywouldsitforhoursonaboardplaced over the radiator andhe would read aloud.Sometimeshe looked up andCy would be watchingthrough half-shut eyes.Sometimes Cy would givethem free Cokes and showthem magazines they mighthavemissed,dumboneswith

nothing but pictures ofwomen and men in bathingsuits.Once,whileTCwastotally

absorbed in reading TrueTales of War in the Pacific,Cy came up quietly andtouched his neckwith an icecoldbottle.Whenhejumped,Cysortoflaughed.Atacertaintimelateinthe

afternoon, business wouldpickup.Awallphonebehind

the counter would start toring. Guys Cy knew wouldshowuptotalktohim.Whenthat happened,Cywould tellthe boys to take whateverthey were reading and getout.One time, escorting them

out the door, Cy hooked hishands into the top of theirjeans. TC felt fingers slipbetweenskinanddenim,findthe elastic band of his briefs

and give it a sharp yank.“Have a pair of wedgies onme,”saidtheman.Outside, Ron looked back

for a longmoment and said,“Let’s do a stake-out, keeptrackofwhogoesinandout.”For the rest of the afternoon,from theMTA station acrossthe street they watched thesparse traffic at Max’s.Eventually, TC had to gohome for dinner. When he

came back, Ron was stillwatching the front of Max’sfrom the station waitingroom.Aguy inahat left thestore. “Okay, that’s the lastone I saw go in there.” Rontoldhim.Bythenithadstartedtoget

dark. Street lamps were on,stores that were still openthrewlightoutontothestreet,the neon marquee of theChester glowed, trolleys

sparked on the overheadwires.Knowingheshouldalready

be home, TC said, “I gottago.” But made no effort towalk away from his friend.Across the street, Cy put upthe “closed” sign, locked thedoor and drew the shade.Moviegoersstraggledintothetheater, a group of teenagersroaredthroughthesquareinaconvertible. “My parents are

going to kill me,” he toldRon.Then the door of Max’s

openedand twoguyswalkedout putting on their hats. “Ididn’t see them go in,” Rontold him. “There’s awaywecanlookinthroughtheback,tomorrow.”Recently, they had read a

story, “Secretsof theAtomicSquad,” about a ring ofRussian spies in New York.

“Maybe Cy’s a communist,”hetoldRon.Thedooropenedandanotherguyleft,thisonelightingacigar.“Cy’s a fucking ass

bandit,” Ron said withouttaking his eyes off the door.TC nodded as if he knewwhat his friend meant. Thatnight he ran home long afterdark,expectingtheworst.Coming up the street, he

saw all the lights on in the

house.Ashetriedtoslip intothe kitchen door, hismother,putting drinks on a tray,spottedhim and cried, “Herehe is!” likeshedidwhenshewas very angry or veryhappy.“Comeonandseethepeople.”All the peoplewerehis father’s political friends.Someshookhishand,slappedhimon theback, toldhimhewas growing. He finally gottogoupstairstohisroom.

The next morning afterbreakfast, he was in CraySquareyelling, “Hi-yoRon,”athisfriend’swindow.Roncameoutsaying.“My

ma’s still asleep.”Theywentdown the hall to the back ofthe building, past the super’sapartmentandoutintoakindof courtyard. There, Ronflattened himself against thewallnexttoascreendoorandglanced inside. Then he

pulledbackandTCstuckhiseyeacareful incharound thecorner to see a room withnothinginitbuta long table,a bunch of chairs, ablackboard and some bigfans. On the table wereashtrays, pads of paper andmore telephones than he hadever seen in one place. Thedoor at the far end of theroomopenedandCycamein.TC realized this room was

behindMax’sandduckedhishead back. Cy hadn’t seenhim.Thetwoofthemmusthave

stayed for hours, sayingnothing, peeking into theempty room. Late in themorning, men started toarrive, guys wearing hats,smoking cigars. Someonesaid, “Saratoga.” Someoneelse said, “He’s got dough,runs a six-for-five operation

upinLynnsomeplace.”Thenthephonesstartedtoringandall the talkwas numbers andnames which TC didn’tunderstand. The last time hepeeked around the corner,half a dozen men, most ofthem still wearing their hats,were talking on phones.Another stood at theblackboard writingsomething.HerememberedtellingRon

later, when theywere on thestreetagain,“Those guys areCommies.”Ron just said, “You gotta

nottellwhatwesaw.”“ButtheFBI....”Ron smiled the same slit-

eyed, slightly increduloussmile he had the first timethey’dmet.“WeonlytellifIsayso.Otherwiseyouandmearen’t friends.” TC nodded.Ron knew about more stuff

thananyadult.That afternoon, he sat in

Max’s, intensely involved inreading Curse of the IndianDrum.ThenRonnudgedhim.Cy had shut the door anddrawntheshades.HestoodatthecounterwithtwoopeniceCold cokes. Ron nodded forTC to go first. When hereached for the bottle, Cysaid, “Let’s see what yougot,” and yanked his pants

andshortsdown.In panic and humiliation,

TC froze. Cy held him withone arm and started strokinghim. For a longminute,Rondidn’tmove,justwatchedthescene. The man said, “Seehowmuchheenjoysthis.Getover here so I can do youtoo.”“Assbandit,”Ronsaidreal

loud. “I’m gonna tell thecops.” Cy jumped away.

“And he’s gonna tell hisparents.His fatherworks forthe mayor. He’ll tell themabout those guys in the backroom.” As TC pulled up hispants, he heard Ron say,“What have you got in theregister? I want that. I wanttwentydollars.”Cy’s hand trembled as he

took out his wallet, thrustbills at the boy. “Littlebastard, little pimp. Here.

Don’tcomebacktothisstoreagain.”Allthoseyearslater,sitting

onaporchinthebackyardofone of the nicest houses onthe hill, the Guest can recalltwo more things from thatlong-ago afternoon. The firstwasthathetookCurseoftheIndian Drums with him andfinished reading it to Ronunder a tree in his parents’yard.Theotherwas thatRon

splitthemoneywithhimandtoldhimhehaddonegood.

While remembering that, theGuest tells his amusedhostess, “One of the nuns atSt. Michael’s had a blackmustache she used towax atnight.”Then,out front, a cardoor

slams. Upstairs, a kid yells,“Daddy!”Friedarises toher feetand

says, “Just sit here. Let’ssurprise him.” She toucheshis shoulder, getting up. Hetakesthegestureasapromisethat things will be like oldtimes and together they willhandleJason.He turns his chair,

positions himself so that hisface is in shadow, his legsthrustoutinfrontofhim.Theattitude, the hair that stillcurlsoverhis ears, the faded

denim jacket and jeans, thewhite sneakers and t-shirt allaimforaneffectofyouth.“Whatkindofasurprise?”

he hears a voice ask frominside the house.He touchesthe relic in his pocket forluck.Frieda says something and

Jason replies, “Someone?”sounding a little tired, a bitput out, a hard-workingmanhome at the end of a day.

Jasoncomesoutthedoorandstops.Hehaslostmostofhishair and is wearing a graysummer suit, a tie loosenedonhisstripedcollar.The man sees first what

appears to be a kid loungingon his patio and his eyesnarrow, his mouth opensslightly.TheGuestknowshestill has ahook into this guybefore he rises, saying, “Hi,Jas.”

“MyGod.” Jason pretendsthat what he just exhibitedwas nearsighted curiosity.“How long has it been? Tenyears? You look exactly thesame.” As he says it, Jason,corporate lawyer, is lookingat the face in front of him,assessing the thin goldearrings, seeking linesbesidetheeyes,slacknessaroundthejaw,maybeagrayhairortwothattheGuesthasn’tcaught.

Frieda,smilingathimfrombehind her husband, says, “Iwasthinkingthatit’suncannythe way he can show up inour lives. Turns out he’s alocal boy. He spent theafternoon telling me aboutgrowing up around here. Iasked him to stay for dinner.Maybe relive some oldtimes.” She wiggles hereyebrowsalittleonthat.Jason, still examining for

flaws, says, “Around here! Iremember you saying youlivedinBoston.Butyougrewup around here?” Jason’sdisbeliefhas todowithCraySquareas itnowis, thehugeMBTA station as it’s nowknown, covered with graffitiandgangsymbols, theemptystore fronts, the corner barswith plywood in theirwindows.“Years ago,” the visitor

tells them. “Before myparentssplit.Wemovedawayintheearlysixties.Theplacehasgonethroughsometoughtimes since then.” The thingthatlinkstheoldCraySquaretothiseveningisRon.Then Jason the attorney is

sitting opposite him, stillguessing theexactamountofthe Guest’s annual income,asking, “What are you doingthesedays?”

“Freelance. Video andtelevision. I’m doing specialeffects.There’s anew horrorseries called Hour of theWolf,asyndicatedthing.”“You’ve given up acting?”

Frieda seems sad at the loss,althoughshe’sneverseenhiswork.“DoyoueverseeSladeandDaphne?”sheasks.He doesn’t let his smile

fade as he says, “Saw themjust theotherday. Sladewas

directingsomeoftheHourofthe Wolf episodes.” To stopthequestions,hestartstalkingtothemaboutHollywoodandthe series which really is insyndication. His connectionwithit,however,won’tbeonthecreditcrawl.TheGuesthasafewfunny,

slightly worn Hollywoodstories that he can recite onautomatic pilot. He rendersforFriedaandJasonanacting

lessonheonce attended. “Bythattime,halfofusarebare-ass and I am wearing acowboy hat, period, and thislunatic drama teacher issaying in this preposterous,phonyHungarianaccent....”Bothofthemarehysterical.

Frieda gets up saying, “Let’ssee about dinner. You arestaying,ofcourse.”He stands up, looking

uncertain.Jasonstandsuptoo

andsays,“He’sstaying.CanIget you something besidesthat watery tea? A drink, abeer?”The Guest makes a move

towardthekitchensaying,“Abeer,butletmegetit.”Jason puts a hand on his

chest and says, “Sit down.Wehavea lot to talkabout.”The hand describes a barelyperceptible circular motion.The look in Jason’s eyes is

quizzical,concernednotwiththe other’s reaction but withhis own. The first time theGuest saw that look inanotherwaswhenCyhadhishandinhisjockeyshorts.He smiles and sinks back

into thechairandknows thathis hosts are talking abouthim in the kitchen, imaginestheir conversation. Jasonsaying, “He’s staying fordinnerand...?”

“Why are you asking thatway?”“Whataboutafterdinner?”“Wetalk.Whatelse?”“What else? When did an

eveningwithhimeverconsistjust of talk? I think he’s alittle strung out. I think he’scarrying his worldlypossessionsonhim.IwonderaboutAIDS.You ever see anybody

come out from L.A. who

takesthesubway,forChrist’ssake?”“He looks good, though.

You’re not going to denythat.”When Jason comes back

with two John Adams beerssweatingintheirbottles,he’schanged into sandals, shortsand a tennis shirt. “You’resure you don’t wantsomethingstronger?”heasks.TheGuestshakeshishead,

reaches his hand not towardthe leather sack in his jacketbuttoaplasticbaginafrontpocket of his pants. “I havesomething here that mayliventhingsup,”hesays.Jason smiles and says,

“Maybe later. After dinner.”On his way here, the Guestnoticed that the block whereRon and his mother lived,where Cy served as a frontman for a bookie operation,

had disappeared. A semi-trashed Kentucky FriedChicken place occupies partof the site. The rest is a carwash. But he can still senseRon’s presence, not just inCray Square but up here aswell.Events that began over

three decades before areready to come full cycle. Intheplasticbaginhispantsareseveral joints, each a grass,

opium and angel-dustcocktail. On the street, theycall them, “Pimp’s Kisses,”because of the way they canscrewyourhead.

A beer or two along withcheese and pâté makes thetime before dinner passeasily.Then Jesse andKevincome out with the au pair.Kevin is shy, staring at theGuest with big, mistrustful

eyes. But Jesse turns on thecharm, smiles like a blond-haired little imp. She looksright at him and asks, “Areyouontelevision?”TheGuest sees right away

how she fits into his plans.He’s nice to the children,smiling, but not goingoverboard, not getting themexcited.Hewantsthemsoundasleepthatnight.Theaupair’snameisKristi

and she’s eighteen. In highheels and a dress he’s seenworn better by others, shelooksdullandknowingatthesametime.She’llbeoutwithfriends till after midnight. “Iwillbelettingmyselfin,”shesays.A horn sounds out front

and she turns to go. Herreturncouldbeaproblem,theGuest realizes. Aside fromthat,everythinggoeswell.

At one point, while Friedais getting the kids fed andsettleddown,Jasonstandsupsaying,“Thenewsison.”HelooksattheGuestwhoshrugsand smiles. “Not interested,huh?” Jason asks. “Well, Iguess I can miss one day’sworth of theAmazingWhiteHouseAdventures.Sotellmemore about the project thatyou’re working on withSlade. We were out there

aboutayearagoandsawhimandDaphne.”TheGuestsmiles,guessing

thathisnamehadn’tcomeup.It was before he re-enteredthe lives of certain oldacquaintances. He says,“We’re in the preparationstages right now. But I’mdoing special effects. Like Isaid.”“Blood and gore?” Jason

asks.

That’ssoaptthattheGuestlaughsaloud.“Pipinghotandplenty of it. The time hascome for me to think aboutmaking a career.” Again hesmiles and makes the slightinvoluntary gesture to hisjacket.Inthepocketisasoft,leather pouch. Inside thepouch, wrapped tightly inplastic, is the right indexfinger of Slade Bennet. It’sthe very finger with which

Slade jabbed him the chestthe night before in L.A. andcalledhimaparasiticcrazy.“You were always into a

kind of black magic,” Jasonsays.Suspicionstillflickers,asif

he wonders what price theremay be for youthful crimes.HehasnoideahowSladeandDaphne Bennet found thepast intertwined with thepresent when a third party

joinedtheminbedforthelasttime.Justthen,Friedacomesout

the door with a serving dishand apologizes for thingshaving taken so long. Thefood is yuppie health fare,fresh pasta and bread she’sjustbaked.The bread seems to be

mostly crust. Bugs smashthemselves against thescreens.Thesmellofcharring

steakwaftsthroughtheyards.Somewhere out on SearsAvenue, yuppified, fortifiedSears Avenue, a car doorslams.Muchfurtherdownthehill,aghettoblastersounds.With dinner there is wine

and there are candles. TheGuest drinks a careful glassashishosts recall high timesandnightfrolicstwentyyearsback. “I remember,” Friedasays after several glasses.

“You always hung a pictureofacrimsonskullat the footofthebed.AndtheysaidyouhadbeeninapornmovieandI thought you were theprettiest and wickedest boy.Youdidtoo,”shetellsJason.

Jason has had a few glassesof wine but still looksstrained when talk turns topolymorphous tumbles. Atthis point, the Guest feels a

barefootwork itswayunderhispantsleg.Friedaisready.Shewas always ready. Jasonsays nothing. But the Guestnotices sweat on the top ofhisheadeventhoughabreezefrom the harbor has cooledtheeveningdown.Fromhis pants pocket, the

Guest removes the baggywith the joints. Frieda looksand giggles in the flickeringlight.He lights the jointona

candle, appears todrawon itwithout actually inhaling andhandsittoherfirst.Shetakesitsaying,“Ihaven’tdonethisinyears.”Jasonshakeshisheadwhen

thejointcomeshisway.He’llhave to be coaxed, just as inthe old days he had to becoaxed into bed even thoughhe wanted the threesome themost of any of them. Friedagiggles softly to herself,

saying, “Wow, it’s been solong.Twotokesandmyheadfeels like it’s flying off.” IntheprocessofgettingJasontoinhale, the Guest takes in alittle more smoke than heintends. The night appearstransfigured. Bugs hum likehelicopters. The lights inneighbors’ windows areexploding stars. When thecouple is finally wrecked,they start to drift away into

private orbits. “Just say no,”Frieda says several timeslaughing.“Jesus,”Jasonsays,looking around in wonder,“Jesus.” He draws long andhard on a dead joint. TheGuest, getting them back tobusiness, begins to playtouchy-feely games,massaging both their necks,unhooking her bra, openinghis shirt. “It’s like twentyyears ago,” they both say at

differentmoments.TheGuestremembershow,

twenty years ago, theyprovided a warm bed, somemeals, a little amusement onhis way to and from moreinterestingassignments.Oncebefore, his path fromchildhood to this night ledhimtoCraySquareinitstimeof ruin and to Ron theEternal.

Around1970,sometimesstillcalled TC but with school,family and the draft wellbehind him, he wanderedback to Boston and foundhimselflivingwithacovenofspeedfreaks.The combination of a

police bust and a burn artistled to the collapse of thatfrenzied scene. One winterevening he found himselfunable to sleep or sit down.

The only other one of thecompanyleftwasakid,agirlnamed Sally who said sheknewsomeonewithpills thatwould bring them in for alanding.They had slept together a

few times. Sally was skinnybut cute, from somewhere inTennessee, a drifter in thealternatecountryofdrugsandhassle that had sprung upacrossAmerica.

Nerves jumping, lidsrasping on his eyeballs,freezing, screaming,promising anything, hescraped together somemoney. It was nearlymidnightwhen they drove inher ancient van to meet theconnection. He could thinkonlyofgettingrelief.Suddenly, he recognized

familiarground:thebrickpileofSt.Michael’schurchinthe

moonlight, old streetcartracks shining in the street.The apartment block whereCy had diddled little boyswasadark,boarded-uphulk.“Hey,” he said, “I grew uparoundhere.”“You lived here?” Sally

askedwithaweinhervoice.“Thisisthebaddestpartof

the city. Black dealers shooteach other right in the trainstation.” She sounded

respectfulforthefirsttime.Seeingtheapartmenthouse

reminded him of Ron. Theyhad been closest those firstsummers they knew eachother.Acoupleoftimestheybroke intohouseson theHillwhen he knew the ownerswereonvacation.Older kidsgot blamed for that.Afterwards, the two of themrodetheMTAdowntownandfound guys on whom they

pulledthesametrickthathadworked on Cy. SometimesRondidtohimthingslikeCyhadandmore.Since Ron went to public

school when he went at all,and started having troublewith the police, they driftedapart even before TC’sparents moved out of theneighborhood. They said itwas to get him away frombad influences. Just before

TC left, Ron began workingatMax’sintheafternoon,Cyhavingdisappeared.Hanging a right that night

in1970,SallydroveupSearsHill and stopped in front ofwhat he remembered as theMacCready’s.HehadgonetoSt. Michael’s with theiryoungest son. Now, a hearsewith skulls and crossbonespaintedalloveritwasparkedin the driveway and a guy

with hair in braids down tohis waist answered the door,packingagun.Theconnectionwasaman

with white hair, a young-oldface free of wrinkles andhuge, blue, unblinking eyes.Sittingcross-leggedonapileof cushions in Mrs.MacCready’s former diningroom,themandealtwhatwassupposed to beTuinal out ofabigplasticbagbesidehim.

Sally and TC both took acouple immediately, thatmuch he was sure of. Thenext thing he rememberedwas waking up with anaching bladder to feel handsonhisbody,avoicesaying,“Someone has taken pretty

good care of this youngman.”Herealizedthathelayona

hard and unyielding surface.Trying to move, he

discovered that his legswerepulledtaut.Attempting to sit up, he

found he couldn’t move hishands. When he focused hiseyes, he saw that he wasnakedonacellar floorundera bare bulb. His hands werecuffedinbackofhimandhisfeetwere tied by a length ofcord to an iron ring on onewall.Twisting his head toward

the voice. He found thewhite-haired dealer gazingdown at him. The man withthebraidsstoodbare-chested,dressedinablackleathervestand pants. TC got hismouthtowork.“Canyouletmeup?Ihavetotakeapiss.”The man in leather didn’t

moveorchangeexpressionashe pointed at the floor andsaid,“Goahead.”Lookingdown,TCrealized

that the whole floor waspaintedasatargetandhe layon the bull’s eye. Beneathhim, a rust-stained sluice rantoadrain. It hit him that thestain was dried blood, thatthiswasakillingfloorandhewas marked for slaughter.“Listen,”hesaid,“peopleareexpectingme.”“That,” said the white-

hairedman,“isnotwhatyourgirlfriendseemstothink.”

“Sally doesn’t know me.She’s a runaway. I havefamily around here.” Thewhite-hairedmanjustsmiled.“I know people, I know....”Desperate, he faltered tryingto think of someone whomight still live in theneighborhood. From a circleof blood and dark magic, hesaid. “I know a guy calledRon.”They all heard the steps

above them when he saidthat.Bothmenlookedtowardthe stairs. “Well?” thewhite-haired man asked doing adouble take. “I thought youwere…gone. We’re sureabout the girl. What aboutthisguy?”Rolling over on the floor,

he saw a tall guy insunglasses give a familiarsmirk of disbelief and say,“TC!Wherehaveyoubeen?”

And,“Wehavetotalk.”Ron told him about how

they were making a littlefilm, outlined the scenario,madeitclearthat,oldfriendsor not, if TC refused hewasn’t leaving the cellaralive. TC felt nooverwhelming reluctance.Hehad been looking forsomethingtodowithhislife,waiting without knowing itforRontoreappearandshow

him the path throughshadows.The white-haired

connection turned out to bethedirectoroftheepic.Aguynamed Harry Ring was thecamera man. Sally, druggedout of her skull, lay on thecellar floor with a collararound her neck, her handsandfeetbound.Theytoldhershe was going to star in aporn flick and she was

willing.Everyone,TC,Ron,thebig

guy with the leather vest,Harry Ring, one or twoothers, screwedher.Betweentakes, they massaged herbrain with downs and meth.TC wondered if sherecognized him when thecamerarolledandhesteppedforward wearing a blackjockstrap and cross belt andcarryingaknife.Whenhecut

Sally’sthroatfromeartoear,the camerawason the bloodspurting off his chest anddownthedrain.Sallytriedtostand but instead justslumped.He felt that this was the

second time that Ron hadsavedhislife.Hestayedwithhisold friend foracoupleofdays. It seemed people wereafter Ron. The law andothers. Early one morning,

TC looked out the windowand sawRon and the guy inblack leather loading up thehearse.Whenhepulledonhisclothes and went out, Ronsaid, “See you next time webothgetbackthisway.”

Atquartertoeleven,thethreepeopleonthebackporchriseat the same moment and gointo the kitchen. Jason stops,says, “Security,” and with

great concentration andstoned dignity, switches onlights at the rear of theproperty.Swayingslightly,heleans for a moment againsttheGuest. Frieda carries twocandlescarefully,lightingtheway as if to a ceremony.Asthey climb the stairs, a childturns over in the dark andsays,“Mommy,”andallthreeof them freeze. Then there’ssilence and they continue on

tothemasterbedroom.“We’re not going through

with this,” Jason says. Buthe’s the one who gets thecondomsoutoftheadjoiningbathroom before returning towatch the Guest undress hiswife. In the flickeringcandlelight, Frieda glowspinkandluxuriantasarococonymph.AndJason,oncetheyget his clothes off, is hairyanddarkasasatyr.Aboutthe

Guesttheybothexclaim,“You look really great.”

Not adding, probably notthinking,“Forsomeoneourage.”When the three are on the

bed,allgoesprettymuchasitdidtwentyyearsbefore.FirstJason watches another manmake love to his woman.ThenJasonlooksasideassheand that man make love tohim. The couple seem

impressed with themselves.The thirdparty isapracticedperformer.Asthethreeofthemlieon

the huge bed, nestled againstthe cold from the airconditioner, Frieda asks him,“Hey, where did you go justnow?” Her voices slurs asmoreofthePimp’sKisskicksin. “You keep going away,”she says beginning to driftaway herself. The Guest

notices that cable news is onwith the sound off: old menin suits stride across airporttarmacs; a weeping blackwomantalkstoreporters.From somewhere

downstairs, a phone ringsonce, twice. Jason stirssuddenly. An answeringmachine in the room kickson. Kristi, the au pair, says,“Hello. I am calling to say Iwill be back there tomorrow

morning before seven if thatisokay.”Friedagiggles, “Caughtup

inthewildBostonnightlife.”TheGuestisrelieved;onebigproblemisremoved.Butnowthe couple is awake andFriedaislookingatthescreenwhere police remove bodybags from a househigh on acanyon wall. Before she canrecognize it as a place she’svisited, the Guest hugs

husband and wife, drawsthem both to him, psycheshimself to perform again.Behind them, Slade andDaphnearebeingcarriedoutoftheirhouseinL.A.The stimulus the Guest

drawson toperformone lasttime for Jason and Frieda ishis memory of that cellardown the street.Remembering the fact of hisownescape,hisknowledgeof

how close he is to escapingagain,exciteshim.Whenhe’sdone,thecouple

sleeps, breathing deep,drugged sighs. The candleshave gone out and all thelightintheroomcomesfromthe television.TheGuest liesstill, thinksabouthoweventshavecarriedhimback to thisplace.For a while, in certain

circles, he heard rumors that

RonwasinjailorinThailandor both. Then the story fromoneswho said they’d seen itwasthatRonwasdeadbuthehadn’t believed it. Actually,hehadn’tthoughtmuchaboutRon until a couple of daysagowhenhesuddenlyneededhim very badly. And it wasonlythenightbeforewhenhebecame sure he rememberedhow to reach his old frienddeadoralive.

Untilrecently,hehadbeentaking it easy, living onmoney saved, favors owed.But more time had passedthanherealizedandsuddenlythe money and favors driedup. Two days back, he wentto Palo Alto and talked toHarry Ring, the camera manonthatveryfirstfilm.HeandHarry had worked togetherafter that, creating severaltwenty-minute epics much

prized by ghouls andconnoisseurs. Long ago hehad left the nameTCbehindandtakenothers.Butthatwasthe one by which Ring stillknewhim.He proposed to Harry that

they do something similaragain. But Mr. Ring hadgotten rich running a videooutlet chain. He refused toput up themoney.When hisold partner pointed out

certain blood ties betweenthem, Harry said. “What areyougoingtodo,TC,takemeto court? Saywemadesnufffilms fifteen years ago? Tellthem that entitles you totwenty grand of my moneynow? Get out, you fuckingfreak.”Ashe spoke,Harry’s hand

moved towards a deskdrawer. But TCwas in greatshape and very angry. He

smashedHarryRingontothefloor,opened the drawer andshot him several times withthegunhefound there. Thenhestoodmotionlessforalongmoment, thinkingaboutwhathad happened. He was stillbrokeandoutof favors.Andnowhewasinacorner.Maybe hearing his old

namegavehimthefirstclue.Blinds on the windows weredrawnagainstthesunoutside.

OnablankTVscreenbehindthe desk, a kid’s faceappeared for a second, thenflickeredanddisappeared.Herecognized the face as Ron’sfrom back when they firstmet.That’s when he knew that

once again his oldest friendwastryingtorescuehim.Theoutlineofhisescapebegantoform. The first attempt wasSlade and Daphne’s in Los

Angeles.Slade, it turned out, had

forgotten his origins, hadforgotten the time before therock videos, before hedirected the movie BloodSavage. As a young filmstudent in Boston, Slade hadteamedupwithhisvisitorandHarry Ring on some wildnumbersonandoffcamera.Bythen,TCwasn’tlooking

for money. He was working

his way back to Ron. Thepathhechoseranthroughhisown past. With Harry’s gunpointedatthem,Sladeandhiswife helped him create acrudebuteffectivefilm.First,allthewayaroundthebed,hedrewacirclejustliketheonethathadbeenpresentthefirsttwo times Ron had appearedtohim.Then Slade rode Daphne,

bothofthemlookingintothe

camera, terrified. TC steppedinto the scene, climbed ontothebedjustashadin theolddays. But this time, as aclimax,he shot eachof themthroughthebackof thehead.It sort of summed up hiscareerinmotionpictures.Nowbloodwaspresent,as

ithadbeenthoseothertimes.In the silence that followedthekillings,he saw thedark-haired kid looking at him

from out of a mirror. Theimage flickered anddisappeared. But before itdid, he realized where Ronwas standing and knew thathe still hadn’t done thingsright.Seeing that reminded him

of another couple from theold days, Jason and Frieda.He had heard about theirbeautifuloldhousenearCraySquare and thought of it as

just a strange coincidence.But staring at the mirror, heunderstood how they lay onhispathwaybacktoRon.More than enough money

lay around Slade’s for theplane ticket to Boston. As awayof linking the rituals, heleftthefilminthecameraandHarry’s gun at the scene. Todraw luck and power fromwhatwent before, he cut offSlade’srightindexfingerand

tookitwithhim.The next night, in Jason

and Frieda’s bedroom, theGuest stands, strips the casefromapillow,twistsit intoatight cord. Going toward thebed, he decides to do Friedafirst.Jason lies face down,

motionless,astheGuestslipsthe pillowcase around thewife’s neck. She stirs. TheGuest knows how to do this

cleanly and quickly. He liftsthe upper part of her body.Then he brings his knee upbehind her neck at the sametime that he pulls her headback.Thenecksnaps.Jason isupandheaded for

the door. It’s closed. As heturnstheknob,theGuesthitshim behind the ear with akarate chop, stunning him.Jason falls and is hit again.This time a candlestick

smashes in the side of hishead. Then the Guestsmothers him, knowing hewaswisetokillFriedafirst.Ifshe’d been awakened andfound him murdering herhusband, she would haveyelled, screamed, tried tosave Jason. TheGuestwantsthis prelude to the ritual tohappenasquicklyandquietlyaspossible.He sits on the floor for a

few minutes regaining hisbreath. On television, a pairof heads move their mouths.This time, Ron doesn’t haveto appear on the screen. Hispresenceisallaround.The Guest drags Jason

back to the bed, places himparallel to hiswife.No needto disturb them further nowthattheirpartisdone.Withasheet pulled over Jason’shead, he and Frieda seem as

lithe and young as the firsttime all three of them slepttogether.TheGuest thinksofthisashisgifttothem.Theelectricclockreadsten

afteronewhenhegoestohisjacket, pulls out the leatherbag, removes the baggywiththe finger. Remembering nottobreathethroughhismouth,he dips it in the blood fromJason’s wound. With hisjacket over his shoulder, he

closes thedoorandgoes intothehall.Astair creaksbeneathhim

ashedescends.Atthebackofthe house, one of the kidsturns over in deep sleep.Through thebeveledwindowonthefrontdoor,lightfromastreet lamp seems diffuse,phosphorescent. In the roundhall mirror, as he passes it,his skin is deadwhite.Thickcarpetmuffles his passage to

the kitchen. Beyond theporch,security lightsglowinthebackyard.Thetilesarecoolunderfoot

as he pauses a moment,makingsurehe’s flicking theright switch. The lights die.Hewaits in absolute silence,gazing into the dark yard.Something stirs under thetrees.Afigurewithafamiliarsmilenodsimpatiently.The Guest turns his

attentionback to thekitchen.With the bloody finger, hedraws a circle on the tilefloor. From the rack placedcarefullybeyond thereachofsmall hands, he selects asharpknife.Backupstairs,heslingshisjacketoverhisarm.The children have separaterooms. He passes the boy’sand goes directly to Jesse,waits again in darkness untilhemakesoutherformonthe

bed.Whenhefirstsawthekids,

he knew that innocent bloodwaswhat he needed. Killingher parents was a practicalmatter. They would haveinterfered.Killingherbrotherisn’t necessary. For asacrifice, only the best willdo.Jesse starts awake as he

bends and picks her up. Shetries to cry but he puts his

hand over her mouth. Shestrugglesastheygodownthestairs,butheholdsherfirmly.Her little heart beats againsthis chest all the way.Standinginthemiddleof thecircle, he holds the child infrontofhimandpicksup theknife.The jacket falls away and

she screams for her mother.Outside on Sears Avenue, acar pulls up in front of the

house.Upstairs,thesmallboystarts to cry. The knifeslashes down and bloodspurts. He holds Jesse abovehis head, bathes himself inher innocence and whispers,“Blackmagic,nochanges,nonothing.” The squirmingchildabovehimgrowsstill.Locks turn on the front

door. The au pair calls,“Hello? I came home afterall.” But all that is distant.

The Guest sees night overSears Hill transformed tobrightafternoon.Before him, Ron, tough

and lonely, just moved infrom Baltimore, crouches ontheplaygroundandsummonsafriend.MostofwhatTChasseen since 1958 fades beforehis hi-tops touch the circledrawn in the dust. But eventhe tracesmake him smile atthe things he knows and this

newkiddoesn’t.

HulaVilleJAMESP.BLAYLOCK

James P. Blaylock has beenpublishingstoriesandnovelssince1975—more than twenty novelsand story collections in all. In1977, Unearth magazinepublishedhisstory“TheApe-boxAffair,” arguably the first

American steampunk story. OvertheyearshehaswonthePhilipK.Dick Memorial Award for hisnovelHomunculusandtwoWorldFantasy Awards. His short story“Unidentified Objects” wasnominated for an O. HenryAward. His most recentlypublished novels are The Knightsof the Cornerstone, set in theCaliforniadesert,TheEbbTide, asteampunk adventure set inLondon and the Lake District,and its companion volume, The

Affair of the Chalk Cliffs. He iscurrently finishing up a noveltitledTheAylesfordSkull.

“...andthewindowsoftheskywereopened.”

When I was twelve years

old, I awoke in the night tofindastrangemanstandingatthefootofmybed,regardingme as I slept. Moonlight

throughthewindowcastwhatappearedtobetheshadowofwingsagainstthewallbehindhim. Instead of beingterrified, I was filled with aradiant joy, and as he fadedfrom existence it came intomy head that I had beenvisitedbyanangel.Theidea,you’llsay,isabsurd.Ishouldhave known a hallucinationwhen I sawone, evenat thatyoung age. And I’ll admit

that the shadow on the wallmight have had more to dowith the moonlight and theshrubberyoutsidethewindowthanwithwings.The mundane and rational

explanationisperhapsalwaysthemost useful, whether it’srightorwrong. It puts a safeand tidy end to otherwiseincredible things: it wasmerely a hallucination, ashadow, a hoax, temporary

insanity, swamp gas, aweather balloon—but not anangel. One can dismiss thevery idea of angels and fallasleep.Inthemorningthesunwillshine—nomoonlight,noshadows.But for a long time I lay

awake, marveling at theangel, remembering the archof its wings and the dimoutlineof the feathers, and itwasgraydawnoutsidebefore

I drifted off to sleep again,awakening hours later withthe memory still goingaroundinmyheadbuttingedwith a vague feeling ofdiscontent. A door hadopenedonamysterybutthenhadclosedbeforeIhadgottenagoodglimpseatwhatlayonthe other side, and I verymuch wished that it wouldopen again—which is a littletoomuch likewishing that a

windmillwereinfactagiant,and then having the wishcometrue.

Twenty years ago, when Iwas living alone in SanBernardino, off HighlandAvenue at the edge of theCalifornia desert, I spentmyweekendsdrivingthroughtheMojave or down to AnzaBorego or up 395 into theWhite Mountains. I was

looking for something—theLost Dutchman’s Mine, let’ssay—although only in afigurative sense. I was neverthat sort ofprospector. Iwashaunted by the continualimpression that somethingwas pending in the smallworld that I inhabited at thattime in my life, a worldcircumscribed by the openhighways and starry nightskies of the desert in a

changingseason.I carried a book of maps

titledCaliforniaDesertTrailsthatIboughtattheHulaVilleDesert Museum out inHesperia one afternoon. Themuseum was marked with abig plywood sign—the cut-out, garish image of a huladancer with the words “TheHula Girl” paintedunderneath. It came into mymindthatthiswasthedefinite

article, and I pulled off theroad and into the emptygravel parking lot. A coldwindblewdownoffthehills,pickingupsandinlittlewinddevilsandmakingthetwoorthree acres of Joshua treesand yucca seem even moredesolatethanitwas.The proprietor, an old-

timer named Marion Walsh,stood behind the counter inthe museum itself—a

bunkhouse-shaped buildingknocked together out ofrough-cut lumber. He hadwritten and publishedCalifornia Desert Trailshimself—haddrawnthemapsand typed in the footnotesconcerning UFO sightingsand abandoned mines andother bits of arcaneinformation about out-of-the-way desert places. I had theidea of working through the

book methodically, page bypage,coveringalltheground.

Somemonthslater,onacoolNovember afternoon, pagetwenty-eight sent me outHighway10toDesertCenter,whereRoute177anglesawaynorth past the GraniteMountains,anarrow, twelve-mile range of lonesome,rocky peaks. Thesouthernmostpeak,according

to Walsh’s map, was called“Angels Peak” because astorefrontpreacherclaimedtohave seen an angel there in1932 and for a few yearsthereafter had led pilgrimsfrom San Bernardino,Riverside, and Redlands intothe area for baptism in ashallow pool among therocks.From the highway, the

Granite Range is nearly

indistinguishable from thehundreds of other dry rangesthat rise out of the desertfloor in that part of thecountry. I had often drivenpast itbeforewithout turningmyheadtolookatit.Onthisday there were heavy cloudsgathering on the Arizonahorizon, and the radiobroadcast flash-floodwarnings across the Mojaveand down into Imperial

County.AsIangledup177atDesertCenterandgotagoodlook at the sky, I nearlyturned around and headedhome. A storm in the desertcan be a uniquely beautifulthing, although itcan changethe demeanor of thelandscapeinaninstant.

At the southern edge of therange, an overgrown andrutted dirt track winds back

into the hills, quickly losingsight of the highway andclimbing some five hundredfeet before dead-ending at arockslide. The road hasn’tbeen maintained for fiftyyears, and there’s nothing toidentify it any longer—nomarker and no highwayturnout. Despite the map, Ipassed it twice before I gotout of the car and begansearchingonfoot,lookingfor

thecompactedandruttedsoilof what had once been theroadbutwasnowovergrownwith greasewood andscattered with boulders. Theair was full of the scent ofcreosote and sage and thesoundof thewind.Even inapickup truck it was slowgoingonceIleftthehighway,and it tookme nearly fifteenminutestodrivethemileanda half around to the east-

facingslope.The map marked a place

whereabigJoshuatreehidacut in the rock wall of thehillside. The cut begins as alittle defile scarcely wideenoughtopassthrough,butitsoon opens into a narrowgorgethatleadsupwardintoabox canyon with steeplyslopingrockwalls.It’sat thetop of this hidden canyon,maybea thousandfeetbelow

Angels Peak, that a stand offan palms clusters around anatural spring that bubblesout of the mountainside, thewaterspreadingoutafewfeetinto a clear shallow poolbefore sinking away into thesand.The spring itself, flowing

outof a fissure in apparentlysolid rock, is utterlymythological, as if in somelost age a Moses wandering

in the desert had struck therock with a staff and waterhad issuedforth.Aprofusionof desert primrose andpaintbrush grow in thecanyon, and a scattering ofPanamint daisies a hundred-odd miles from their usualhome to the north. There’s aholy, lonesome beauty to theplace,andaprofoundsilenceintheemptyridgesandrockypeaksandinthedeepexpanse

ofthedesertsky.

Iintendedtohiketothepeakabovethespring,aclimbthatwould have been unpleasantin the summer heat. Fromthere I would have apanoramic view of the stormmoving in over the desert,although I would have tohurry, because the sky wasdarkeningatanalarmingrate.I heard the sound of distant

thunder about ten minutesafter losing sight of thecanyon, and within momentsimmensedropsbegan to fall,scenting the air with theintoxicating smell of rain ondrystone.Itwouldhavebeensensible to turn around andreturn to the car, given theominousnatureof thecloudsand the solid chance that thestorm would wash out whatwasleftoftheoldroad,butat

the time I wasn’t inclined tobe sensible. What I wassearching for I couldn’trationallysay—gold,perhaps,or fool’s gold. I steppedunderanoutcroppingof rockand was sheltered for amoment from thewindblownrain and then came out of itonto a high ledge that wascompletely open to theweatherandsky.I could see for a hundred

miles around three points ofthe compass, and although itmight have been myimagination, I fancied that Icould detect the thin, blue,sunlit ribbonof theColoradoRiverawaytotheeast.Therewerescatteredclearingsinthecloudsthroughwhichthesunstillpoured itsgoldenbeams,illuminating ragged patchesof the desert floor, the lightquickly swept away by dark

curtains of moving rain.Lightning flashed, strikingthedistantridgesandwashes,and the sound of thunderrumbled more or lesscontinually.Thepeaklayhiddenabove,

very near by my reckoning,andwiththerainatmybackIclambered upward in acrouch from boulder toboulder and across angledplanes of decomposing

granite, hearing sharp,successivecracks of thunder,much louder and closer now.Ifinallyfoundmyselflookingoutacrossavastrockfacecutwith open fissures. Thegranite surface was rough,and there was only a smallchance of slipping, so Istepped out onto it, findingfingerholds and toeholds inthe cracks and craning mynecktoseewhethertherewas

any hope of getting entirelyacross to a line of raggedcragsjustbelowthepeak.It was then that I saw an

immense nest built in amongthecragsonaflatareapartlyovergrown with greasewood.It layin theshelterofadeepoverhang that was evidentlythe mouth of a cave, itsentrance partly blocked byboulders.Throughtheblurofrain and shadow and brush,

the nest was difficult to seeclearly, but itwas apparentlywoven of palm fronds andwas as incongruous in thatpart of the desert as was thespringinthecanyonbelow.Itwaslargeenoughforafamilyofcondors,buttherewerenocondors within two hundredand fifty miles. I inchedtowardittogetabetterview,makingoutwhatappeared tobe the arch of a massively

heavy wing, the rainwaterglistening on feathers ofburnishedgold.Above,inthehollowofthe

cave mouth and half-hiddenby boulders, somethingmoved—aman, it seemed tome, perhaps stepping backout of sight. I had seen himout of the corner ofmy eye,just a shifting image thatmightaseasilyhavebeentheshadow of moving clouds.

The rain stopped abruptlythen, and the clouds parted,andinthatinstantthecreatureinthenest turned to faceme.I saw that there was anothernext to it, and in that onebriefmomentof sharp, sunlitclarity, I believe I either lostmymindorrecoveredit.Theskywentdark,rainfell

in a sudden torrent, and alightningflashstrucktherocknottwentyfeetabovemeand

blasted me from myhandhold. The crack ofthunder was simultaneous,deafeningly loud. I slidawaydown the rock face,scrabblingwithmybootsandhandstoslowmyfall, theairsmelling of ozone andgunpowder.Therainpoundeddown so heavily now that IwasblindedbyitasIlurchedto a stop against a spur ofrock, where I lay for a

moment gathering my wits.The only safe route layupward again, but when Ireached blindly for the baseof a nearby bush, I lost myfootingagainandfell,rollingonto my side, frantic to stopmyself but sliding andtumbling uncontrollably forthe last twenty feet beforeslammingtoahaltonasandylittle plateau where a clumpofbrushwasstalkyenoughto

bearmyweight.I lay there dazed, having

hitmyheadinthefall,awarebutunconcerned that therainwas washing blood into myeyes and mouth. I wasstrangely at peace, no doubtbecause of the knock on thehead, and I listened to thethunder recede into the westas the worst of the stormpassed away overhead. Howlong I lay there I can’t say,

but it’s certain that I lostconsciousness or fell asleep.How I found my way backdown to the spring is amystery.Ihaveonlyscatteredmemories—more likedreamsthan memories—arecollection of floating, ofbeing carried. It’s quitecommon, of course, for aconcussion to cause delusionand a temporary lapse ofmemory, and certainly the

most sensible explanation isthat I climbed back down tothe canyon myself beforepassing out again beside thespring.WhenIawokeIwasfullof

a strangeelation, a joy that Ihadn’t felt since thatnighttime visitation duringmy childhood. I washed myabraded hands in the springand stumbled back down thetrailtomycar.Thedirt track

wasallbutwashedoutbythestorm, and it was a smallmiracle that I managed tomake my way across therutted desert floor to thehighway.

The winged creatures thatlooked up at me from thatnest in the crags had humanfaces,orat least thatwas thememory that possessed mewhen I awoke beside the

spring in the hidden canyon,stillpicturingthecreatures inmy mind. The footprints inthesandbesidemewerehalf-full of sunlit water but therewasnoonebesidesmyselfatthe spring and no soundexcept thesplashingofwaterand the muted rumbling ofdistantthunder.Unfortunatelythere’s no field guide thatidentifies the footprints ofangels.

It was the next February,under a bright, cool wintersun, that I revisited theGranite Range. I spent thebetter part of the daysearching through the cragsand canyons. There was nostormnow,andthetrekuptoAngels Peak wascomparatively easy. Icouldn’t find the nest,although I found a few dryshreds of palm frond

scatteredamong thecrags,aswell as several long feathersthat I took alongwithme assouvenirs.

There’s nothing unusualabout finding a mummy inthe desert, usually the driedbody of a snakebittenprospectorwhohadwanderedtoo far out into the hills, thecorpseair-dryingforyears inatarpapershackoratinmine.

Therewas an accountofonein the Special CollectionsLibrary at the University ofRedlands. It was in anunpublished history ofRiversideCountywrittenbyawoman named MaybelleBrewer, who was active inthe Quill and Plume Societyin San Bernardino in the1930s.Thehistoryrelates thestory of a curious mummydiscoveredintheKaiserMine

out near Eagle Mountain atthe edge of the Joshua TreeNationalPark,perhapstenairmiles from thenorthernedgeof the Granite Range. Themummy was taken,appropriately, to the AngelsRestFuneralHomeinDesertCenter, where it waswarehoused “pendingidentification.” Itdisappeared,however, on thesame night that it arrived,

almost certainly stolen by anemployee, who disappearedwithit.Withthetheft,itsexistence

ceasedtobefactandbecamerumor, and rumor suggestedthat themummyhadleatherywings protruding from itsshoulders, wings with thefeathers still attached, andwasabout thesize of a year-old child curled up in a fetalposition. A reward was

offeredforitsreturn.Whenitresurfaced years later in aVictorville carnival, thereward had long since beenforgotten. The statute oflimitations on stolenmummies turns out to bebrief, even on mummifiedangels. Whether the wingedmummy on display in thesideshow was the EagleMountainmummyremainstobeseen,butit’sprobablethat

it was, and it’s equallyprobable that it was finallysold toMarionWalsh out atHula Ville some time in thelate 1960s, along with theHula Girl and other paintedcarnival signs and a small,gasoline-driven kiddy train,which Walsh set up behindthemuseum.

Hula Ville is marked with astar on page eighty-two, the

lastpageof theDesert Trailsmap, and there’s a brief butglowing description of theplace, written, of course, byMarionWalshhimself, alongwith a photo of a sign thatreads, “Hula Ville, StateLandmark#939.”Idrovebackoutthereona

winterafternoonnottoolongago, my first visit to themuseum since buying theguidebook years earlier.

There were the same coupleof acres of Joshua trees andyucca,andthesameplywoodcarnival signs and suspendedbottles.Timeandtheweatherhad taken their toll on theplacesincemypreviousvisit.Thepaintedsignswerefadedby the desert sun, and thebottles were rainbowed andnearlyopaque.Manyofthemhad broken, and the glassshards lay in the weeds and

gravel. Part of the museumroof had blown off, andscraps of ragged tarpaperfluttered in the wind. Thekiddy train tracks still lay inan oval behind the museum,but the train carswere gone,all except the engine, whichhad been pushed somedistance away and tippedover.A big tumbleweed hadgrown up through it. Apickup-truck camper was

parked near the museum.There was a light on insideand the soundof a televisionthroughanopenwindow.I walked around, taking a

lookat theplace, reading thegravemarkersonBootHill—Dead Eye Toby and SteamTrain Wagner and FreewayAnnie—allegedly the namesof friends ofWalshwhohaddied years back. There werehalf a dozen “gates” built on

the property, althoughvirtually no fences. I passedthroughallofthegatesasthesun traveled down the sky.The idea of a freestandinggate appealed to me, callingup thesuggestionofdoors tonowhere, of windows in thesky.After a time the curtains

moved in the camperwindow, and then thetelevision fell silent and

Walsh came out. He lookedolderandjustaboutasworn-out as Hula Ville itself. Iaskedhimhowhewasdoing,andhetoldmehefelta little“old-fashioned”thesedays.Itwas likely that he’d had acouple of drinks. He said heremembered me, though,fromyearsback,and thefactthatIhadboughtthebookofmaps,which he saidwas outofprintnow.ItoldhimthatI

hadworkedthroughtheentirebook andhadended up backhere,andhenoddedhisheadas ifwhat I’d said had stoodtoreason.He showed me around,

recollecting where he hadgotten this or that artifact,describingtheeffectofdesertsunlight on glass bottles andphonepole insulators, talkingabout the years he had spentasacard-carryingmemberof

thePacificCoastShowmen’sAssociation back in the olddays. Itwasevening,and thesunwassettingoverthehills.Wesatinapairofaluminumlawn chairs and watched theshadows lengthen, talkingaboutplaceswe’dbeeninthedesert and what we’d seenthere.I told him that I’d spent

some time camping in theGranite Range, and he

assumedImeanttherangeupin the Mojave, near ChinaLake.“That’sUFOterritory,”hetoldme.Hehadseenafewsaucers himself over theyears.OnetimeoutinJoshuaTree he had spotted threeglowing disks heading dueeast,fastandlowinthenightsky. And then there was atime in Indian Wells whenhe’d seen moving lightscircling overhead—some

kindofTinkertoyairshipthathovered for a good tenminutesbeforeliftingstraightup into the sky and losingitself among the stars. He’dhad plenty of time to take aphoto,whichhe fetchednowoutof thecamper.LikemostUFO photos, however, itwasn’t really conclusive. Icouldn’ttellthestarshipfromthe stars, and although hepointed out which were

which,hemightaswellhavebeen pointing out stars in astrangely shapedconstellation.UFOswerelikeghosts, he said—one of thethings that people believe inandalwayshave,eventhoughthere’s no evidence of themnor ever has been. Whichgoestoshowyou,hetoldme,thatevidenceisoverrated.Ithoughtaboutthatonefor

amoment,andthenItoldhim

about the nest of angels thatI’d seen out in the GraniteRange, andmygetting downoff the mountain with nocredible explanation asidefromwater-filledfootprintsinthesand.Heshrugged.“LikeI said,” he told me, “youspend enough years in thedesert and you see somethings.” He tended to thinkthat a man shouldn’t maketoo much of them, though,

unless he had nothing betterto do with his time. “Isupposethat’swhyyoucameout here,” he said. “Youheard aboutmy angel, didn’tyou?”“Page eighty-two sent me

outhere,”Itoldhim.“Same thing,” he said.

“You just want to look athim?”“Iwanttobuyhim.”He thought about it for a

moment, looking out at thehills.“Whydon’tyoubuytheHula Girl?” he said. “Wecould tie her downon topofyour pickup truck. You’d behappierwiththeHulaGirl.”“I didn’t come out here to

buytheHulaGirl.”“No, I don’t suppose you

did,”hesaid.Wegotupoutof the lawn

chairsandwalkedovertothemuseum. He unlocked the

padlock hanging in the haspand pushed the door open.When it jammed against thebuckled floorboards, heyanked up on the knob andforcedthedooropenandthenfound the light switch. Theold displays of geodes anddesertroseandpetrifiedpalmwere covered with dust, andthe newspaper clippingspinned to the walls wereyellow and brittle—articles

about silver strikes andUFOsightings and Vegasentertainers. There were acouple of dozen old perfumebottles, purple from years inthe sun, displayed beneathglass along with the driedbodiesoffliesthathadfoundtheirwayundertheglassandthen couldn’t find their wayout.Itcameintomyheadthateven theHulaVilleMuseumhad mummified over the

years, but I kept the thoughttomyself.“That’s my wife’s

collection,” Walsh said,gesturing at the perfumebottles.“Shediedbackin’72andIneverremarried.”Inoddedbutcouldn’tthink

ofanythingrelevanttosay,soI stated the obvious: “Shecollectedperfumebottles.”“Yes, she did. Everything

else thatsheleftbehindIgot

rid of over the years, but Ikept these as adisplay.Mostpeople are fascinated by oldbottles. Remind them of thepast, I guess. That’s why Ikepttheminthefirstplace—something of hers to holdonto. After a while, though,it’s just evidence that youcan’tholdontoanything,andthen they’re just emptybottles.”Heopenedacupboardand

hauled out a wooden case.Inside lay the mummifiedangel, visible under a glasslid.Walshsetitontopofthecounter and stood aside. “Goahead and open it up,” hesaid.“Usedtobesealedwithrubber weather strip, but itdriedout.Takeagoodlook.”Iopenedthelid,lettingthe

overhead light shine into thebox.Themummy’sfleshwasdesiccated, and it was salted

withitsowngrainydust.Theshreds of dried skin stillstretched over brown bonewere striated like jerky.Broken feathers lay on thebottom of the box, stillgolden brown after all theseyears and nearly identical tothefeathersI’dpickedupoutin the Granite Range. Thewing bones showed throughwhatwas leftof theskinandfeathers. Its hands were

drawnupintofistsbuthadn’tquite closed, and I could seeitsovergrown fingernails.Hewas still curled in a fetalposition,staringoutofemptyeye sockets at his owndislocatedknees.Ilookedcloselyatthejoint

between the wing andshoulder blade, searching forthetelltalestitchesthatwouldbeevidentnowthat thebodyhad decomposed. But there

wasno sign that the creaturehad been sewn together.Insteadthereweredrystrandsof connective ligament andpiecesof flesh thatmade thewingsseementirelynatural.“It’snohoax,”Walshsaid.“I didn’t think it was,” I

toldhim.“Is it worth fifty bucks to

you?”“What’sitworthtoyou?”I

asked him. Truthfully, I

would have paid him morethanfiftydollarsforit,anditwas certain he could use themoney.“Fifty bucks, just like I

said. Itwasworthmore thanthatonce,butthatwasalongdamned time ago. Just givemethefifty.”Icountedout thebills,and

wewent outside.Wewalkedto my truck, and he openedthedoorsothatIcouldsetthe

mummy’scaseinontheseat.I went around and climbedintothecabandputthekeyinthe ignition. “Do yourself afavor,”he said,bendingoverto look in through therolled-downwindow.“Don’tshellacthis damnedmummy and setup a shrine or something.And don’t spend too muchcuriosityonwhatyousawupthereinthehillstwentyyearsago.Whatever itwas is long

gone.”I thought for a moment

about the dried-out strips ofpalm fronds and the feathersI’d found out in themountains,thearticlesI’dcutout of newspapers over theyears and the books I’dboughtduringmytravelsandunderlined with markingpens. I nodded at him andstartedtheengine.“May itdoyoumoregood

thanitdidme,”hesaid.I told him that I’d stop by

whenIpassedthatwayagain.

Three miles down thehighway my car died. Therewasthesuddensilenceof theengineshuttingdown,andtheindicator lights on the dashcame on. I realized that theheadlights were dim as Ipulled off to the side of theroad, thankful for the

moonlight. The battery wasstone dead—maybe a badalternator.Ihadnocellphoneat the time, and still don’t,and so I turned on myemergencyflashersandsatinthe silent car, consideringwhether to walk back up toHulaVilleorwaitforaGoodSamaritan to stop and giveme a jump-start or a lift intotown.I turnedonthedomelight,

which was flickery dim, andlookedatthemummy.Afteratime, Igotoutof thecarandopened the hood and thenleaned against the frontfender. The wind had dieddown, and the night wasalmostwarm.Offtothewestthere was a glow on thehorizon from the lights ofVictorville, and the stars outthat way were dim. Butoverhead they were bright,

and an enormous moon wasrisingoverthehills.Ilistenedto the perfect desert silenceand watched the sky forshootingstars.A shadow fell across the

fender, and I turned around,startledtoseeamanstandingbesidethecar,lookingatme.Where he had come from Ican’tsay.Therewasnoothercar visible, and I certainlyhadn’tpassedanypedestrians

since leaving Hula Ville.There were a good three orfour miles of open highwayahead before the rural routethat I was traveling metHighway15above theCajonPass. Had he walked downfrom the highway? Headingwhere?HulaVille?“Where did you come

from?”Iasked.Hewasabigman, but in no waythreatening. He didn’t look

much like an angel, but thenneitherdidthemummyonthefrontseat.He nodded his head in the

general direction of thedesert.“I thoughtmaybe youneededahand.”“Thebattery’sdead,”Itold

him.“I’vegotjumpercables,but if you don’t have a car,then they won’t do us anygood.”He looked at the engine.

“Give it a try,” he said, so Iclimbed into the cab andturned the key. He washidden by the hood, butthrough the gap where thehood was raised up awayfrom the car, I saw that hehad laid his hands on thedistributor. “Go ahead,” hesaid. I bent down over thewheel to see as well as Icould and turned the key. Aspray of sparks like a

pinwheel going off shot outfrom under the hood. Theengine turned over, and Igunned it a couple of timesandthenbackedoffslowlyontheaccelerator,featheringitalittlebittokeepitfromdying.When I was certain itwouldn’t stall, I climbed outofthecab.He was a good distance

fromthecarnow,ashadowyfigure lit by moonlight,

disappearing into the desert.Very quickly he was lostamong the shadows of theJoshua trees, and the nightwas empty again and silentexcept for the rumble of theengine. I went around to thedriver’ssideof the truck andgot in, switching on theheadlights,whichwerebrightenough now to illuminate amileofhighway.The wooden case on the

seat was empty except fordust. I owned a fifty-dollarpackingcratewithaglasslid.I sat there staring at it for along time then pulled backout onto the highway anddrovehome.

It turns out that statelandmarks, like angels andmummies, are prone topassing awaywithout notice,and Hula Ville disappeared

almost overnight a couple ofmonths ago, replaced by astrip mall. I never did getback out there until it wasgone, and Idon’t knowwhathappened to Marion Walsh.The Hula Girl had beencarted away, and the JoshuatreesandgatesandBootHillandhangingbottleshadbeenbulldozedandburiedbeneathfilldirtpusheddownfromanadjacent hillside. The same

tumbleweeds that blewthroughHulaVillenowblowacross the hot asphalt of aparkinglot.

TheBedroomLight

JEFFREYFORD

JeffreyFordistheauthorofeightnovels (most recentlyThe ShadowYear)andfourcollectionsofshortstories (most recently CrackpotPalace).He is the recipientof the

World Fantasy Award, ShirleyJackson Award, Edgar Allan PoeAward, and the NebulaAward.His story, “TheDrownedLife,”wasrecentlyincludedinTheOxford Book of American ShortStories, 3nd Ed. His stories haverecently been published in After:Nineteen Stories of Apocalypse andDystopia edited by Ellen Datlowand Terri Windling and TheMagazine of Fantasy & ScienceFiction.

He lives inOhiowithhiswifeandsons.Youcanfindhimonlineat:http://www.well-builtcity.com.

They each decided,

separately,thattheywouldn’tdiscuss it that night. Theautumnbreezesoundedinthetree outside the open kitchenwindow and traveled allthrough the second-storyapartment of the oldVictorianhouse.Ittwirledthehanging plant over the sink,flapped the ancientmagazinephoto of Veronica Lake

tacked to his office door,spun theclownmobile in theemptybedroom,and,beneathit, set the wicker rocker tolife.Intheirbedroomittiltedthefabricshadeoftheantiquefloor lamp that stood in thecorner by the front window.Allison looked at thereflection of them lyingbeneath the covers in themirror set into the topof thearmoire while Bill looked at

theirreflectionintheglassofthehand-coloredprint,MoonOverMiami,thathungonthewall above her. The hugegray cat, Mama, her bellyskimming the floor, paddedquietly into the room andsnuck through the partiallyopendoorofthearmoire.Bill rolled over to face

Allison and ran his handsoftlydownthe lengthofherarm. “Today, while I was

writing,” he said, “I heard,coming up through the gratebeneath my desk, Tana,getting yelled at by hermother.”“Demon seed?” said

Allison.He laughed quietly.

“Yeah.” He stopped rubbingher arm. “I got out of mychair, got downon the floor,and turned my ear to thegrate.”

Shesmiled.“So the mom’s telling

Tana, ‘You’ll listen to me,I’mthemother.I’minchargeand you’ll do what I say.’Thentherewasapause,andIhearthisvoice.Man,thiswaslikenokid’svoice,butitwasTana, and she says, ‘No,Mommy, I’m in charge andyouwilllistentome.’”“Get outa here,” Allison

saidandpushedhimgentlyin

thechest.“God’s honest truth. So

then Cindy makes a feebleattempttogetbackinpower.‘I’m theMommy,’ she yells,but I could tell shemeant tosayitwithmoreforce,and itcame out cracked and weak.Andthenthere’sapause,andTana comes back with,‘You’re wrong, Mommy. Iam in charge and you willlistentome.’”

“Creep show,” Allisonsaid.“Itgotreallyquietthen,so

Iputmyeardowncloser.Myheadwas on the damn floor.That’s when I heard Cindyweeping.”Allison gave a shiver, half

fake, and handedBill one ofher pillows.Heput it behindhis head with the rest of hisstack. “Did I tell you whatPhiltoldme?”shesaid.

“No,”hesaid.“Hetoldmethatwhenhe’s

walking down the street andheseesherononesideoftheroad, he crosses over to theoppositeside.”“I don’t blame him,” he

said,laughing.“Hetoldyouaboutthedog,

right?” she said, pulling thecoversupoverhershoulder.Billshookhishead.“He said the people who

live in the apartment on thesecond floor next door—theyoungguywith the limpandhis wife, Rhoda—they usedto have a beagle that theykept on their porch all daywhiletheywereatwork.”“Over here,” he said and

pointedatthewall.“Yeah. They gave it water

and food, the whole thing,andhadalongleashattachedtoitscollar.Anyway,oneday

Phil’s walking down to theBusy-Bee to get coffee andcigarettes and he sees Tanastanding under the porch,looking up at the dog. Shewas talking to it. Phil saidthat the dog was gettingworkedup,sohetoldTanatoleaveitalone.Sheshothima‘don’t fuck with me’ stare.Hewasworriedhowitmightlook, him talking to the kid,so hewent on hisway. That

afternoon the dog wasdiscoveredstrangled,hangingby the leash off the second-storyporch.”“He never told me that.

Shit.Andcometothinkaboutit,Inevertoldyouthis...Iwassitting in my office just theother day,writing, and all ofasudden I feel somethingonmy back, like it’s tingling. Iturnaround,and thereshe is,standing in the doorway to

theoffice,holdingMamalikeababydoll,juststaringatme.Ijumpedoutofmychair,andIsaid,like,‘Ididn’thearyouknock.’ I was a little scaredactually,soIaskedherifshewanted a cookie.At first shedidn’t say anything, but justlooked at me with that...if IwaswritingastoryaboutherI’d describe her face asdour—anold lady faceminus thewrinkles...Then, get this, she

says in that low, flat voice,‘DoyouLambada?’”“What the fuck?” Allison

saidandlaughed.“Shedidn’tsaythat.”“No,”hesaid,“that’swhat

she said, she asked me if ILambada.What the hell is itanyway? I told her no, andthensheturnedandsplit.”“Lambada, I think...” she

said, and broke out laughingagain,“Ithinkit’ssomekind

ofSouthAmericanDance.”“What would have

happened if I said yes?” heasked.“Lambada,”shewhispered,

shakingherhead.“Phil’s got the right

strategywithher,”hesaid.“But I don’t like her

cominguphereinthemiddleof the day uninvited,” saidAllison.“I’ll have to start locking

the door after you go towork,”saidBill.“This place...there’s

something very...I don’tknow.”Shesighed.“Likeyouever lean against a wall? Itkind of gives like flesh,” shesaid.“That’s just the

lathing...it’s separating awayfromthesheetrockcause theplace is so old. I knowwhatyou mean, though, with that

eggshellsmoothnessand thepliancy when you touch it—spongy-weird.”“I’m talking there’s a

sinister factor to this place.The oriental carpets, thelion’spawtub, theoldheavyfurniture—the gravity of thepast that was here when wemoved in. I can’t put myfingeronit.AtfirstIthoughtit was quaint, but then Irealizeditdidn’tstopthere.”

“Like melancholy?” heasked.“Yeah, exactly—a

sadness.”“Justthinkaboutit.You’ve

got Corky and Cindy downthere, hitting the sauce andeachotheralmosteverynight.Theymusthavehadtobuyawholenewsetofdishesafterlast weekend. Then you gotthekid...nuffsaidthere.Whataboutnextdoor,overhereon

thisside,theguywhowasheshisunderwearon thefuckingclothes line with the hose?That guy’s also classicallyderanged.”“I forgot about him,” she

said.“Well,” he said, “let’s not

forgetabouthim.Iwatchhimfrom the kitchen window. Ican see right down throughthe tree branches and acrosstheyardintohisdiningroom.

He sits there every night forhours, reading that big fatbook.”“I’ve seen him down

there,” she said. “SometimeswhenIwakeupat threea.m.and go into the kitchen for aglass of water, I notice himdown there reading. Is it theBible?”“Could be the fucking

phonebookforallIknow.”“Cindy told me that when

theygotTanathatyippielittledog,...Shotzy,Potzy...whatever, thekidwaswalking on that side of thehouse over by the old guy’sproperty,andhecameouthisbackdoor, and yelled at her,‘If I find your dog in myyard,I’llkillit.’Now,IknowTana’s demon seed and all,but she’s still a littlekid...Cindy didn’t tell Corkybecause she was afraid he’d

Corkoffandkickthecrapoutoftheoldguy.”“What, instead of her for

once? Hey, you never know,maybe the old man’s justtryingtoprotecthimselffromTana’s...animal magic,” saidBill. “You know, Cindyswearsthekidbroughtadeadbirdbacktolife.Shejustkindof slips that in in themiddleofa‘hey,theweather’snice’kindofconversation.”

“Yeah, I’ve caught thattale,”saidAllison.Therewasapause. “Butdoyougetmyover all point here?” Sheopenedherhandstoillustratethebroadnessof the concept.“Like we’re talking somekind of hovering, negativefunk.”“Amorphousandpungent,”

hesaid.“I’ve felt it ever since the

firstweekwemovedinhere,”

shesaid.“Does it have anything to

do with the old woman whoanswered the door with herpantsaroundherankles?”“Olive Harker?” she said.

“Corky’sillustriousmom?”“Remember, Olive hadta

get shipped out for us tomove in. Maybe she cursedthe joint...you know, put theLambadaonit.”“It wasn’t her so much,”

saidAllison.“Ifirstfeltitthedaythecatpissedinthesugarbowl.”He stopped rubbing her

forehead. “Right in front ofme—betweenbitesofFrenchtoast,” he said. “That catsucks.”“Don’t talk about Mama

thatway,”shesaid.“Itbaahhhslikealamband

eatsflies.Ihateit,”hesaid.“She’s good. Three whole

weeksgoneandshestillcameback, didn’t she? Youshouldn’t have thrown herout.”“I didn’t throw her, I drop

kicked her. She made aperfect arc, right over theback fence. But the questionis,oratleastthepointis,ifIfollowyou, ishowstrange isit that she pissed right in thesugar bowl—jumped up onthetable,madeabeelinefor

it, parked right over it andpissed like there was notomorrow?”“That’s what I’m getting

at,” said Allison. “It fulfillsnoevolutionaryneed.It’sjustgrim.”“Maybe it’s us,” he said.

“Maybe we’re hauntingourselves.”“IsawCorkydiggingabig

holeout in theyardtheotherday,” she said. “His back’s

full of ink—an angel beingtorn apart by demons...I wasmoreinterestedintheholehewas digging cause I haven’theard any yipping out ofPotzyforafewdays.”“Don’t worry,” he said.

“I’mreadyforhim.”“How?”sheasked.“Last Thursday, when I

wentoutgarbagepickingandfound Veronica’s picture, Ibrought back a busted off

rake handle. I wound ducttape around one end for agrip. It’s in the kitchenbehind the door for whenCorky gets shit faced andstarts up the stairs.Then I’mgonna grab that thing andbeathisass.”“Hey, do you remember

that guy Keith back incollege?”sheasked.“McCurly, yeah,” he said.

“He did the apple dance.

What made you think ofhim?”She nodded. “Every time

heflappedhisarmstheapplerolled off his head,remember?”“He danced to Steve

Miller’s‘FlyLikeanEagle,’”Bill said. “What a fuckin’fruitcake. I remember Osheatelling me that he ended upworkingforthegovernment.”“Well, remember that time

he was telling us he wasreading The AmityvilleHorror?”“Yeah,”hesaid.“McCurly said that one of

the pieces of proof that theauthor used in the book tonail down his case that thehousewasreallyhauntedwasthattheyfoundanevilshitinthe toilet bowl. Rememberthat?”“Yeah.”

“Yousaidtohim,‘Whatdoyou mean by an evil shit?’AndMcCurly looked like hedidn’tgetyourquestion.”“But what he eventually

said was, ‘It was heinous.’ Iaskedhimifhecouldexplainthat and he said, ‘Reallygross.’”Theylaughed.She touched his face as if

tomake him quiet, and said,“That’s the point. We paint

theunknownwiththeDevil’sshittomakeitmakesense.”“Heavy,” said Bill. A few

secondspassedinsilence.“Right...?”shesaid.“That Amityville House

wasonlyliketwotownsoverfrom where I grew up,” hetoldher.“Newpeoplewereinthere and itwasall fixedup.I’d go out drinking with myfriends all night. You know,the Callahans, and Wolfy,

and Angelo, and Benny theBear, and at the end of thenight we’d have these casesof empty beer bottles in thecar. So around that time themovie of Amityville Horrorcame out.We went to see itand laughed our asses off—come on, Brolin? Steigerwe’re talking. One of thethings thatcracked us up bigtime was the voice saying,‘Get out. ForGod’s sake get

the hell out.’ I don’twant toget into it now but Steigerand the flies...baby, wellworth thepriceofadmission.So we decided we’re gonnadrive to the AmityvilleHorror House and scream,‘Get the hell out,’ and throwouremptiesonthelawn.”“That’sretarded,”shesaid.“We did it, but then we

kept doing it, and not just totheAmityvilleHorrorHouse.

Every time we did it, I’dcrack like hell. It was sofucking stupid it made melaugh. Plus we were high askites.Wedid it topeopleweknewanddidn’tknowandwediditalottothehighschoolcoaches we’d had fordifferent sports. There wasthis one guy, though,we didit to the most—CoachPinhead. Crew cut, face assmooth as an ass, goggly

eyes, and his favorite jokewas to say ‘How Long is aChinaman.’ Hewas a soccercoach,arealdouchebag,butweswungbyhishouseeveryweekend night for like threemonths, dropped the emptiesandyelled‘Pinhead!!!’beforepeeling out on his lawn.Wecalled the whole thing a‘PiercingPinhead.’”“Could you imagine how

pissed off you’d be today if

some kids did that to you,”shesaid.“Yeah,” he said, “I know.

But get this. Iwas talking toMike Callahan about fiveyears later. When he wasworking selling furniture andmarriedtothatrichgirl.Isawhim at my mother’s funeral.He toldme thathefoundoutlater on that Pinhead died ofpancreatic cancer. All thattime we were doing the

Piercing Pinheads, screamingin the middle of the nightoutsidehishouse, tormentinghim, the poor guy was inthere, in his bedroom, dyingbyinches.”“That’s haunted,” said

Allison.“Tellmeabout it,”he said

and then rolled closer tokissher.They kissed and then lay

quiet, both listening to the

sound of the leaves blowingoutside. She began to dozeoff, but before her eyesclosed all the way, she said,“Who’sgettingthelight?”“You,”saidBill.“Comeon,”shesaid,“I’ve

gotanearlyshifttomorrow.”“Comeon? I’vegotten the

damnlighteverynightforthepasttwoweeks.”“That’s cause it’s your

job,”shesaid.

“Fuck that,” he said butstartedtogetup.Justthenthelightwentout.She opened her eyes

slightly, grinning.“Sometimes it pays to behaunted,”shesaid.Bill looked around the

darkenedroomandsaid,asifto everywhere at once,“Thankyou.”The light blinked on and

thenoff.

“Maybe the bulb’s loose,”hesaid.The light blinked

repeatedly on and off andthendiedagain.“That’s freaky,” she said,

but freaky wasn’t going tostop her from falling asleep.Her eyes slowly closed andbeforehecouldkissheragainon the forehead, she waslightlysnoring.Bill lay there in the dark,

wide awake, thinking abouttheir conversation and aboutthe lamp. He thought aboutghosts in Miami, beneathswayingpalmtrees,doingtheLambada by moonlight.Finally,hewhispered,“Light,areyoureallyhaunted?”Nothing.A long time passed, and

then he asked, “Are youOlive?”Thelightstayedoff.

“AreyouPinhead?”Justdarkness.“Are you Tana?” he said.

He waited for a sign, butnothing.Eventuallyheclosedhis eyes and thought aboutwork.HeworkedatNescron,a book store housed in thebottomfloorofablock-long,four-story warehouse—timbers and stone—built inthe 1800s. All used books.Theowner,Stan,hadstarted,

decades earlier, in the scrappaperbusinessandover timehad amassed tons of oldbooks.Theupperthreefloorsof the warehouse werepacked with unopened boxesand crates from everywhereintheworld.Bill’sjobwastocrawl in amid the piles ofboxes, slit them open andmine their cargo, picking outvolumes for the literaturesection in the store

downstairs.Dayswould passatworkandhe’dseenoone.He’d penetrated so deeplyinto the morass of the thirdfloorthatsometimeshe’dgetscared, having the samefeelinghe’dhadwhenheandAllisonhadgone toMontanathree months earlier torecuperateandtheywerewayupinthemountainsandcameuponafreshlykilledandhalf-eatenantelopebesideawater

hole. Amidst the piles ofbooks, he felt for the secondtime in his life that he wasreally“outthere.”“Iexpectsomedaytofinda

pineboxuponthethirdfloorholding the corpse of HenryMiller,” he’d told Allison atdinneronenight.“Who’s Henry Miller?”

she’dasked.He’d found troves of

classicsandfirsteditionsand

even signed volumes for thestore down below, and Stanhad praised his efforts atexcavating the upper floors.As the months went on, Billwasmakinganeatlittlestackof goodies for himself,planning to shove them in apaper sac and spirit themhome with him when heclosed up some Mondaynight. An early edition ofLongfellow’s translation of

Dante, an actual illuminatedmanuscript with gold leaf, asigned,firsteditionofCalloftheWild, an 1885 edition ofThe Scarlet Letter were justsomeofthetreasures.Recently at work he’d

begun to get an odd feelingwhenhewasdeepwithin thewilderness of books, not theusual fear of loneliness, buttheopposite, that hewas notalone.Twiceinthelastweek,

he’d thought he’d heardwhispering, and once, thesudden quiet tumult of adistant avalanche of books.He’d asked down below inthe store if anyone else wasworking the third floor, andhe was told that he was theonly one. Then, only theprevious day, he couldn’tlocate his cache of hordedbooks.Itwaspossiblethathewas disoriented, but in the

veryspothe’dthoughtthey’dbe, he instead found one tallslimvolume.Itwasabookoffairy tales illustrated by anartist named Segur. Theanimals depicted in theillustrations walked uprightwith personality, and thechildren, in powder-bluesnowscapes surrounded byChristmas mice, were pale,staring zombies. The colorswereodd,slightlywashedout

and the sizesof thecreaturesandpeoplewerehaphazard.Without realizing it, Bill

fellasleepandhisthoughtsofworkmelted into a dream ofthe writer Henry Miller. Hewoke suddenly a little whilelatertothesoundofAllison’svoice, the room still indarkness. “Bill,” she saidagain and pushed hisshoulder,“youawake?”“Yeah,”hesaid.

“I had a dream,” saidAllison.“Ohmygod...”“Sounds like a good one,”

hesaid.“Maybe,maybe,”shesaid.He could tell she was

waitingforhimtoaskwhatitwas about. Finally he askedher,“Sowhathappened?”Shedrewclose tohimand

he put his arm around her.Shewhispered,“Lothianne.”“Lothianne?”saidBill

“A woman with threearms,”saidAllison.“Shehadan arm coming out of theupper part of her back, andthe hand on it had twothumbsinsteadofapinkyanda thumb, so it wouldn’t beeither righty or lefty. Theelbow only bent up anddown,notsidetoside.”“Yow,”saidBill.“Her complexionwas light

blue, and her hair was dark

and wild, but not long. Andshe wore this dress with anextra arm hole in the back.This dress was plain, likesomething out of the DustBowl,grayandreachedtotheankles,andIrememberedmyfifth grade teacher, Mrs.Donnelly,themeanoldbitch,having worn the exact onebackingradeschoolwhenwespent a whole year readingTheLastDaysofPompeii.”

“Did the three-armwomanlook like your teacher?”askedBill.“Nobutshewasstupidand

meanlikeher.Shehadadourface,familiarandfrightening.Anyway,Lothiannewanderedthewoodswithapet jay thatflew above her andsometimes perched in thattangledhair.Ithinkshemighthave been a cannibal. Shelived underground in like a

woman-sizerabbitwarren.”“Charming,”hesaid.“Iwas a little girl andmy

sisterandIwererunninghardtoward this house in thedistance, away from thewoods,justinfrontofawaveof nighttime. I knewwe hadto reach thehousebefore thedarkness swept over us. Theblue jay swooped down and,as I tried tocatchmybreath,itspitintomymouth.Ittasted

like fire and spread to myarms and legs. My runningwent dream slow, my legsdream heavy. My sisterscreamed toward the house.Then, like a rusty engine, Iseized altogether and fellover.”“Youknow,inChina, they

eatBirdSpitSoup...”hesaid.“Shut up,” she said. “The

next thing Iknow, I come toandLothianneandmeareon

a raft, in a swiftly movingstream, tethered to a giantwillow tree that’s growingright in the middle of theflow.Lothiannehasa lanterninonehand,and in theothershe’s holding the end of along vine that’s tied in anoose around my neck. Themoon’s out, shining throughthe willow whips andreflecting off the runningwater,andI’msoscared.

“She says, ‘Time topractice drowning’ and kicksmeintheback.Ifall into thewater.Under the surface I’mlookingupandthemoonlightallows me to see the stonesand plants aroundme. Thereare speckled fish swimmingby.JustbeforeI’moutofair,shereelsmein.Thishappensthree times, and on the lasttime, when she reels me in,she vanishes, and I’m flying

above the stream andsurrounding hills andwoods,and I’m watching thingsgrowing—huge plants likeasparagus, sprouting leavesand twining and twirling andgrowing in the moonlight.Even in night, it was soperfectlyclear.”“Jeez,”saidBill.Allison was silent for a

while. Eventually shepropped herself up on her

elbow and said, “It wasfrighteningbutitstruckmeasa ‘creative’ dream cause oftheend.”“A three-armed woman,”

said Bill. “Rembrandt oncedid an etching of a three-armed woman having sexwithaguy.”“I was wondering if the

noose around my neck wassymbolic of an umbilicalcord...”

He stared at her. “Why?”hefinallysaid.She was about to answer

butthebedroomlightblinkedonandoff,onandoff,onandoff, without stopping, like astrobe light, and fromsomewhere or everywhere inthe room came the sound oflowmoaning.Bill threw the covers off,

sat straight up and said,“Whatthefuck?”

Allison, wide-eyed, herglancedartinghereandthere,said,“Bill...”The light show finally

ended in darkness, but thesound grew louder, morestrange, like a high-pitchedgrowlingthatseemedtomakethe glass of the windowsvibrate. She grabbed hisshoulder and pointed to thearmoire.Heturned,andashedid, Mama the cat came

bursting out of the standingcloset, the door swingingwildly. She screeched andspuninincrediblyfastcirclesontherugnexttothebed.“Jesus Christ,” yelled Bill,

and lifted his feet, afraid thecatmightclawhim. “Get thefuck outa here!” he yelled atit.Mama took off out of the

bedroom, still screeching.Allisonjumpedoutofthebed

andtookoffafterthecat.Billcautiously brought up therear.TheyfoundMamainthebathroom,onthefloornexttothelionpawtub,writhing.“Look,” said Bill, peering

over Allison’s shoulder,“she’sattackingherown ass.Whatthehell...”“Oh, man,” said Allison.

“Check it out.” She pointedas Mama pulled this longfurrylumpoutofherselfwith

herteeth.“That’s itforme,”hesaid,

backing away from thebathroomdoorway.“Bill, here comes another.

It’salive.”“Alive?” he said, sitting

down on a chair in thekitchen. “I thought it was amohairturd.”“No,youass, she’shaving

a kitten. I never realized shewas pregnant. Must be from

thetimeyoukickedherout.”Bill sat there staring at

Allison’s figure illuminatedbythebulbshe’dswitchedoninthebathroom.“This is amazing, you

should come see it,” shecalled over her shoulder tohim.“I’ll pass,” he said. He

turned then and lookedthrough the open kitchenwindow, down across the

yard toward the old man’shouse. For the first time hecouldremember,hisneighborwasn’t there, reading the bigbook. The usual rectangle oflight was now a dark emptyspace.Later, he found Allison

sitting in the wicker rocker,beneath the clownmobile, inthe otherwise emptybedroom. The light was on,and she rocked, slowly, a

rolleduptowelcradledinherarms.“Comesee,”shesaidtohim, smiling. “The first wasstillborn, and this is the onlyother one, but it lived. It’s alittlegirl.”He didn’twant to, but she

seemedsopleased.Hetookastepcloser.Shepulledbackacornerofthetowel,andtherewas a small, wet face withblueeyes.“We have to think of a

name,”shesaid.

SpectralEvidence1

GEMMAFILES

Born in England and raised inToronto, Canada, Gemma Fileshasbeenafilmcritic,teacher,andscreenwriter, and is currently awife and mother. She won the1999 International Horror Guild

Award for her story “TheEmperor’s Old Bones,” and the2006 ChiZine/Leisure BooksShortStoryContestwiththestoryreprinted herein, “SpectralEvidence,” Her fiction has beenpublished in two collections:KissingCarrionandTheWorm inEvery Heart, and five of herstorieswereadapted intoepisodesofTheHunger, an anthologyTVshow produced by Ridley andTony Scott. She has alsopublished two chapbooks ofpoetry.In2010,herfirstnovel—A

BookofTongues,PartOneofthe

HexslingerSeries—waspublished,followed in 2011 by A Rope ofThorns, the second novel in theseries. The third and finalinstallment,ATreeofBones,waspublished in May 2012, just intimefortheMayanApocalypse.SheiscurrentlyatworkonanovelwithnogayoutlawsorAztecgodsinitwhatsoever.

“Theduststillrainsandreigns.”

—StephenJayGould,Illuminations:ABestiary

PreliminaryNotes

The following set of

photographs was foundduring a routinereorganization of theFreihoeven Institute’sParaPsychDepartmentfiles,alittleoverhalfayearaftertheofficial coroner’s inquestwhich ruled medium EmmaYee Slaughter’s death either

an outright accident orunprovable misadventure.Taken with what appears tohavebeenadisposable drug-storecamera,thephotographshad been stuffed into asealed, blank envelope andthen tucked inside thesupplemental material fileattachedtoCase#FI4400879,Experiment#58B(attemptsatpartial ectoplasmic facialreconstruction, conducted

underlaboratoryconditions).Scribbles on the back of

each separate photo,transcribedhere,appeartobejottednotesdoneinblackink—type of pen not readilyidentifiable—crossbred withsamples of automaticwritingdonebyabluefelt-tippedpenwithafinenib;graphologicalanalysis reveals two distinctsets of handwriting. Theoriginal messages run

diagonally across theunderside of the paper fromleft to right, while theadditional commentarysometimes doubles backacrossitselfsothatsentencesoverlap. Where indicated,supplementary lines haveoftenbeenwrittenbackwards.Footnotes provide additionalexegesis.2

Photograph#1:3

Indistinct interior4of a dimlylit suburban house (foliageinconsistent with downtownTorontoisobservablethroughone smallish window to left-handside);thelocationseemstobealivingroom,decoratedin classic polyester print,plastic-wrapped couch 1970sstyle. A stuffed, moultingsloth (Bradypus pallidus),mounted on a small woodenstand, sits off-centre on the

glass-toppedcoffee-table.

Notes: “House A, April.Apported object was latertraced back toLurhningerNaturalichmuseumin Bonn, Germany.Occupants denied allknowledge of how it gotthere,paidus$800toburnitwhere they could observe.Daughter of family said itfollowed her from room to

room. She woke up in bedwithitlyingnexttoher.”5

Commentary (Forwards):“Edentata or toothless ones:Sloths, anteaters, armadillos.Living fossils. A naturalincidenceoftimetravel;timetravel on a personal scale,living in two places at once,bilocation. Phenomena asobserved. I love you babyyousaid,Ican’tdoitwithout

you,Icutthekey,youturnit.Butwhoopens thedoor, andtowhat?Whoknowsforsurewhatcomesthrough?”6

Commentary (Backwards):“Apports are often difficultwithout help, so try usinglucifugesforguidance.Circleis paramount;Tetragrammaton must beinvoked. They have nonames.”7

Photograph#2:

Equallydim, angledupwardsto trace what may be marksof firedamage—scorchingofwallpaper, slight bubbling ofplaster—movingfromceilingof kitchen down towardssink. The highestconcentration of soot seemsto be at the uppermost point.Wallpaperhasajuniper-berryandleafmotif.8

Notes: “House D, May. Wewere becoming popular incertain circles. Family hadtwochildren,both sons,bothunder three years old; nannyreportedtheyoungeronewasplaying in his high-chairduring breakfast when his‘Teddy-thing’ suddenlycaught fire.9 Subsequentdamage was estimated at$4,000; we received anadditional $2,000 formaking

sure it wouldn’t happenagain.”

Commentary (Forwards):“We need something morespectacular, baby, a display,like Hollywood. Fire eatswithout being eaten,consumes unconsumed, asenergyattracts.Comeatoncefrom whatever part of theworld and answer myquestions. Come at once,

visibly and pleasantly, to dowhatever I desire. Come,fulfil my desires and persistuntotheendinaccordance tomy will. I conjure thee byHim to whom all creaturesareobedient,andbythenameofHimwhorulesoverthee.10So this one goes out to theone I love, the one who leftme behind, a simple prop tooccupy his time. And whyTeddy-‘thing,’ anyway? God

knows I couldn’t tell what itwasbefore,afterwards.”

Commentary (Backwards):“By this time, I can onlythink they were alreadywatchingmeclosely.”11

Photograph#3:

Murky yet identifiable three-quarter study of Slaughter,

who appears to be in lightmediumistic control-trance.Orbs12 hover over her righteye, pineal gland and heartchakra, roughly the sameareas in which she wouldlater develop simultaneous(and fatal) aneurysms. Shesits in a rust-red La-Z-Boyrecliner, feet elevated,with adust-covered televisionscreen barely visible to herextreme right, in the

backgroundoftheframe.

Notes: “House H, July.Inclement weather withcontinual smog-warning.Séance performed at therequest of surviving family-members,withexpressaimofcontacting their deceasedfather; a control spirit wasused to produce and animateanectoplasmichuskpatternedafter his totem photograph,

freely donated for use as aguided meditational aid.Mother cashed out RRSPsand eldest daughter’s collegefundinordertoassemble the$15,000 required to remove‘curse’13 afflicting theirbloodline.”

Commentary (Forwards):“Buthediedofnaturalcausesso it’s not so bad, right, notlike we did anything really,

and ifyoukeephaving thosemigraines then maybe youshould take something,maybe you should just relax,baby,letmehelpyou,letme.Don’t be like that, let me,why you gotta be that way?Palpitations,yousaythatlikeit’sabad thing, that’swhat Ilove about you, baby, youhave such a big heart:A bigfat heart full of love andwarmthandplaqueandknots

andpain.Sojustbreathe,justbreathe, just breathe, go dosome yoga, take a pill, calmthehelldown.Youknowwecan’tstopyet.”

Commentary (Backwards):“Themeither.”

Photograph#4:

Close-angled shot of greasy

blackwritingsprawledacrosswhat looks like the tiledwallof a bathroom shower-stall;letters vary radically in size,are imperfectly formed,seem(according to Graphology)inconsistent with “tool-bearing hands.”14 Lettersread:“aLWaYsTheRe.”15

Notes: “Automatic writingobserved at Apartment C,renewed five separate times

over a period of eight days.When advised that acleansing exorcism was thebestoption,owner refused tocooperate.”16

Commentary(Forward):“Wehave to stop we can’t. Wehave to stop we can’t. Wehave to stop stop stop wecan’t can’t can’t, oh Christ Iwant to STOP this, what areyou, stupid? There’s too

much at stake, we’re in toodeep, no going back. WECAN’TSTOPNOW.”

Commentary (Backwards):“Behold, I shall show you agreat mystery, for we shallnotall sleep,butweshallallbe changed. And you canconsiderthismyformalletterofresignation.”

Photographs#5to#9:

After close examination byvarious Freihoeven staff-members, Photographs #5through #8 have beenconclusively proven to showone of the Institute’s ownexperimentallabs.Theblurryimage in the extremeforeground of each seemsmost consistent with anadjustable Remote Viewingdiorama17whichwassetupinLabFourfromapproximately

September 15 to December15, 2005. Much of thebackground area of eachphoto,on theotherhand,hasapparently been obscured bynew visuals somehowimposed over an originalimage, by unidentifiablemeans; portions of theemulsion have been eitherdestroyed or significantlyaltered, creating a visualillusion not unlike the

“chiaroscuro”effectobservedin certain Renaissancepaintings which, while beingrestored, turn out to havebeen painted over a primaryimagethattheartistmayhavewanted to either alter orconceal.18As usual, even these

partially subliminalsecondary images are bestdescribed as indistinct anddifficult to identify and/or

categorize. Nevertheless,extensive analysis hasrevealed certain constants,i.e.:

• That backgroundareascorrespondwithroughapproximationsof Photos #1 through#4, with theexception/additionof:• A figure, facealways angled away

from “the camera,”whose physicalproportions seem tomatch thoseobservedin photos taken ofSlaughter, pre-mortem.19

Photo #9 was takenelsewhere; the dioramashown in Photos #5 through#8 isnotablyabsent.Agrey-painted stretch of wall, the

hingeofapartiallyopendoorand the angle of lens duringexposure all suggest that thecamera may have beenmounted on a tripod insideoneoftheFreihoeven’smanyindustrial-sized storageclosets, but not enoughdistinguishing marks arevisible to establish exactlywhich one (there are six onFloor Three alone, forexample,near the locationof

LabFour).

Notes [collated into list-formforeasyreading]:

(#5)“Subjectwasasked tovisualize inside of House X.One hour fifty-three minutesallowed for session; resultsvaryinglysuccessful.”(#6)“Subjectwasasked to

visualize interior of FacilityH, no specific target. Agreed

to deepen trance throughapplication of Batch 33.Three hours ten minutesallowed for session; resultsvaryinglysuccessful.”(#7)“Subjectwasasked to

visualize office area withinFacility H, with specificreference to files stored onPublicServantG’scomputer.Fivehoursseventeenminutesallowed for session; resultsinconclusiveoverall.”

(#8)“Subjectwasasked tovisualize home office areainsideHouseZ,withspecificreference to correspondencestored in file-cabinet withplastergargoyleontopofit.20Given sample of handwritingto meditate on, with doubledose of Batch 33. Sessioninterruptedateighthourstwominutes, after subject beganto spasm; resultsinconclusive.”

(#9) “Subject enteredtrance on own time, withoutinstruction, after having self-injectedatripledoseofBatch33; session interrupted afterapproximately one hour,when subject wasaccidentally discovered bynavigator. Limited amnesiaobserved after recuperation.Havingnoideawhatimageismeant to represent,impossible to say if session

wassuccessfulornot.”

Commentary (Forwards) [asabove]:

(#5)Unintelligiblescrawls.(#6)Same.(#7)Same,interruptedonly

by a shaky but repetitiveattempt to formthe letters E,Y,S.(#8) In very different

handwriting, far more like

that usually used forbackwardscommentary:“Seehere,seethere,tryingsohard,howcouldIhelpbutanswer?Because he likes girls whosee things, yes he does; littlepig,littlepig,letmecomein.Thisworld’sabigwideopenplace,upanddownandallinbetween. Not so fun to seearound corners when youknowwhat’swaiting,isit?”(#9) Back to unintelligible

scrawls.

Commentary(Backwards)[asabove]:

(#5)“can”(#6)“you”(#7)“hear”(#8)“me”(#9)“now”

Photograph#10:

At first misidentified as oneof the actual MTPD crime-scene photos taken at theMarozzi apartment onChristmas Day, 2005, thisimage also demonstrates“spirit photography”alterations of a subtlydifferent (yet far moredisturbing) sort.Analysishasrevealed that the apparentmain image, that of EdenMarozzi’s bedroom and

corpse, is actuallyincongruent with otherelements in the photo—specifically, the time visibleon Marozzi’s bedside clock,which places this as havingbeentakenagoodthreehourspriortowhat forensicexpertsestablished as her physicalT.O.D.Further examinations,

includingx-raysadministeredat the Institute’s expense,

havesinceconcludedthatthisfirstimagehasbeenrecordednot on the photograph’s ownemulsionbutona thin, rock-hard layer of biologicalsubstance21overlaid carefullyon the original photo.Beneath this substance is asimple holiday-style snap,probably taken with thecameraonatimer,thatshowsMarozzi and Madachembracing at Marozzi’s

kitchen table, both wearingparty-hats and smiling. TheremainsofaChristmasdinnersurround them; if one looksclosely at the bottom centreof the photo, an openedjewel-box explains the ringvisibleonMarozzi’sfinger.In themirror behind them,

however, a third figure—familiar from the previousarray of “guided” photos—can be glimpsed sitting next

to them, its hand half-raised,as though justabout to touchMarozziontheshoulder.

Notes: “Merry Christmas,Eve,fromyourAdam.AnewParadisebegins.”

Commentary (Forwards):“Fruit of knowledge, fruit ofsin,snake’sgift.This iswhatyou want? This is what youget: The bitter pill. Fly the

lights, lights out; out, out,brief candle! Goodbye, mylover. Goodbye, my friend.Goodbye, little girl whodidn’tknowenoughnottogetinbetween.YoucantellherIpicked the wallpaper outmyself. Ask her: How youlikemenow?Pretty goodohGodGodGodGodGod”

Commentary (Backwards):“And on that note—did it

reallyneveroccurtoyou thatallowing someone used toworking outside her body tobedisembodiedmightnotbethe world’s best idea, afterall?”22

Conclusion:

With Imre Madach in jail,Emma Yee Slaughter andEden Marozzi dead, and theofficial files closed on all

three, the discovery of thepreceding photographic arraywould seem—though,naturally, interesting in itsown right—fairly extraneousto any new interpretation oftheextantfactsofthecase.

Recommendations

• From now on,access to/possession

of library books onthe Freihoevencollection’s“hazardous” listmustobviously be trackedfarmoreeffectively.• In the initialscreening process forevaluatingprospectiveFreihoevenemployees, whethercontractedfreelancers

or in-house, farmoreemphasis needs to beplaced onpsychologicalmapping. Issues thusrevealed need to berecorded andrechecked,rigorously, on aregular monthlybasis.• Similarly, field-workteamsshouldbe

routinely broken upafter three completeassignments together,and the partnersrotated into otherdepartments. Thiswillhopefullypreventeither side of theequation developingan unhealthydependence on theother.•Finally,theInstitute

itself needs toundergo athorough psychiccleansing, as soon aspossible; lingeringinfluences must bedispelled throughexpulsion orexorcism, and thewards must beredrawn over theentire building.Outside experts,

rather thanFreihoevenemployees, shouldbeused for this task (DrAbbott suggestsconsulting MaccabeeRoke,Nan vanHool,Father Akinwale OjaS.J. or—as a lastresort—Jude HarkChiu-wai as topromising/economicallocalprospects).

• Photographs #1through #10 will beproperlyrefiledunder#FI5556701 (cross-referentials: Madach,Marozzi,Slaughter).

Filed and signed: SylvesterHorse-Kicker,March5/06Witnessed: Dr GuildenAbbott,March5/06

________________

1 Metaphorical license, naturally:Nothing here constitutes properlegal “evidence” of anything, byanystretchoftheimagination.2 All footnotes were compiledthroughout March of 2006 bySylvester Horse-Kicker,Freihoeven Placement Programmeintern,attherequestofDrGuildenAbbott.3 Photographs, as indicated, arenotthemselvesnumbered;numbersassigned are solely the result ofrandom shuffling. The fact that—when viewed in the order they

achievedthroughthisprocess—theeventual array appears to “tell astory” (Dr Abbott’s notes, March3/06) must be viewed entirely ascoincidence.4Mostphotos in thesequencearebestdescribedas“indistinct.”5Researchpromptedbydetails incommentary has since indicatedthat “House A” may be 1276BrighteningLane,Mimico,ownedby William MacVain and family.On April 15, 2004, at the requestofMacVainhimself,Slaughterandher Freihoeven control partner,

Imre Madach, were sent toinvestigate on-site poltergeistactivity. Activity had apparentlyceased by April 20, when theyfiled their report; the reportcontains no mention of monetaryreimbursement for services,whichthe Freihoeven’s internal code ofconduct (of course) stronglydiscourages.N.B.: “There remains thequestionofexactlyhowMcVainknewwhoto contact initially,not tomentionthe further question ofwho insidethe programme might have

authorizedMadachandSlaughter’stravelling expenses—thoughgrantedly, travel to Mimico [asuburb of the Greater TorontoArea, easily reached by followingtheQueen Street streetcar line toits conclusion]wouldn’thavecostthemmuch, unless they did it bytaxi.Inquiriesintowhyanyletters,e-mails or phone calls exchangedbetween McVain andMadach/Slaughter seem not tohavebeenproperlyloggedarealsocurrently ongoing.” (Dr Abbott,ibid.)

6 Samples sent toGraphology forcomparison suggest the initialnotesoneachphotoweremadebyMadach, while the backwardscommentary comes closest to ahurried, clumsy imitation ofSlaughter’s normal penmanship.Forwardcommentary,ontheotherhand,canprobablybeattributedtoformer Freihoeven intern EdenMarozzi, who was found dead inher apartment onChristmas 2005;going by records left behind,Marozzi had apparently beenassistingMadachwithhisworkon

Slaughter’s unfinished channellingexperiments. As we all know, itwasMadach’s proven presence inher apartment at the time ofMarozzi’s death—as revealed byevidence gathered during theMetro Toronto PoliceDepartment’s initial crime sceneinvestigation—which,alongwithalack of plausible alibi, wouldeventually lead to his subsequentarrestonchargesofmurder in theseconddegree.7 “Mention of ‘lucifuges’ wouldseem to indicate Slaughter—and

Madach?—wereusinghierarchicalmagic to accelerate or control—generate?—poltergeist activity atMcVain house. Worth furtherinquiry, after cataloguing rest ofphotos.”(DrAbbott,ibid.)8Attemptstoidentifythislocationhave, thus far, provedinconclusive. Dr Abbott isundecided, but tentatively calls iteither 542 McCaul or 71BSpinster, both of which werevisitedbySlaughterandMadachinconnection with repeated

pyrokinetic poltergeist incidents.Since one family has moved outleaving no forwarding address,however, while the other provedspectacularly uncooperative, nomore detailed analysis seemsforthcoming.

9 If we assume the photo wastaken at 71B Spinster, it may berelevant torecord that the child inquestion sustained burns severeenough to require partialamputation of three fingers fromhislefthand.

10 This “anthology incantation”seemstohavebeencompiledfromseveraldifferentones,allofwhichappear in the legendary grimoireLemegeteon. Dr Abbott confirmsthat the Freihoeven’s library copyof this text was misplaced forseveraldaysinNovemberof2004,half a year prior towhen the firstphoto was taken; this theftcoincides with Madach’s brieftenure as volunteer assistantlibrarian, before forming anexperimental field-team withSlaughter.

11 By “they,” this commentatormay mean the aforementionedlucifuges or fly-the-lights,elemental spirits identified withfire, who Eliphas Levi callsnotoriouslydifficultto control andnaturally “hateful towardsmortals.”12 Sphere-shaped visualdeformities of the emulsion orpixels, often observed at siteswhere teams are trying to recordvariouspsychicphenomena.13 “This just gets better andbetter.”(DrAbbott,ibid.)

14 “‘Tool-bearing’? Mostmessagesofthistypeareproducedtelekinetically.”(DrAbbott,ibid)15Naturallyenough,opinionsvaryas to who (or what) might beresponsibleforthesemarkings.16 The single shortest annotation.This photo has since beententatively identified—within afairly narrow margin of error—ashaving been taken insideSlaughter’s formercondo, the siteof her death. Even moresignificant,inhindsight,maybeDr

Abbott’s recollection (confirmedthrough studying her coroner’sinquest file) that Slaughter’s bodywas found in her bathtub onAugust 23/05, partially immersedinshallowwater.17 Invented by Dr Abbott as partof his 1978 dissertational work atthe University of Toronto, theseareoftenusedasameditationalaidduring guided remote viewingsessions: The “navigator” or non-psychic team-member will set thedioramauptoroughlyapproximatetheareahe/shewantstheviewerto

access,thentalkthemthroughitona detail-by-detail level until theirtrance becomes deep enough thatthey can guide themselves on therestoftheirmentaljourney.18 “This is a prime example ofwhat is commonly called “spiritphotography”—in this case, aDirected Imagery experimentinvolving Marozzi that may havebeen infiltrated by outsideinfluences, producing the photo.These influences may have been,as Slaughter’s commentarysuggests, lucifuges originally

suborned into helping her andMadach perpetrate their variouspsychicfrauds;sinceSlaughter,theperson with genuine paranaturalpower in their equation, wasprobably the one who did theactual invocation, the lucifugeswould have seen her as theirprimary oppressor, and directedtheir revenge against her inspecific.Evenwerewe to take allof the above as being empirically“true,” however, once thelucifuges’ malefic influence hadalready brought about Slaughter’s

death (if that is, indeed, whatactually happened), one wouldtend to assume that they wouldhave no further interest in thecase...or that, if they did, theircampaign would shift focus ontoMadach, the sole surviving authorof the original invocation. And inthat case, why harass Marozzi atall?”(DrAbbott,ibid.)19 Note to self: Why am I here?Wasn’t there some other, slightlyless insane, place I could havegotten a summer job in? I knew

Eden; a sweet girl, if easilyinfluenced, overly fascinatedby/with psychic phenomena andthose Freihoeven members whoclaimed to work with/producethem. Emma Slaughter looked atmeinthehallsonceasIpassedby,and Idreamedabout it foraweek—still felt her watching me,wherever I went. Is this relevant?Isrecordingstufflikethisscience?(S.Horse-Kicker,March2/06)**“Avalidquestion,Sylvester.Thanksforyourinput.”(Dr

Abbott,ibid.)20 “That sounds like my office.Investigate? I have vaguerecollection of anonymous notessenttomelastyear,shortlybeforeEmma’s death...” (Dr Abbott,ibid.)21Possiblyectoplasm,asubstanceoccasionally exuded duringséances,made up ofvarious deadmaterialfromthemedium’sbody.22To this lastbitofcommentary,Dr Abbott asks that a partialtranscript of his most recent

interviewwithFreihoevenpsychiccontrol-groupmemberCarracloughDevize—held March 4/06, duringwhichheshowedherwhatarenowtentatively called theSlaughter/Madach/Marozzi photos—beappendedtothisreport:

Devize: (After 120-secondpause) Oh, no. Christ, that’ssad.Abbott:Whatis,Carra?Devize: That. Don’tyou...no, of course youdon’t.There, inthatcorner,warping the uppermoststains. See? You’ll have to

strainabit.Abbott:Isthat...anorb?Devize:That’sEmma,Doc.Face-on, finally. God, sosad.Abbott: (After 72-secondpause) I’m afraid I’m stillnot—Devize: (Cuts him off) Iknow.Buttheresheis,rightthere. Just about to takeshape.Abbott: Not fly-by-the-lights?Devize: Emma had fly-by-

the-lights, like mice orroaches, except mice androaches don'tusually...anyway. ButMadach,andthatpoorlittlespoonbender wannabeBarbie of his? By the end,whattheyhad—wasEmma

TwoHousesKELLYLINK

Kelly Link is the multi-award-winning author of three short-story collections. With herhusband,GavinJ.Grant,sherunsSmall Beer Press, and edits theoccasionalanthologyaswellasthezine Lady Churchill’s Rosebud

Wristlet. She andGavin livewiththeir daughter, Ursula, inNorthampton,Massachusetts.Formore information, check out herwebsitehere:http://kellylink.net/.

Soft music woke the

sleepers in the spaceshipHouse of Secrets. Theyopenedtheireyestosoftpinklight,crept fromtheirnarrowbeds.

The chamber too wassmall,andthesleepersfloatedgracelessly within it. Theystretched out their arms,scratched their heads. Therewere three of them, twowomenandoneman.Therewastheshipaswell.

Her namewasMaureen. Shemonitored the risen sleepers,their heart rates, the dilationof their pupils, each flare oftheirnostrils.

Shewasaspiritoftheair;asoothing, subliminal hum; analchemical sequence ofsmellsandemanations.“Maureen, you old witch!

Bread, fresh from mymother’s oven. Carawayseeds!” Gwenda said. “Oh,andoldbooks.Alibrary?Theday in the library when Idecided that I would go tospaceoneday.Iwastwelve.”They inhaled. Stretched

again, then slowlysomersaulted. Arcanechemical processes initiatedby Maureen occurred withintheirbodies.“A tidal smell,’” said

Sullivan. “Mangrove trees,and the sea caught in ahundredbasins at their roots.I spent a summer in a placelike that. Arrived with onegirlandleftwithhersister.”“Oranges. A whole grove

of orange trees, all warmfrom the sun, and someone’sjust picked one. I can smellthepeel,comingaway.”Thatwas Mei. “Oh, and coffee!Withcinnamoninit!Thewayheusedtomakeitforme.”“Maureen?” said Gwenda.

“Whoelseisawake?”Thereweresixcrewaboard

House of Secrets. Fivewomen and one man. Theywere over ninety years into

theirmission.Theyhadmuchlongerstilltogo.“Portia and Aune and Sisi

areallawake,”Maureensaid.“They’re in theGreat Room,arranging the surprise partyforyou.”There was always a

surpriseparty.They threw off the long

sleep. Each rose or sanktoward the curve of thebulkhead, opened cunning

drawers and disappeared intothem to be poked andprodded and examined andmassaged. The smell ofcinnamon went away, wasreplaced by somethingastringent. The rosy lightgrewstronger.Gwenda’s hair and

eyebrows had grown back inher sleep. There was a finedownofhaironherarmsandlegs.Shegotridofitall.She

checked her personal logwhile making her toilet. Thedate was March 12, 2149.She’d been asleep for sevenyears.Long-limbed Sisi poked

herheadthroughtheirisdoorasGwendaswung out of herdrawer.“Newtattoo?”Itwasanoldjokebetween

them.Head to toes Gwenda was

covered in the most

extraordinary pictures. Therewas a Dürer and a Doré; aChinese dragon and a Celticcross; there was a wingedman holding a hellbaby; apack of wolves chasing theQueen of Diamonds acrossblood-stained ice; a green-haired girl on a playgroundrocket; the Statue of LibertyandtheStateFlagofIllinois;passages from the Book ofRevelations and a hundred

othermarvels.Therewas theshipHouse of Secrets on thebackofGwenda’srighthand,and its sister House ofMysteryonherleft.Sisi had aTarot deck.Her

mother had given it to her.SullivanhadacopyofMoby-Dick, and Portia a four-caratdiamond in a platinumsetting. Mei brought herknittingneedles.Gwenda had her tattoos.

She’d left everything elsebehind.

TheGreatRoomwas,strictlyspeaking, neitherGreat nor aRoom. But it was the heartand thebrain and the souloftheship.The door irised. Entering,

the sleepers staggered undertheonslaught.“DearGod,”Meisaid.“We each picked a theme

this time! Even Maureen!”Portia said, shouting to beheard above the music. Shehad on something ridiculouswith silver fringe down bothpant legs. Gwenda lookeddown and took in what shewas now wearing. DamnMaureenanyhow.“Go on!” Portia yelled.

“Guess!”“Easy,” Sullivan yelled

back. White petals seethed

aroundthem,chasedbysilky-coated dogs. “Westminsterdog show. Cherry blossomseason, and, um, that’sShakespeare over there,right?Littlepointybeard?”Mei said, “Does that count

asatheme?Shakespeare?”“Strobe lights,” Gwenda

shouted. “And, uh, terriblemusic,thekindofmusic thatonly Aune could love. AFinnish disco. Dogs, disco,

cherry blossoms, uh,Shakespeare. Is thateverything?”Portia launched herself in

their direction, showeredindiscriminate kisses. “Sullydidn’tsaywhichyear,forthedogshow.”“Oh,please,”Sullivansaid.

“Maureen, I beg you. Turndownthemusicalittle?”“2009,”Portiasaid.“2009!

The Sussex Spaniel Clussex

ThreeDGrinchy Glee wins.Anexcellentyear!”After that it was the usual

sortofparty.Theyalldanced,thewayyoucouldonlydancein micro gravity. It was allgood fun. When dinner wasready,MaureensentawaytheFinnish dance music, thedogs, the cherry blossoms.You could hear Shakespearesay to Mei, “I alwaysdreamed of being an

astronaut.” And then hevanished.

Once there had been twoships. It was consideredstandardpractice,intheThirdAgeofSpaceTravel,tobuildmorethanoneshipatatime,to send companion ships outon their long voyages.Redundancy enhancesresilience, or so they like tosay. Sister ships Seeker and

Messenger, called House ofSecretsandHouseofMysterybytheircrews,hadleftEarthonasummer day in the year2059.House of Secrets had seen

hertwindisappearinawink,a blink. First there, thennowhere.Thathadbeenthirtyyears ago. Space was full ofmysteries. Space was full ofsecrets.

Dinner was Beef Wellington(fake) with asparagus andnew potatoes (both real) andsourdoughrolls(realish).Theexperimental chickens werelayingagain,andsotherewaschocolate soufflé for dessert.Maureen increased gravity,because waking up wasalwaysaspecialoccasionandeven fake Beef Wellingtonrequiressuitablegravity.Meithrewrollsacrossthetableat

Gwenda. “Look at that, willyou?” she said. “Every nowandthenagirl likes towatchsomethingfall.”Aune supplied bulbs of

something alcoholic. No oneasked what it was. Auneworked with eukaryotes andArchaea. “I made enough toget us lit,” she said. “Just alittle lit. Because today isPortia’sbirthday.”“Here’stome!”Portiasaid.

“How old am I anyway?Never mind, who’scounting.”“To Portia,” Aune said.

“Foreveryoungish.”“To Proxima Centauri,”

Sullivansaid.“Gettingcloserevery day. Not that muchcloser.“Here’s to all us

Goldilocks. Here’s to justright.”“To Maureen,” Sisi said.

“And old friends.” ShesqueezedGwenda’shand.“ToourHouseofSecrets,”

Meisaid.“To House of Mystery,”

Sisisaid.Theyallturnedandlooked at her. Sisi squeezedGwenda’s hand again. Theydrank.“We didn’t get you

anything, Portia,” Sullivansaid.Portiasaid,“I’lltakeafoot

rub. Or wait, I know! We’lltell stories. Ones I haven’theardbefore.”“We should go over the

log,”Aunesaid.“The log can lie there,”

Portiasaid.“Damnthelog.”“The log can wait,” Mei

agreed.“Let’ssithereawhilelonger, and talk aboutnothing.”Sisi cleared her throat.

“There’s just one thing,” she

said. “We ought to tell themtheonething.”“Myparty,”Portiasaid.“What?” Gwenda asked

Sisi.“It’s nothing,” Sisi said.

“Nothing at all. Only themind playing tricks. Youknowhowitgoes.”“Maureen?” Sullivan said.

“Whataretheytalkingabout,please?”Maureen blew through the

room, a vinegar breeze.“Approximately thirty-onehours ago Sisi was in theControl Room. Sheperformed several usualtasks, thenaskedmetobringup our immediate course. Ididso.Twelve seconds later,I observed thatherheart ratehad gone up. When I askedher if something was wrong,she said, ‘Doyou see it, too,Maureen?’IaskedSisitotell

mewhatshewasseeing.Sisisaid,‘HouseofMystery.Overto starboard. It was there.Thenitwasgone.’ItoldSisiI had not seen it. We calledup charts, but nothing wasrecordedthere.Ibroadcastonall channels, and no oneanswered. No one has seenHouse of Mystery in theinterveningtime.”“Sisi?”Gwendasaid.“It was there,” Sisi said.

“SweartoGod,Isawit.Likelookinginamirror.SonearIcouldalmosttouchit.”They all began to talk at

once.“Doyouthink—“Just a trick of the

imagination—“It disappeared like that.

Remember?” Sullivansnapped his fingers. “Whycouldn’t it come back againthesameway?”

“No!” Portia said. Sheslammed her hand down onthetable.“Idon’twanttotalkabout this, to rehash all thisagain. Don’t you remember?Wetalkedand talkedandwetheorizedandwerationalizedand what difference did itmake?”“Portia?”Maureen said. “I

will formulate something foryou,ifyouaredistraught.”“No,” Portia said. “I don’t

wantanything.I’mfine.”“It wasn’t really there,”

Sisisaid.“Itwasn’tthereandIwishIhadn’tseenit.”Therewere tears in her eyes. Onefell out and lifted away fromhercheek.“Had you been drinking?”

Sullivan said. “Maureen,what did you find in Sisi’sblood?”“Nothing that shouldn’t

have been there,” Maureen

said.“Iwasn’thigh,andIhadn’t

had anything to drink,” Sisisaid.“But we haven’t stopped

drinking since,” Aune said.Shetossedbackanotherbulb.“Maureen sobers us up andwe just climb that mountainagain.Cheers.”Mei said, “I’m just glad it

wasn’tmewhosawit.AndIdon’t want to talk about it

either. Not right now. Notrightafterwakingup.”“That’s settled,” Portia

said. “Bring up the lightsagain, Maureen, please. I’dlike something fancy.Something with history. Anold English country house,roaring fireplace, suits ofarmor, tapestries, bluebells,sheep, moors, detectives indeerstalkers,Cathyscratchingatthewindows.Youknow.”

That breeze ran up anddown the room again. Thetablesankbackintothefloor.The curved walls receded,extruding furnishings, twopanting greyhounds. Theywere in a Great Hall insteadoftheGreatRoom.Tapestrieshung on plaster walls,threadbareandmusty,sorealthat Gwenda sneezed. Therewere flagstones, blackenedbeams. A roaring fire.

Through the mullionedwindows a gardener and hisboywerecuttingroses.You could smell the cold

risingoffstones, theyewlogupon the fire, the roses andthedustofcenturies.“Halfmark House,”

Maureensaid.“Builtin1508.Queen Elizabeth came hereon a progress in 1575 thatnearly bankrupted theHalfmark family. Churchill

spentaweekendinDecemberof 1942. There are manyphotos. Additionally, it isreported to be the second-most haunted manor inEngland. There are threemonks and a Grey Lady, aWhite Lady, a yellow fog,andastag.”“It’s exactly what I

wanted,” Portia said. “TofloataroundlikeaghostinanoldEnglishmanor.Couldyou

reduce gravity just a bit,Maureen?”“Ilikeyou,mygirl,”Aune

said. “But you are a strangeone.”“Funny old Aune,” Portia

said. “Funny old all of us.”Shemade awheel of herselfand rolled around the room.Hair seethed around her facein the way that Gwendahated.“Let’s each pick one of

Gwenda’s tattoos,” Sisi said.“Andmake up a story aboutit.”“Dibs on the phoenix,”

Sullivansaid.“Youcannevergowrongwithaphoenix.”“No,” Portia said. “Let’s

tell ghost stories. Aune, youstart. Maureen can providethespecialeffects.”“I don’t know any ghost

stories,”Aunesaid,slowly.“Iknowstoriesabouttrolls.No.

Wait. Ihaveoneghost story.Itwas a story thatmy great-grandmother told about thefarminPirkanmaawhereshegrewup.”Thegardenersandtherose

bushes disappeared. Now,through the windows youcould see a neat little farmand rocky fields, sloping uptoward the twilight bulk of aconiferousforest.“Yes,”Aunesaid.“Exactly

like that. IvisitedoncewhenI was just a girl. The farmwas in ruins.Now theworldwill have changed again.Maybe there is another farmormaybeitisallforestnow.”Shepausedfor amoment, sothattheyallcouldimagineit.“Mygreat-grandmotherwasagirlofeightornine.Shewenttoschoolforpartoftheyear.The rest of the year she andher brothers and sisters did

the work of the farm. Mygreat-grandmother’s workwas to take the cows to ameadowwhere the pasturagewas rich in clover and sweetgrasses. The cowswere verybig and she was very small,but theyknew tocomewhenshe called them. In theevening shebrought theherdhome again. The path wentalong a ridge. On the nearsidesheandhercowspassed

a closer meadow that herfamily did not use eventhough the pasturage lookedvery fine to my great-grandmother. There was abrook down in the meadow,and an old tree, a grand oldman.Therewasarockunderthe tree, a great slab thatlooked like something like atable.”Outsidethewindowsofthe

Englishmanor,a tree formed

itself in a grassy, sunkenmeadow.“My great-grandmother

didn’t like that meadow.Sometimes when she lookeddown she saw people sittingall around the table that therockmade.Theywere eatinganddrinking.Theyworeold-fashioned clothing, the kindher own great-grandmotherwould have worn. She knewthat they had been dead a

verylongtime.”“Ugh,”Meisaid.“Look!”“Yes,” Aune said in her

calm, uninflected voice.“Likethat.Onedaymygreat-grandmother, her name wasAune,too,Ishouldhavesaidthat first, I suppose, one dayAune was leading her cowshomealongtheridgeandshelooked down into themeadow.She saw thepeopleeating and drinking at their

table. And while she waslooking down, they turnedand looked at her. Theybegan to wave at her, tobeckon that she should comedown and sit with them andeatanddrink.Butinsteadsheturned away and went homeandtoldhermotherwhathadhappened.Andafter that,herolderbrother,whowasaveryunimaginative boy, had thejobof taking thecattle to the

farpasture.”The people at the table

were waving at Gwenda andMeiandPortiaandtherestofthem now. Sullivan wavedback.“Ooh,” Portia said. “That

was a good one. Creepy!Maureen, didn’t you thinkso?”“It was a good story,”

Maureen said. “I liked thecows.”

“So not the point,Maureen,” Portia said.“Anyway.”“I have a story,” Sullivan

said. “In the broad outlinesit’sabitlikeAune’sstory.”“Youcouldchangethings,”

Portia said. “I wouldn’tmind.”“I’ll just tell it the way I

heard it,” Sullivan said.“Anyhow it’s Kentucky, notFinland, and there aren’t any

cows. That is, there werecows, because it’s anotherfarm, but not in the story.Sorry, Maureen. It’s a storymygrandfathertoldme.”Thegardenerswereoutside

the windows again. Therewas beginning to besomething ghostly aboutthem, Gwenda thought. Youknew that they would justcome and go, always doingthe same things.Perhaps this

waswhat it had been like toberichandlookedafterbysomany servants, all of thempractically invisible—justlikeMaureen, really, or evenmore so—for all the noticeyouhadtotakeofthem.Theymight as well have beenghosts.Orwasittherichwhohad been the ghosts?Capricious, exerting greatpressure without ever reallyhaving to set a foot on the

ground,nothingtheirservantsdared look at for any lengthof time without drawingmaliciousattention?Never mind, they were all

ghostsnow.What an odd string of

thoughts. She was sure thatwhile she had been alive onEarth nothing like this hadever been in her head. Outhere,suspended between oneplace and another, of course

crew went a little crazy. Itwas almost luxurious, howcrazyyouwereallowedtobe.SheandSisi laycushioned

on the air, arms wrappedaroundeachother’swaistssoas not to go flying away.They floated just above thesilky ears of one of thegreyhounds.Thesensationofheatfromthefireplacefurredone arm, one leg, burnedpleasantly along one side of

her face. If somethingdisastrous were to happennow, if a meteor were tocrashthroughabulkhead,ifafire broke out in the LongGallery, if a seam rupturedand they all went flying intospace, could she and Sisikeep hold of one another?She resolved shewould. Shewouldnotletgo.Sullivan had the most

wonderful voice for telling

stories.Hewasdescribingthepart of Kentucky where hisfamily still lived. Theyhuntedwildpigsthat livedintheforest.WenttochurchonSundays. There was atornado.Rain beat at themullioned

windows. You could smellthe ozone beading on theglass. Trees thrashed andgroaned.After the tornado passed

through, men came toSullivan’s grandfather’shouse. They were going tolook for agirlwhohadgonemissing. Sullivan’sgrandfather, a young man atthetime,wentwiththem.Thehunting trails were all gone.Parts of the forest had beenflattened. Sullivan’sgrandfather was with thegroup that found the girl. Atree had fallen across her

body and cut her almost intwo.Shewasdraggingherselfalongtheground.“After that,” Sullivan said,

“my grandfather only huntedinthosewoodsatimeortwo.Then he never hunted thereagain. He said that he knewwhat it was to hear a ghostwalk, but he’d never heardonecrawlbefore.”“Look!” Portia said.

Outside the window

something was crawlingalong the floor of the forest.“Shutitoff,Maureen!Shutitoff!Shutitoff!”The gardeners again, with

theirterribleshears.“Nomoreold-peopleghost

stories,”Portiasaid.“Okay?”Sullivanpushedhimselfup

toward the white-washedceiling. “You’re a brat,Portia,”hesaid.“I know,” Portia said. “I

know! I guess you spookedme. So it must have been agoodghoststory,right?”“Right,” Sullivan said,

mollified.“Iguessitwas.”“That poor girl,” Aune

said. “To relive thatmomentover and over again. Whowould want that, to be aghost?”“Maybe it isn’t always

bad?”Meisaid.“Maybethereare happy, well adjusted

ghosts?”“I never saw the point,”

Sullivansaid.“Imean,ghostsappear as a warning. Sowhat’s the warning in thatstory I told you? Don’t getcaught in the forest during atornado? Don’t get cut inhalf?Don’tdie?”“I thought theyweremore

like a recording,” Gwendasaid. “Not really there at all.Just an echo, recorded

somehow and then beingplayed back, what they did,whathappenedtothem.”Sisi said, “But Aune’s

ghosts—the other Aune—they looked at her. Theywantedhertocomedownandeat with them. What wouldhavehappenedthen?”“Nothing good,” Aune

said.“Maybe it’s genetic,” Mei

said. “Seeing ghosts. That

kindofthing.”“ThenAuneandIwouldbe

prone,”Sullivansaid.“Not me,” Sisi said

comfortably.“I’veneverseena ghost.” She thought for aminute. “Unless I did. Youknow.HouseofMystery.No.Itwasn’taghost.Howcouldashipbeaghost?”“Maureen?” Gwenda said.

“Do you know any ghoststories?”

Maureen said, “I have allof the stories of EdithWharton and M. R. Jamesand many others in mylibrary. Would you like tohearone?”“Nothanks,”Portiasaid.“I

want a real story. And thenSullivanwill give me a footrub,and thenwecanall takea nap before breakfast. Mei,youmustknowaghoststory.Nooldpeoplethough.Iwant

asexyghoststory.”“God, no,” Mei said. “No

sexy ghosts for me. ThankGod.”“I have a story,” Sisi said.

“Itisn’tmine,ofcourse.LikeI said, I’ve never seen aghost.”“Goon,”Portia said. “Tell

yourghoststory.”“Notmy ghost story,” Sisi

said. “Andnot really a ghoststory. I’m not sure what it

was.Itwasthestoryofamanthat I dated for a fewmonths.”“A boyfriend story!”

Sullivan said. “I love yourboyfriendstories,Sisi!Whichone?”Wecouldgoallthewayto

Proxima Centauri and backand Sisi still wouldn’t haverun out of stories about herboyfriends, Gwenda thought.Andinthemeantimeall they

aretousareghoststories,andall we’ll ever be to them isthe same. Stories theirgrandchildren tell theirgrandchildren.“Idon’tthinkI’vetoldany

of you about him,” Sisi wassaying. “Thiswas during theperiod when they weren’tbuilding new ships.Remember? They keptsending us out to dofundraising? I was supposed

to be some kind ofAmbassadress for Space.Emphasis on the slinky littledress. I was supposed to beseductive and also noble andrepresentative of everythingthat made it worth going tospace for. I did a goodenough job that theysentmeover tomeetaconsortiumofinvestors and big shots inLondon. I met all sorts ofguys, but the only one I

clicked with was this onedude, Liam. Okay. Here’swhere itgetscomplicatedfora bit. Liam’s mother wasEnglish. She came from thisoldfamily,lotsofmoneyandnot a lot of supervision andby the time she was ateenager, she was a totalwreck. Into booze, harddrugs, recreational Satanism,you name it. Got kicked outof school after school after

school, and after that shegotkicked out of all of the bestrehab programs too. In theend, her family kicked herout. Gave her money to goaway.Sheendedupinprisonfor a couple of years, had ababy. That was Liam.BouncedaroundEuropeforawhile, then when Liam wasabout seven or eight, shefound God and got herselfcleanedup.By thispoint her

father and mother were bothdead. One of the superbugs.Her brother had inheritedeverything.Shewentback tothe ancestral pile—imagine aplace like this, okay?—andtried to make things goodwith her brother. Are youwithmesofar?”“So it’s a real old-

fashioned English ghoststory,”Portiasaid.“You have no idea,” Sisi

said. “You have no idea. Soherbrotherwaskindofajerk.And let me emphasize, onceagain, thiswasa rich family,like you have no idea. Themother and the father andbrother were into collectingart. Contemporary stuff.Video installations,performance art, stuff thatwas really far out. Theycommissioned this one artist,anAmerican,tocomeanddo

a site-specific installation.That’swhatLiamcalledit.Itwas supposed to be acommentary on thetransatlantic exchange, thepost-colonial relationshipbetweenEnglandandtheUS,somethinglikethat.Andwhathedidwas,heboughtaranchhouse out in a suburb inArizona, the same state, bythe way, where you can stillgo and see the original

London Bridge. This artistbought the suburban ranch,circa 1980, and the furniturein it and everything else,down to the rolls of toiletpaperandthecansofsoupinthe cupboards. And he hadthehousedismantledwithallof the pieces numbered, andplenty of photographs andvideo so he would knowexactly where everythingwent, and it all got shipped

over to England and then hebuilt it all again on thefamily’s estate. Andsimultaneously, he had asecond house built fromscratch justacouplehundredyards away. This secondhouse was an exact replica,from the foundation to thepictures on the wall to thecansofsoupontheshelvesinthekitchen.”“Whywouldanybodyever

bothertodothat?”Meisaid.“Don’t ask me,” Sisi said.

“If I had that much money,I’d spend it on shoes andbooze and vacations for meandallofmyfriends.”“Hear,hear,”Gwendasaid.

They all raised their bulbsanddrank.“This stuff is ferocious,

Aune,”Sisisaid.“I think it’schangingmymitochondria.”“Quite possibly,” Aune

said.“Cheers.”“Anyway, this double

installationwon someaward.Got lots of attention. Thewholepointwas that nobodyknew which house waswhich. Then the superbugtook out the mom and dad,and a couple of years afterthat,Liam’smothertheblacksheep came home. And herbrother said to her, I don’twantyoulivinginthefamily

home with me. But I’ll letyou live on the estate. I’llevengiveyou a jobwith thehousekeeping staff. And inexchange you’ll live in myinstallation. Which was,apparently, something thattheartisthadreallywantedtomake part of the project, tofindafamilytocomeandliveinit.“This jerk brother said,

‘You and my nephew can

come and live in myinstallation. I’ll even let youpickwhichhouse.’“Liam’smotherwentaway

and talked to God about it.Then she came back andmoved into one of thehouses.”“Howdidshedecidewhich

houseshewantedtolivein?”Sullivansaid.“That’s a great question,”

Sisi said. “I have no idea.

Maybe God told her? Look,whatIwasinterestedinatthetime was Liam. I knowwhyhe likedme.Here Iwas, thisSouth African girl with anAmerican passport,dreadlocks and cowboyboots, talking about how Iwas going to get in a rocketand go up in space, just assoon as I could. What mandoesn’t like a girl whodoesn’tplantostickaround?

“WhatIdon’tknowiswhyI liked him so much. Thething is, he wasn’t really agood-lookingguy.Hewasn’tbad-looking either, okay?HehadaniceroundEnglishbutt.His hair wasn’t terrible. Butthere was something abouthim, you just knew he wasgoingtogetyouintotrouble.The good kind of trouble.When Imet him, hismotherwasdead.Hisunclewasdead

too. They weren’t a luckyfamily. They had moneyinstead of luck. The brotherhad never married, and he’dleftLiameverything.“We went out for dinner.

We gave each other all therightkindofsignals,but thenhetookmebacktomyhotel.Hesaidhewantedtotakemeup to his country house fortheweekend. It sounded likefun. I guess I was picturing

one of those little thatchedcottages you see in detectiveseries. But it was like thisinstead.” Sisi gesturedaround.“Bigoldpile.Exceptwith video screens in thecorners showing mice eatingeach other and little kidseatingcereal.Nice,right?“Hesaidweweregoing to

go for a walk around theestate. Romantic, right? Wewalked out about a mile

through this typical South ofEngland landscape and thensuddenly we’re approachingthis weather-beaten, rottingstuccohouse that looked likeevery ranch house I’d everseen in a gone-to-seedneighborhood in theSouthwest, y’all. This housewas all by itself on a greenEnglish hill. It lookedseriously wrong. Maybe ithad looked better before the

other one had burned down,or at leastmore intentionallyweird, the way an artinstallation should, butanyway. Actually, I don’tthink so. I think it alwayslookedwrong.”“Go back a second,” Mei

said. “What happened to theotherhouse?”“I’ll get to that in a

minute,” Sisi said. “So thereweareinfrontofthishorrible

house, and Liam picked meup and carriedme across thethreshold like we werenewlyweds. He dropped meon a rotting tan couch andsaid, ‘I was hoping youwould spend the night withme.’ I said, ‘Youmean backat your place?’ He said, ‘Imeanhere.’“I said to him, ‘You’re

going to have to explain.’Andsohedid,andnowwe’re

back at the part where Liamand his mother moved intotheinstallation.”“This story isn’t like the

otherstories,”Maureensaid.“Youknow,I’venevertold

this story before,” Sisi said.“The rest of it, I’m not evensureIknowhowtotellit.”“Liam and his mother

moved into the installation,”Portiaprompted.“Yeah. Liam’s mummy

picked a house and theymoved in. Liam’s just thislittle kid. A bit abnormalbecause of how they’d beenliving.Andtherearealltheseweird rules, like they aren’tallowedtoeatanyofthefoodontheshelves in thekitchen.Because that’s part of theinstallation. Instead themother has a mini-fridge inthe closet in her bedroom.Oh, and there are clothes in

the closets in the bedrooms.And there’saTV,but it’sanold one and the installationartist set up so it only playsshowsthatwerecurrentintheearly nineties in the U.S.,which was the last time thehousewasoccupied.“Andthereareweirdstains

on thecarpets insomeof therooms.Bigbrownstains.“But Liam doesn’t care so

much about that. He gets to

pickhisownbedroom,whichseems to be set up for a boymaybe a year or two olderthanLiamis.There’samodeltrain set on the floor, whichLiam can play with, as longashe’scareful.Andtherearecomic books, good ones thatLiam hasn’t read before.There are cowboys on thesheets. There’s a big stainhere, in thecorner,under thewindow.

“And he’s allowed to gointo the other bedrooms, aslong as he doesn’t messanything up. There’s a pinkbedroom, with twin beds.Lots of boring girls’ clothesandastaininthecloset,andadiary, hidden in a shoebox,which Liam doesn’t see anypoint in reading. There’s aroom for an older boy, too,with posters of actresses thatLiam doesn’t recognize, and

lotsofAmericansportsstuff.Football, but not the rightkind.“Liam’s mother sleeps in

thepinkbedroom.Youwouldexpecther to take themasterbedroom,butshedoesn’tlikethe bed. She says it isn’tcomfortable.Anyway,there’sa stain on it that goes rightthrough the duvet, throughthe sheets. It’s as if the staincameupthroughthemattress.

“I think I’m beginning tosee the shape of this story,”Gwendasays.“You bet,” Sisi says. “But

remember, there are twohouses. Liam’s mummy isresponsible for looking afterboth houses. She alsovolunteersatthechurchdownin the village. Liam goes tothe village school. For thefirst two weeks, the otherboys beat him up, and then

they lose interest and afterthat everyone leaves himalone. In the afternoons hecomes back and plays in histwo houses. Sometimes hefalls asleep in one house,watching TV, and when hewakesuphe isn’tsurewherehe is. Sometimes his unclecomesby to invitehim togoforawalkontheestate,ortogofishing.Helikeshisuncle.Sometimes they walk up to

the manor house, and playbilliards. His uncle arrangesfor him to have ridinglessons, and that’s the bestthingintheworld.Hegetstopretend that he’s a cowboy.Maybe that’s why he likedme.Thoseboots.“Sometimes he plays cops

androbbers.Heusedtoknowsome pretty bad guys, backbefore his mother gotreligion, and Liam isn’t

exactlysurewhichheisyet,agood guy or a bad guy. Hehas a complicatedrelationship with his mother.Life is better than it used tobe, but religion takes upabout the same amount ofspace as the drugs did. Itdoesn’t leavemuch room forLiam.“Anyway, there are some

copshowsontheTV.Afterafew months he’s seen them

all at least once.There’s onecalledCSI, and it’s all aboutfingerprints and murder andblood.AndLiamstartstogetan ideaabout the stain in hisbedroom,andthestainin themaster bedroom, and theother stains, the ones in thelivingroom,ontheplaidsofaand over behind the La-Z-Boy that you mostly don’tnotice at first, because it’shidden. There’s one stain up

onthewallpaperinthelivingroom, and after a while itstarts to look a lot like ahandprint.“So Liam starts to wonder

ifsomethingbadhappenedinhis house. And in that otherhouse. He’s older now,maybe ten or eleven. Hewants toknowwhyare theretwohouses,exactlythesame,nextdoortoeachother?Howcould there have been a

murder—okay, a series ofmurders, where everythinghappened exactly the sameway twice? He doesn’t wantto ask his mother, becauselatelywhenhetriestotalktohis mother, all she does isquoteBibleversesathim.Hedoesn’twant toaskhisuncleabout it either, because theolderLiamgets, themorehecan see that even when hisuncleisbeingsupernice,he’s

stillnotallthatnice.Theonlyreason he’s nice to Liam isbecauseLiamishisheir.“Hisunclehasshowedhim

some of the other pieces inhisartcollection,andhetellsLiam that he envies him,getting to be a part of anactual installation. Liamknows his house came fromAmerica.Heknowsthenameoftheartistwhodesignedtheinstallation. So that’s enough

to go online and find outwhat’s going on, which isthat,sureenough,theoriginalhouse, the one the artistboughtandbroughtover,isamurder house. Some high-school kid went nuts in themiddleofthenightandkilledhis whole family with ahammer. And this artist, hisideawasbasedonsomethingthe robber barons did at theturn of the previous century,

which was buy up castlesabroad and have thembrought over stone by stoneto be rebuilt in Texas, orupstate Pennsylvania, orwherever.And if therewasaghost, they paid even moremoney. So that was ideanumber one, to flip that.Butthenhehadideanumbertwo,which was, What makes ahauntedhouse?Ifyou take itto pieces and transport it all

the way across the AtlanticOcean, does the ghost(ghosts, in this case) comewith it, if you put it backtogether exactly the way itwas? And if you can put ahaunted house back togetheragain, piece by piece bypiece, can you build yourown from scratch if yourecreate all of the pieces?Andideanumberthree,forgetthe ghosts, can the real live

people who go and walkaround in one house or theother,orevenbetter,theoneswho live in a house withoutknowing which house iswhich, would they knowwhichonewasrealandwhichone was ersatz? Would theysee real ghosts in the realhouse? Imagine they sawghostsinthefakeone?”“Sowhichhousewerethey

livingin?”Sullivanasked.

“Does it really matterwhichhousetheywerelivingin?”Sisisaid.“Imean,Liamspenttimeinbothhouses.Hesaid he never knew whichhousewas real.Whichhousewas haunted. The artist wasthe only one with that pieceof information.Heevenusedreal blood to recreate thestains.“I’ll tell the rest of the

story as quickly as I can. So

bythetimeLiambroughtmetoseehisancestralhome,oneof the installationhouseshadburned down.Liam’smotherdid it. Maybe for religiousreasons? Liam was kind ofvague about why. I got thefeeling it had to do with histeenage years. Theywent onliving there, you see. Liamgot older, and I’m guessinghis mother caught himfooling aroundwith a girl or

smoking pot, something, inthehousethattheydidn’tlivein. By this point she hadbecomeconvincedthatoneofthe houses was occupied byunquiet spirits, but shecouldn’t make up her mindwhich. And in any case, itdidn’t do any good. If therewere ghosts in the otherhouse, they just moved innext door once it burneddown. I mean, why not?

Everythingwasalreadysetupexactly the way that theylikedit.”“Wait, so there were

ghosts?”Gwendasaid.“Liam said therewere.He

said he never saw them, butlater on, when he lived inother places, he realized thattheremust have been ghosts.In both places. Both houses.Otherplacesjustfeltemptytohim.Hesaidtothinkofitlike

maybe you grew up in placewhere there was always aparty going on, all the time,or a bar fight, one that wenton for years, or maybe justsomewhere where the TVwasalwayson.Andthenyouleave the party, or you getthrownoutofthebar,andallof a sudden you realizeyou’re all alone. Like, youjust can’t sleep as wellwithout that TV on. You

can’tget tosleep.Hesaidhewas always on high alertwhen he was away from themurder house, becausesomething was missing andhecouldn’tfigureoutwhat. Ithink that’swhat I pickedupon. That extra vibration, thattwitchyradar.”“That’s sick,” Sullivan

said.“Yeah,” Sisi said. “That

relationship was over real

quick. So that’s my ghoststory.”Mei said, “So what

happened?”“He’d brought a picnic

dinner with us. Lobster andchampagne and the works.Wesatandateat thekitchentablewhile he toldme abouthis childhood. Then he gaveme the tour. Showed me allthestainswherethosepeopledied, like they were holy

relics. I kept looking out thewindow, and seeing the sunget lower and lower. I didn’twanttobeinthathouseafteritgotdark.”Theywereallinthathouse

now, flicking through thoserooms, one after another.“Maureen?” Mei said. “Canyouchangeitback?”“Ofcourse,”Maureensaid.

Once again there were thegreyhounds, the garden, the

fire and the roses. Shadowsslickedtheflagstones,blottedandclungtothetapestries.“Better,” Sisi said. “Thank

you. You went and found itonline, didn’t you,Maureen?That was exactly the way Irememberit.Iwentoutsidetothink and have a cigarette.Yeah, Iknow.Badastronaut.But I still kind of wanted tosleepwiththisguy.Justonce.So he was messed up, so

what? Sometimes messed upsex is thebest.When Icameback inside the house, I stillhadn’t made up my mind.AndthenImadeupmymindinahurry.Becausethisguy?Iwenttolookforhimandhewasdownonthefloorinthatlittle boy’s bedroom. Underthewindow,okay?Ontopofthat stain. He was rollingaround on the floor. Youknow, the way cats do? He

hadthislookonhisface.Likewhen they get catnip. I gotoutofthereinahurry.DroveawayinhisLandRover.Thekeyswerestillintheignition.Left itatatransportcaféandhitched the rest of the wayhome and never saw himagain.”“You win,” Portia said. “I

don’tknowwhatyouwin,butyou win. That guy waswrong.”

“What about the artist? Imean,whathedid,”Meisaid.“That Liam guy would havebeen okay if it weren’t forwhat he did. Right? I mean,it’ssomething to thinkabout.Say we find some niceGoldilocks planet. If theconditions are suitable, andwegrowsometreesandsomecows, do we get the tablewiththeghostssittingaroundit? If there is such a thing as

ghosts, do we bring ourghostswithus?Aretheyherenow? If we tell Maureen tobuildahauntedhousearoundusrightnow,doesshehavetomake theghosts?Or do theyjustshowup?”Maureensaid,“Itwouldbe

aninterestingexperiment.”The Great Room began to

change around them. Thecouchcamefirst.“Maureen!” Portia said.

“Don’tyoudare!”Gwenda said, “But we

don’t need to run thatexperiment. I mean, isn’t italready running?” Sheappealed to the others, toSullivan, to Aune. “Youknow. I mean, you knowwhatImean?”“Not really,” Sisi said.

“Whatdoyoumean?”Gwenda looked at the

others. Then Sisi again. Sisi

stretched luxuriously andturned in the air. Gwendathought of the stain on thecarpet, the man rolling uponitlikeacat.“Gwenda, my love. What

are you trying to say?” Sisisaid.“I know a ghost story,”

Maureen said. “I know oneafterall.Doyouwanttohearit?”Before anyone could

answer, they were in theGreat Room again, excepttheyweresomehowoutsideittoo. They floated, somehow,in a great nothingness. Buttherewasthetableagainwithdinner upon it, where theyhadsat.The roomgrewdarkerand

colder and the lost crew oftheshipHouseofMystery sataroundthetable.That sister crew, those old

friends, they looked up fromtheir meal, from theirconversation. They turnedand regarded the crewof theshipHouse of Secrets. Theywore dress uniforms, as if incelebration,buttheyhadbeenmaimedbysomecatastrophe.Theyliftedtheirruinedhandsandbeckoned,smiling.There was a smell of char

andchemicalsandblood thatGwendaalmostknew.

And then it was her ownfriendsaroundthetable.Mei,Sullivan, Portia, Aune, Sisi.She saw herself sitting there,hacked almost in two. Shebeckoned to herself with ablackened hand, thenvanished.The Great Room reshaped

itself out of nothingness andhorror.TheywerebackintheEnglish country house. Theair was full of sour spray.

Someone had thrown up.Someoneelsesobbed.Aune said, “Maureen, that

wasunkind.”Maureen said nothing. She

went about the room like aghost,coaxing thevomit intoagreatball.“The hell was that?” Sisi

said. “Maureen? What wereyou thinking? Gwenda? Mydarling, are you okay?” Shereached for Gwenda’s hand,

but Gwenda pushed awayfromher.She wriggled away in a

great spasm, her armsextended to catch the wall.Going before her on the onehand, the ship House ofSecrets and on the other,HouseofMystery. She couldno longer tell the one fromtheother.

WhereAngelsComeIn

ADAML.G.NEVILL

Adam L. G. Nevill was born inBirmingham, England, in 1969andgrewupinEnglandandNewZealand.He is the authorof; thesupernatural horror novels

Banquet for the Damned,Apartment 16, The Ritual,andLastDays.

He lives in Birmingham andcan be contacted throughwww.adamlgnevill.com.

Onesideofmybodyisfull

of toothache. Right in themiddle of the bones. Whilethe skin and muscles have achillypins-and-needles tinglethatwon’teverturnbackinto

the warmth of a healthy armandleg.WhichiswhyNannaAlice is here; sitting on thechair at the foot of my bed,hercrumpledfaceinshadow.But the milky light thatcomes through the netcurtainsfindsasparkleinherquickeyesandgleamsontheyellowish grin that hasn’tchanged sincemymother letherintothehouse,madeheracup of tea and showed her

into my room. Nanna Alicesmells like the inside ofoverflowpipesat thebackofthecouncilhouses.“Least you still got one

’alf,” she says. She has ametal brace on her thin leg.The foot at the end of thecaliper is inside a baby’sshoe.Eventhoughit’srude,Ican’tstopstaring.Hernormalleg is fat. “They tookme legand one arm.” Using her

normal fingers, she picks thedead hand from a pocket inher cardigan and plops it ontoher lap.Small andgrey, itremindsmeofadoll’shand.Idon’tlookforlong.She leans forward in her

chairsoIcansmelltheteaonher breath. “Showme whereyouwastouched,luv.”I unbutton my pyjama top

and roll on tomy good side.Podgyfingertipspressaround

the shrivelled skin at the topof my arm, but she doesn’ttouch the see-through partswhere the fingertips andthumb once held me. Hereyes go big and her lips pullback to show gums moreblackthanpurple.Againstherthigh, the doll hand shakes.She coughs, sits back in herchair. Cradles the tiny handand rubs it with livingfingers. When I cover my

shoulder, she watches thatpart of me without blinking.Seems disappointed to see itcovered so soon. Wets herlips. “Tell uswhat ’appened,luv.”Propping myself up in the

pillows, I peer out thewindow and swallow the biglumpinmythroat.Dizzyanda bit sickish, I don’twant toremember what happened.Notever.

Acrossthestreet insidethespiky metal fence builtaroundthepark,Icanseetheusual circle of mothers.Huddled into their coats andsitting on benches besidepushchairs, or holding theleads of tugging dogs, theywatchthechildrenplay.Uponthe climbing frames and onthe wet grass, the kids raceabout and shriek and laughandfallandcry.Wrappedup

in scarves and padded coats,they swarm among hungrypigeons and seagulls;thousandsofsmallwhiteandgrey shapes, pecking aroundthe little stamping feet.Sometimes the birds panicandriseincurvingsquadrons,trying to get their plumpbodies into the airwith flap-cracky wings. And thechildren are blind with theirown fear and excitement in

brief tornadoes of dustyfeathers,redfeet,cruelbeaksandstartledeyes.Buttheyaresafe here—the children andthe birds—closely watchedby tense mothers and keptinside the stockade of ironrailings: the only placeoutdoors the children areallowed to play since I cameback,alone.A lot of things gomissing

in our town: cats, dogs,

children. And they nevercome back. Except for meand Nanna Alice. We camehome, or at least half of usdid.Lyinginmysickbed,pale

in the face and weak in theheart,Idrinkmedicines, readbooksandwatchthechildrenplay from my bedroomwindow. Sometimes I sleep.But only when I have to.Because when I sink away

fromthesafetyofhomeandawatchingparent,Igobacktothewhitehouseonthehill.For the Nanna Alice, the

time she went inside the bigwhiteplaceasalittlegirl,isaspecial occasion; like she’sgrateful. Our dad calls her a“silly old fool” and doesn’twant her in our house. Hedoesn’t know she’s heretoday. But when a childvanishes, or someone dies,

lots of the mothers ask theNannatovisitthem.“Shecansee thingsandfeel things therest of us don’t,” my momsays. Like the two policeladies,andthemothersofthetwo girls who went missinglast winter, and Pickering’sparents, my mom just wantsto know what happened tome.AtleastwhenI’mawake,I

can read, watch television,

and listen to my mom andsisters downstairs. But indreamsIhavenochoice:Igoback to the white house onthehill,whereoldthingswithskipping feet circle me, thenrush in close to show theirfaces.“Tellus, luv.Tellusabout

the’ouse,”NannaAlicesays.Can’tthinkwhyshe’ssmilinglike that. No adult likes totalk about the beautiful, tall

house on the hill. Even ourdads who come home fromthe industry, smelling ofplastic and beer, lookuncomfortable if their kidssay they can hear the ladiescrying again: above theirheads, but deep inside theirearsatthesame time,callingfrom the distance, from thehill, from inside us. Ourparentscan’thearitanymore,but theyremember thesound

from when they were small.It’s like people are trappedandcallingout forhelp.Andwhennoonecomes, theygetreal angry. “Foxes,” theparentstellus,butdon’tlookyouintheeyewhentheysayit.For a long time afterwhat

people call “my accident” Iwas unconscious in thehospital. After I woke up, Iwas so weak I stayed there

for another three months.Gradually, one half of mybody got stronger and I wasallowed home. That’s whenthequestionsbegan.Not justabout my injuries, but aboutmymatePickering,whotheynever found. And now crazyNanna Alice wants to knowevery single thing I canremember and all of thedreams too. Only I neverknow what is real and what

came out of the coma withme.

For years, we talked aboutgoing up there. All the kidsdo.Pickering,Ritchieandmewantedtobethebravestboysin our school.Wewanted tobreak in there and come outwith treasure to use as proofthatwe’dbeeninside,andnotjust looked in through thegate like all the others we

knew.Somepeoplesaythehouse

and its grounds was once aplace where old, rich peoplelived after they retired fromowningtheindustry,theland,the laws, our houses, ourtown, us. Others say it wasbuilt on an old well and theground is contaminated. Ateachertoldusitusedtobeahospital and is still full ofgerms.Ourdadsaiditwasan

asylum for lunatics thatclosed down over a hundredyears ago and has stayedemptyeversincebecause it’sfalling to pieces and is tooexpensive to repair. That’swhy kids should never gothere: you could be crushedby bricks or fall through afloor.NannaAlicesaysit’saplace “where angels comein.”Butwe all know it’s theplace where the missing

thingsare.Everystreetinthemiles of our town has lost apet or knows a familywho’slost a child. And every timethe police search the bighouse, they find nothing. Noone remembers the big gatebeingopen.So on a Friday morning

when all thekids in our areawere walking to school, me,Ritchie and Pickeringsneaked off, the other way.

Through the allotments,wheremeandPickeringwereonce caught smashing deckchairs and bean poles;through the woods full ofbroken glass and dogshit;over the canal bridge; acrossthe potato fields with ourheads down so the farmerwouldn’tseeus;andovertherailway tracks until wecouldn’tevenseetheroofsofthe last houses in our town.

Talking about the hiddentreasure, we stopped by theold ice-cream van with fourflat tyres, to throw rocks andstareatthefadedmenuonthelittle counter, our mouthswatering as we madeselections that would neverbe served. On the other sideof the woods that surroundthe estate, we could see thechimneys of the big, whitemansionabovethetrees.

Although Pickering hadbeen walking out front thewhole time telling us hewasn’t scared of securityguardsorwatchdogs,orevenghosts—“cusyoucanjustputyour hand froo ’em”—whenwereachedthebottomof thewooded hill, no one saidanything or even looked ateachother.Partofmealwaysbelievedwewould turn backattheblackgate,becausethe

fun part was telling storiesaboutthehouseandplanningtheexpedition and imaginingterrible things. Going insidewas different because lots ofthe missing kids had talkedabout the house before theydisappeared.Andsomeoftheyoung men who broke inthereforalaughalwayscameawayabit funny in thehead,but our dad said that wasbecauseofdrugs.

Even the trees around theestate were different, liketheywere too still and silentandtheairbetweenthemrealcold. But we still went upthrough the trees and foundthe high brick wall thatsurrounds thegrounds.Therewas barbed wire and brokenglassset intoconcreteon topof it. We followed the walluntil we reached the blackiron gate. Seeing the private

property: trespassers will beprosecutedsignmade shiversgoupmyneckandundermyhair.Thegateishigherthanahousewithacurvedtopmadefromironspikes,setbetweentwo pillars with big stoneballsontop.“Iheardthemballsrolloff

and kill trespassers,” Ritchiesaid.I’dheardthesamething,but when Ritchie said that Ijustknewhewasn’tgoing in

withus.We wrapped our hands

aroundthecoldblackbarsofthegateandpeeredthroughatthe long flagstone path thatgoes up the hill, betweenavenues of trees and oldstatues hidden by branchesand weeds. All the uncutgrass of the lawns was ashighasmywaistand theoldflower beds were wild withcolour.Atthesummitwasthe

tall, white house with bigwindows.Sunlightglintedoffthe glass. Above all thechimneys, the sky was blue.“Princesses lived there,”Pickeringwhispered.“Can you see anyone?”

Ritchie asked. He wasshiveringwithexcitementandhadtotakeapee.Hetriedtorushitoversomenettles—wewere fighting a war againstnettles and wasps that

summer—but got half of itdownhislegs.“It’s empty,” Pickering

whispered. “’Cept for ’iddentreasure.Darren’sbrothergotthis owl inside a big glass. Iseen it. Looks like it’s stillalive.At night, it moves it’s’ead.”Ritchie and I looked at

each other; everyone knowsthe stories about the animalsor birds inside the glass that

people findup there.There’soneaboutalambwithnofur,inside a tank of green waterthat someone’s uncle foundwhen he was a boy. It stillblinks its little black eyes.Andsomeonesaidtheyfoundskeletons of children alldressed up in old clothes,holdinghands.All rubbish; because I

know what’s really insidethere. Pickering had seen

nothing,but ifwechallengedhimhe’d startyelling, “Haveso! Have so!” and me andRitchie weren’t happy withanything butwhispering nearthegate.“Let’s just watch and see

what happens.We can go inanother day,” Ritchiecouldn’thelphimselfsaying.“You’re chickening out,”

Pickering said, kicking atRitchie’s legs. “I’ll tell

everyone Ritchie pissed hispants.”Ritchie’s face went white,

hisbottom lipquivered.Likeme,hewasimaginingcrowdsof swooping kids shouting,“Pisspot.Pisspot.”Oncethecrowdsfindacoward, they’llhunthimeverydayuntilhe’spushedouttotheedgesoftheplaygroundwherethefailuresstandandwatch.Everykidintown knows this place takes

away brothers, sisters, catsand dogs, butwhen we hearthecriesfromthehill,it’sourduty to forceoneanotherouthere. It’s a part of our townand always has been.Pickering is one of thetoughest kids in school; hehadtogo.“I’m going in first,” Pick’

said,standingbackandsizingup the gate. “Watch where Iputmyhands and feet.”And

itdidn’t takehim long togetover. There was a littlewobble at the top when heswung a leg between twospikes, but not long after hewas standing on the otherside,grinningatus.Tome,itnow looked like there was alittleladderbuiltintothegate—where themetal vines andthorns curved between thelongpoles,youcouldsee thepattern of steps for small

handsandfeet.I’dheardthatlittle girls always found asecret wooden door in thebrick wall that no one elsecan find when they look forit. But that might just beanotherstory.If I didn’t go over and the

raid was a success, I didn’twant to spend therest ofmylife being a piss pot andwishing I’d gone with Pick’.Wecouldbeheroes together.

And I was full of the samecrazy feeling that makes meclimb oak trees to the verytop branches, stare up at theskyandletgowithmyhandsfor a few seconds knowingthatifIfallIwilldie.WhenIclimbedawayfrom

whispering Ritchie on theground, the squeaks andgroans of the gate were soloud I was sure I could beheard all theway up the hill

andinsidethehouse.WhenIgottothetopandwasgettingready to swing a leg over,Pick’ said, “Don’t cut yourballs off.” But I couldn’tsmile, or even breathe. Myarms and legs started toshake.Itwasmuchhigherupthere than it looked from theground. With one leg over,between the spikes, paniccame up my throat. If onehand slipped off the worn

metal I imagined my wholeweight forcing the spikethroughmy thigh, and how Iwould hang there, dripping.Then I looked up toward thehouse and I felt there was aface behind every window,watchingme.Many of the stories about

the white place on the hillsuddenlyfilledmyhead:howyou only see the red eyes ofthe thing that drains your

blood;howit’skiddy-fiddlersthat hide in there and torturecaptives for days beforeburying them alive, which iswhy no one ever finds themissing children; and somesay the thing that makes thecryingnoisemightlooklikeabeautiful ladywhen you firstseeher,butshesoonchangesonceshe’sholdingyou.“Hurryup.It’seasy,”Pick’

said from way down below.

Ever so slowly, I lifted mysecondlegover,thenloweredmyself down the other side.Hewasright;itwasn’tahardclimbatall;kidscoulddoit.I stood in hot sunshine on

the other side of the gate,smiling. The light wasbrighter over there too;glintingoffallthewhitestoneandglassupon thehill.Andthe air seemed weird—realthick and warm. When I

lookedbackthroughthegate,the world around Ritchie—who stood alone biting hisbottom lip—looked grey anddull like itwasNovemberorsomething. Around us, theovergrown grass was soglossy it hurt your eyes tolook at it. Reds, yellows,purples, oranges and lemonsof the flowers flowed insidemyheadandIcouldtastehotsummer in my mouth.

Around the trees,statues andflagstone path, the air was abitwavy andmy skin felt sogood and warm I shivered.Closedmy eyes. “Beautiful,”I said; a word I wouldn’tusually use around Pick’.“ThisiswhereIwanttolive,”hesaid,hiseyesandfaceonebig smile. Then we bothstarted to laugh. We huggedeachother,whichwe’dneverdonebefore.Anything I ever

worried about seemed sillynow. I felt taller. Could goanywhere, do anything Iliked. I know Pick’ felt thesame.Protected by the

overhanging tree branchesand long grasses, we kept tothesideofthepathandbeganwalkingup thehill.Butafterawhile,Istarted to feelabitnervous as we got closer tothe top. The house looked

bigger than I thought it wasdown by the gate. Eventhough we could see no oneand hear nothing, I also feltlike I’dwalked into this big,crowded, but silent placewhere lots of eyes werewatchingme.Followingme.Westoppedwalkingbythe

firststatue thatwasn’t totallycovered in green moss anddeadleaves.Throughthelowbranches of a tree, we could

still see the two nakedchildren,standingtogetheronthestoneblock.Oneboyandone girl. They were bothsmiling, but not in a niceway, because we could seetoo much of their teeth.“They’s all open on thechest,” Pickering said. Andhe was right; their dry stoneskin was peeled back on thebreastbone and in theiroutstretched hands they held

small lumps of stone withveinscarvedintothem—theirown little hearts. The goodfeeling I had down by thegate was completely gonenow.Sunlightshone through the

trees and striped us withshadows and bright slashes.Eyesbigandmouthsdry,wewalkedonandcheckedsomeof the other statues wepassed.You couldn’t help it;

it’s like theymade you stareatthemtoworkoutwhatwassticking through the leavesand branches and ivy. Therewas one horrible cloth thingthat seemed too real to bemadefromstone.Itsfacewasso nasty, I couldn’t look forlong. Standing under it gaveme the queer feeling that itwas swaying from side toside, ready to jump off thestoneblockandcomeatus.

Pick’walkedaheadofmealittle bit, but soon stopped toseeanother.He shrunk in itsshadow, then peered at hisshoes. I caught up with himbut didn’t look too longeither. Beside the statue ofthe ugly man in a cloak andbig hat, was a smaller shapecovered in a robe and hood,withsomethingcomingoutofa sleeve that remindedmeofsnakes.

I didn’t want to go anyfurther and knew I’d beseeing these statues in mysleep for a long time.Looking down the hill at thegate, I was surprised to seehow far away it was now.“Think I’m going back,” IsaidtoPick’.Pickeringlookedatme,but

nevercalledmeachicken;hedidn’t want to start a fightand be on his own in here.

“Let’s just go into the housequick,” he said. “And getsomething.Otherwisenoonewillbelieveus.”But being just a bit closer

tothewhitehousewithallthestaring windows made mesickwith nerves. It was fourstoreys high and must havehadhundredsofroomsinside.All the windows upstairsweredarksowecouldn’tseebeyondtheglass.Downstairs,

they were all boarded upagainst trespassers. “They’sall empty, I bet,” Pickeringsaid to try and make us feelbetter.But it didn’t domuchfor me; he didn’t seem sosmart or hard now; just astupid kid who hadn’t got aclue.“Nah,”Isaid.Hewalked away fromme.

“Well I am. I’ll say youwaited outside.” His voice

wastoosofttocarrytheusualthreat. But all the same, Isuddenly couldn’t stand thethought of his grinning,triumphantfacewhileRitchieand I were considered pisspots, especially after I’dclimbed the gate and comethisfar.Mypartwouldmeannothing if he went furtherthanme.We never looked at any

more of the statues. If we

had, I don’t thinkwe’d haveever got to the wide stonesteps thatwent up to the bigiron doors of the house.Didn’tseemtotakeuslongtoreach the house either. Eventaking small, slow, reluctantsteps got us there real quick.On legs fullofwarmwater Ifollowed Pickering up to thedoors.“Why is they made of

metal?”heaskedme.Inever

had an answer. He pressedbothhandsagainst thedoors.One of them creaked butnever opened. “They’slocked,”hesaid.Secretly relieved, I took a

stepawayfromthedoors.Asall thegroundfloorwindowswere boarded over too, itlooked like we could gohome. Then, as Pickeringshoved at the creaky dooragain, this time with his

shoulder and his body at anangle, I’m sure I sawmovement in a window onthe second floor. Somethingwhitish. Behind the glass, itwaslikeashapeappearedoutofthedarknessandthensankback into it, quick butgraceful. I thought of a carpsurfacing in a cloudy pondbefore vanishing the samemoment you saw its paleback.“Pick’!”Ihissedathim.

There was a clunk insidethe door Pickering wasstraining his body against.“It’sopen,”hecriedout,andstared into the narrow gapbetween the two iron doors.But I couldn’t help thinkingthe door had been openedfrominside.“Iwouldn’t,”Isaidtohim.

He just smiled andwaved atme tocomeoverandhelp ashe pushed to make a bigger

space. I stood still andwatched the windowsupstairs. The widening doormade a grinding soundagainst the floor. Withoutanother word, he walkedinsidethebigwhitehouse.Silence hummed in my

ears.Sweattrickleddownmyface.Iwantedtorundowntothegate.After a few seconds,

Pickering’s face appeared in

the doorway. “Quick. Comean’ lookat all thebirds.”Hewas breathless withexcitement.Ipeeredthroughthegapat

a big, empty hallway andcouldseeastaircasegoingupto the next floor. Pickeringwasstandinginthemiddleofthehall,notmoving.Hewaslooking at the ground.At allthe dried-up birds on thewooden floorboards.

Hundreds of dead pigeons. Iwentin.No carpets, or curtains, or

light bulbs, just barefloorboards,whitewalls, andtwo closed doors on eithersideof thehall.Onthefloor,most of the birds still hadfeathers but looked real thin.Somewerejustbones.Otherswere dust. “They get in andthey got nuffin’ to eat.”Pickering said. “We should

collect all the skulls.” Hecrunchedacrossthefloorandtried the doors at either sideof the hall, yanking thehandles up and down.“Locked,” he said. “Both of’emlocked.Let’sgoupthemstairs. See if there’s summatintherooms.”I flinched at every creak

caused by our feet on thestairs. I told him to walk atthe sides likeme. Hewasn’t

listening, just going up fastonhisplumpishlegs.Icaughtupwithhimatthefirstturninthe stairs and began to feelreal strange again. The airwas weird; hot and thin likewewere in a tiny space.Wewere both all sweaty underourschooluniformsfromjustwalking up one flight ofstairs. Ihad to leanagainst awallwhileheshonehis torchup at the next floor. All we

couldseeweretheplainwallsof a dusty corridor. A bit ofsunlight was getting in fromsomewhere upstairs, but notmuch. “Come on,” he said,without turning his head tolookatme.“I’mgoingoutside,”Isaid.

“I can’t breathe.” But as Imoved to go back down thefirst flightofstairs, Iheardadoor creak open and thenclose,belowus.Istoppedstill

and heard my heart bangingagainst my ear drums fromthe inside. The sweat turnedto frostonmy faceandneckand under my hair. Realquick, and sideways,something moved across theshaft of light falling throughthe open front door. Myeyeballs went cold and I feltdizzy. Out the corner of myeye, I could see Pickering’swhiteface,watchingmefrom

above on the next flight ofstairs.Heturnedthetorchoffwithaloudclick.It moved again, back the

way it had come, but pausedthis time at the edge of thelong rectangle of white lighton thehall floor.Andstartedtosniffatthedirtyground.Itwasthewayshemoveddownthere thatmademe feel lightasafeatherandreadytofaint.LeastIthinkitwasashe.But

whenpeopleget thatoldyoucan’t always tell. Therewasn’tmuchhairontheheadandtheskinwasyellow.Shelooked more like a puppetmadeofbonesanddressedina grubby nightie than an oldlady. And could old ladiesmovesofast?Sidewayslikeacrab, looking backwards atthe open door, so I couldn’tseethefaceproperly,whichIwasgladof.

If I moved too quick, I’msureitwouldlookupandseeme. I took two slow side-stepstogetbehindthewallofthe next staircase wherePickering was hiding. Helooked like he was about tocry. Like me, I knew all hecould hear was his ownheartbeat.Thenweheardthesoundof

another door open fromsomewheredownstairs,outof

sight. We knelt down,trembling against each otherandpeeredaround thecornerof the staircase tomake surethe old thing wasn’t comingupthestairs,sideways.Butasecond figure had nowappeareddownthere.InearlycriedwhenIsawitskitteringaroundbythedoor.Itmovedquickerthanthefirstonewiththe help of two black sticks.Bent right over with a hump

foraback,itwascoveredinadusty black dress thatswishedover the floor.WhatI could see of the facethrough the veil was allpinched and as sickly-whiteas grubs under wet bark.Whenshemadethewhistlingsound, it hurt my ears deepinside and made my bonesfeelcold.Pickering’s face was wild

with fear. I was seeing too

muchofhiseyes.“Istheyoldladies?” he said in a voicethatsoundedallbroken.Igrabbedhisarm.“Wegot

to get out. Maybe there’s awindow, or another door’round the back.” Whichmeantwehad togoup thesestairs, run through thebuilding to find another waydown to the ground-floor,beforebreakingourwayout.I took another peek down

the stairs to see what theywere doing, but wished Ihadn’t.Therewere twomoreofthem.Atallmanwithlegslikestickswas looking up atus with a face that neverchanged because it had nolips or eyelids or nose. Hewore a creased suit with agold watch chain on thewaistcoat, and was standingbehind awicker chair. In thechair was a bundle wrapped

in tartan blankets.Above thecoveringsIcouldseeasmallhead inside a cloth cap. Thefacewas yellow as corn in atin. The first two werestandingby theopendoor sowecouldn’tgetout.Running up the stairs into

an even hotter darkness onthe next floor, my wholebody felt baggy and clumsyand my knees chippedtogether.Pickeringwent first

with the torch and used hiselbowssoIcouldn’tovertake.I bumped into his back andkicked his heels. Inside hisfast breathing, I could hearhimsniffingattears.“Istheycomin’?” he kept saying. Ididn’t have the breath toanswer and kept runningthrough the long corridor,between dozens of closeddoors, to get to the end. Ilookedstraightaheadandwas

sure Iwouldfreezeup ifoneofthedoorssuddenlyopened.And with our feet makingsuch a bumping on thefloorboards,Ican’tsayIwassurprised when I heard theclickofalockbehindus.Weboth made the mistake oflookingback.At first we thought it was

waving at us, but thenrealised the skinny figure inthe dirty nightdress was

movingitslongarmsthroughtheair toattract the attentionof the others that hadfollowed us up the stairwell.Wecouldhearthescuffleandswish as they came throughthe dark behind us. But howcould this one see us, Ithought, with all those rustybandages around its head?Then we heard another ofthose horrible whistles,followed by more doors

openingrealquicklikethingswere in a hurry toget out oftherooms.At the end of the corridor,

there was another stairwellwithmore light in it that fellfrom a high window threefloors up.But the glassmusthavebeendirtyandgreenish,becauseeverythingarounduson the stairs looked like itwas underwater. When heturned to bolt down them

stairs, I saw Pick’s face wasall shiny with tears and thefront of his trousers had adark patch spreading downoneleg.It was real hard to get

downthemstairsandbacktotheground.Itwaslikewehadnostrengthleftinourbodies,as if the fearwas draining itthrough the slappy, trippingsoles of our feet. But it wasmore than the terror slowing

us down; the airwas so thinanddryitwashardtogetourbreathinandoutofourlungsfast enough. My shirt wasstuck to my back and I wasdripping under the arms.Pick’s hair was wet and hewasslowingrightdown,soIovertookhim.AtthebottomofthestairsI

ran into another long, emptycorridor of closed doors andgreyishlight,thatranthrough

thebackof thebuilding. Justlooking all the way down it,mademebend overwithmyhands on my knees to rest.But Pickering just ploughedrightintomefrombehindandknocked me over. He ranacrossmybody and stampedon my hand. “They’scomin’,” he whined in atearful voice and wentstumbling down the passage.I got back to my feet and

started down the corridorafter him. Which never feltlike a good idea to me; ifsome of them things werewaiting in the hall by thefrontdoors,whileotherswerecoming up fast behind us,we’dgetourselves trapped. Ithoughtaboutopeningadoorand trying to kick out theboardsoverawindowinoneof the ground-floor rooms.Plenty of them old things

seemedtocomeoutofroomswhen we ran past them, likewewerewakingthemup,buttheynevercameoutofeveryroom.Sowewould justhaveto takeachance. Icalledoutto Pick’ to stop. I waswheezing like Billy Skid atschool who’s got asthma, somaybePickering never heardme, because he kept onrunning toward the end. Ilooked back at the stairwell

we’d just come out of, thenlooked about at the doors inthe passage. As I waswonderingwhichonetopick,a little voice said, “Do youwanttohideinhere.”I jumped into the air and

cried out like I’d trod on asnake. Stared at where thevoicecame from. Icouldseea crack between this bigbrownish door and thedoorframe. Part of a little

girl’s facepeekedout. “Theywon’t see you. We can playwith my dolls.” She smiledand opened the door wider.She had a really white faceinside a black bonnet allcovered in ribbons. The rimsof her dark eyes were brightredlikeshe’dbeencryingforalongtime.My chest was hurting and

my eyes were stinging withsweat. Pickering was too far

aheadofmetocatchhimup.I could hear his feet bangingaway on loose floorboards,wayoffinthedarkness,andIdidn’t think I could run anyfurther. I nodded at the girl.She stood aside and openedthedoorwider.Thebottomofherblackdresssweptthroughthe dust. “Quickly,” she saidwith an excited smile, andthen looked down thecorridor, to see if anything

was coming. “Most of themare blind, but they can hearthings.”I moved through the

doorway. Brushed past her.Smelledsomethinggonebad.Put a picture in my head ofthedeadcat, squashed flat inthe woods, that I found onetime on a hot day. But overthatsmellwassomethinglikethe bottom of my granny’sold wardrobe, with the one

broken door and little ironkeys in the locks that don’tworkanymore.Softly, the littlegirl closed

the door behind us, andwalkedoffacrossthewoodenfloorwithherheadheldhigh,likea“littleMadam”mydadwouldsay.Lightwas gettingintothisroomfromsomeredand green windows up nearthe high ceiling. Two bigchains hung down holding

lights with no bulbs, andtherewas a stage at one endwith a thick greenish curtainpulledacross the front.Littlefootlightsstuckupatthefrontof the stage. It must havebeenaballroomonce.Looking for a way out—

behind me, to the side, upahead, everywhere—Ifollowed the little girl in theblackbonnetovertothestageand up the stairs at the side.

She disappeared through thecurtains without making asound, and I followedbecause I could think ofnowhere else to go and Iwanted a friend in here. Thelong curtains smelled so badaroundmyface, Iputahandovermymouth.She asked my name and

whereIlived.ItoldherlikeIwas talking to a teacherwho’s just caught me doing

something wrong, evengivinghermyhousenumber.“Wedidn’tmeantotrespass,”I said. “We never stolenothing.” She cocked herheadtoonesideandfrownedlike she was trying toremember something. Thenshe smiled and said, “All ofthese are mine. I foundthem.”Shedrewmyattentiontothedollsonthefloor;littleshapes of people I couldn’t

see properly in the dark. Shesat down among them andstartedtopickthemuponeatatimetoshowme,butIwastoo nervous to pay muchattentionandIdidn’t likethelookof theclothanimalwithits fur worn down to thegrubby material. It hadstitchedup eyes andnoears;the arms and legs were toolongforitsbody.AndIdidn’tlike the way the little, dirty

head was stiff and uprightlikeitwaswatchingme.Behind us, the rest of the

stagewas in darknesswith afaint glow of white wall inthedistance.Peeringfromthestage at the boarded-upwindowsdown the right sideofthedancefloor,Icouldseesome bright daylight aroundtheedgeoftwobighardboardsheets nailed over patiodoors. There was a breeze

coming through. Must havebeen a place where someonegotinbefore.“Igot togo,”Isaid to the girl behind me,who was whispering to heranimals and dolls. I wasabout to step through thecurtains and head for thedaylight when I heard therushing of a crowd in thecorridor that me andPickering had just runthrough—feet shuffling,

canes tapping, wheelssqueaking and two hootingsounds.Itallseemedtogoonfor ages. A long parade Ididn’twanttosee.As it went past, the main

door clicked open andsomething glided into theballroom. I pulled back fromthe curtains and held mybreath. The little girl keptmumblingtothenastytoys.Iwanted to cover my ears.

Another crazy part of mewanted it all to end; wantedme to step out from behindthe curtains and offermyselfto the tall figure down thereon the dance-floor, holdingthetattyparasoloveritshead.Itspunaroundquickly like itwas moving on tiny, silentwheels under its long mustyskirts.Sniffingat theair.Forme. Under the white netattached to the brim of the

rottenhatand tucked into thehigh collars of the dress, Isaw a bit of face that lookedlikeskinona ricepudding. Iwould have screamed buttherewasnoairinsideme.Ilookeddowntowherethe

littlegirlhadbeensitting.Shehadgone,butsomethingwasmoving on the floor.Squirming. For a moment, itlooked like all her toysweretrembling, but when I

squintedattheDollywithbitsof curly white hair on itshead, it was lying perfectlystillwhereshehaddroppedit.The little girl may havehiddenme,butIwasgladshehadgone.Way off in the stifling

distance of the big house, Iheardascream;fullofallthepanic and terror and woe inthe whole world. The figurewith the little umbrella spun

right around on the dance-floor and then rushed out ofthe ballroom toward thesound.I slipped out from behind

the curtains. A busychattering sound came fromthe distance. It got louderuntil it echoed through thecorridor and ballroom andalmostcovered thesoundsofthe wailing boy. It soundedlike his cries were swirling

round and round, bouncingoff walls and closed doors,like he was runningsomewhere far off inside thehouse, in a circle that hecouldn’tgetoutof.I crept down the stairs at

the side of the stage and ranacross to the long strip ofburning sunlight I could seeshining through one side ofthepatiodoors.Ipulledatthebigrectangleofwooduntil it

splintered and I could seebroken glass in a doorframeand lots of thick grassoutside.For the first time since I’d

seen the first figurescratching about the frontentrance, I truly believed Icould escape. I could climbthrough the gap I wasmaking, run around theoutsideofthehouseandthengo down the hill to the gate,

while they were all busyinside with the crying boy.Butjustasmybreathingwentall quick and shaky with theglee of escape, I heard awhump sound on the floorbehind me, like somethinghad just dropped to the floorfrom the stage. Teenyvibrationstickledthesolesofmy feet. Then I heardsomething coming across thefloor toward me—a shuffle,

like a body dragging itselfrealquick.Couldn’t bear to look

behind me and see anotheronecloseup.Isnatchedattheboardandpulledwithallmystrength at the bit not naileddown,sothewholethingbentandmade a gap. Sideways, Isqueezed a leg, hip, arm andshoulder out. Then my headwassuddenlybathedinwarmsunlightandfreshair.

It must have reached outthenandgrabbedmyleftarmunder the shoulder. Thefingers and thumb were socold they burned my skin.And even though my facewas in daylight, everythingwent dark inmy eyesexceptfor little white flashes, likewhenyoustanduptooquick.Iwanted to be sick. Tried topullaway,butonesideofmybodywasall slowandheavy

andfullofpinsandneedles.I let go off the hardboard

sheet. It slapped shut like amousetrap.Ifell through thegap and into the grassoutside. Behind my head, Iheard a sound like celerysnapping.Somethingshriekedinto my ear which made megodeafishforaweek.Sitting down in the grass

outside, Iwas sick downmyjumper. Mucus and bits of

spaghetti hoops that lookedall white and smelled realbad.IlookedatthedoorIhadfallen out of. Through myblearyeyesIsawanarmthatwas mostly bone, stuckbetween the wood and door-frame. I made myself rollawayandthenget tomyfeetonthegrassthatwasflatteneddown.Movingaround theoutside

ofthehouse,backtowardthe

front of the building and thepaththatwouldtakemedownto thegate, Iwondered if I’dbashed my left side. Theshoulder and hip were achyandcoldandstiff.Itwashardtomove.Iwonderedif that’swhat broken bones felt like.All my skin was wet withsweat too, but I was shiveryandcold. I justwanted to liedowninthelonggrass.TwiceIstoppedtobesick.Onlyspit

came out with burpingsounds.Nearthefrontofthehouse,

I got down onmy good sideand started to crawl, realslow, through the longgrass,down the hill, making surethepathwas onmy left so Ididn’tgetlostinthemeadow.I only took one look back atthe house and will wishforeverthatIneverdid.One side of the front door

wasstillopenfromwherewewent in. Icouldseeacrowd,bustling in the sunlight thatfell on their raggedy clothes.Theyweremaking a hootingsound and fighting oversomething;asmallshapethatlooked dark and wet. It wasall limp. Between the thin,snatching hands, it cameapart,piecebypiece.

Inmyroom,attheendofmy

bed, Nanna Alice has closedher eyes. But she’s notsleeping. She’s just sittingquietly and rubbing her dollhand like she’s polishingtreasure.

Hunger,AnIntroductionPETERSTRAUB

Peter Straub is the author ofeighteen novels, including GhostStory, Koko, Mr. X, twocollaborationswithStephenKing,The Talisman and Black House,

and his most recent, A DarkMatter. He has also written twovolumes of poetry and threecollections of short fiction. Heedited Conjunctions 39: The NewWave Fabulists, Library ofAmerica’sH. P. Lovecraft: Tales,the LoA’s American FantasticTales,andPoe’sChildren.

HehaswontheBritishFantasyAward, tenBramStokerAwards,two International Horror GuildAwards, and four World FantasyAwards. In 1998, he was namedGrand Master at the World

Horror Convention. He has alsobeen honored with the LifetimeAchievementAward given by theWorld Fantasy Convention andthe Barnes & Noble Writers forWritersAward.TheUniversityofWisconsin and ColumbiaUniversity honored him withDistinguishedAlumnusAwards.

You can findPeteronTwitteras@peterstraubnyc.

Ihaveasturdyfirstsentence

allprepared,andassoonasIsettle down and get used tothereversalofourusualrolesI’ll give you the pleasure.Okay. Here goes.Considering that everyonedies sooner or later, peopleknowsurprisingly littleaboutghosts. Is my point clear?Every person on earth,whethersaintorturd,isgoingtowindupasaghost,butnotone of them, Imean, of you

people, knows the first thingabout them. Almosteverythingwritten,spoken,orimaginedaboutthesubjectis,I’m sorry, absolute junk. It’sdisgusting.I’mspeakingfromthe heart here, I’m laying itontheline—disgusting.Allitwould take to get thisbusiness right is somecommon, everyday, sensiblethinking, but sensiblethinking is easier to ask for

thantoget,believeyoume.I see that I have already

jumpedmyowngun,becausethe second sentence Iintended to deliver was: Infact, when it comes to thesubject of ghosts, humanbeings are completelyclueless. And the thirdsentence, after which I amgoing to scrap my preparedtextandspeakfromtheheart,is: A lot of us are kind of

steamedaboutthat.For! The most common

notion about ghosts, thegranddaddy, is the one thatparades as grown-up reason,shakes its head, grins, fixesyou with a steely glint thatasks if you’re kidding, andsays:Ghostsdon’texist.Wrong.Sorry,wrong.Sorry, I know, you’d feel

better if you could persuade

yourself that accounts ofencounters with beingspreviously but not presentlyalive are fictional. Doesn’tmatter howmany people saythey have seen a woman inblackmoving back and forthbehind the window fromwhich in 1892 thechambermaidEthelCarrowaydefenestrated a newborninfant fatheredby a seagoingrogue named Captain

Starbuck, thousands of foolsmight swear to having seenEthel’s shade drag itself pastthatwindow,itdon’t,sorry,itdoesn’t matter, they’re alldeluded. They saw a breezetwitch the curtain andimagined the rest.Theywantyou to think they’reinteresting.You’re toocleverfor that one.Youknowwhathappens to people after theychuckit,andonethingthat’s

sure is, they don’t turn intoghosts. At the moment ofdeath,peopleeither(1)departthis and all other possiblespheres, leaving their bodiestofadeoutinamessier,moretime-consuming fashion; or(2) leavebehind thepooroldskinbagastheirimmortalpartsoars heavenward, rejoicing,or plummets wailing toeternaltorment;or(3)shuffleoutofoneskinbag,takeafew

turns around the celestialblock, and reincarnate in adifferent, fresher skinbag,thereupon starting all overagain. Isn’t thatmore or lessthe menu? Extinction, moralpayback, or rebirth. Duringmy own life, for example, Ifavored (1), a good cleandeparture.Nowwecometooneofmy

personalbugaboosor,Icouldsay,anathemas,inmemoryof

someone I have to bring insooner or later anyhow, myformeremployer,Mr.HaroldMcNair,agentlemanwithanautodidact’s fondness for bigwords.Mr.McNaironcesaidto me, Dishonesty is myparticular anathema. Oneother time, he used thewordpeculation. Peculation washisanathema,too.Mr.HaroldMcNair was confident of hispersonal relationship to his

savior,andasaresulthewasalso pretty confident thatwhatlayaheadofhim,afteradignified leave-taking in thebigbedonthethirdfloor,wasa one-way excursion toparadise. As I say, he wasprettysureaboutthat.Maybenow and then the thoughtcame tohimthata depraved,greedy, mean-spirited weasellikehimselfmighthavesometroublesqueakingthroughthe

pearly gates, no matter howmany Sundays he struttedover to the church onAbercrombie Road to lip-synch to the hymns and nodoverthesermon—yes,maybeHarold McNair had moredoubtsthanheleton.Whenitcame down towhatwe havetocall thecrunch,hedidnotgo peacefully. How he wentwas screeching and sweatingand cursing, trying to shield

his head from the hammerandstruggling togetbackonhis feet, for all the world asthough he feared spendingeternity as a rasherofbacon.And if asked his opinion onthe existence of ghosts, thisbig-shotretailmagnatewouldprobablyhavenoddedslowly,sucked his lower lip,pondered mightily, andopined—All right, I never actually

heard the position of myformeremployerinreghostlybeings despite our many,ofttimes tediously lengthycolloquies. Harold McNairspoke tome ofmany things,of the anathemas dishonestyand peculation, of yet moreanathemas, including the fairsex, any human being undertheageoftwenty,folkoftheHebraic, Afric, or Papistpersuasions, customers who

demand twenty minutes of asalesman’sattentionand thensashay out withoutmaking apurchase, customers—femalecustomers—who returnundergarments soiled by use,residents of California orNew York, all Europeans,especially bogtrotters andgreaseballs, eggheads, per-fessers, pinkos, idiots whohold hands in public, allmusic but the operettas of

Gilbert and Sullivan, allliterature not of the“improving” variety, tightshoes, small print, lumpypotatoes, dogs of anydescription, and much else.He delivered himself sothoroughly on the topics thatexcitedhisindignationthathenever got around todescribing his vision of theafterlife, even whilesputtering and screeching as

the hammer sought out thetenderspotsonhistoughlittlenoggin.YetIknowwhatMr.McNairwouldhavesaid.Though ghostsmay fail to

be nonexistent, they are atleast comfortingly small innumber.Wrong. This way of

thinking disregards thedifference between GhostsVisible, like poor EthelCarroway, who dropped that

baby from the fourth-floorwindow of the OliphantHotel,andInvisible,whichisexactly like pretending thereis no difference betweenliving Visibles, like Mr.Harold McNair, and LivingInvisibles, which, in spite ofeverything, is what I wasback then, not to mentionmosteveryoneelse,whenyouget down to it. Most peopleare about as visible to others

as the headlines on a week-oldnewspaper.I desire with my entire

heart to tell you what I amlookingat,Iyearntodescribethevisibleworldasseenfrommy vantage point beside thegreat azalea bush on my oldenemy’s front lawn on TulipLane, the spot I head forevery day at this time. Thatwould clear up this wholenumbers confusion right

away. But before I can getinto describing what I cansee, Imustat lastget aroundto introducing myself, sincethat’s the point of my beingheretoday.FrancisT.Wardwell ismy

handle, FrankWardwell as Iwas known, and old Frankcan already feel himselfgetting heated up over thethird numbskull idea the runof people have about ghosts,

so he better take careof thatonebeforegoinganyfurther.The third idea is: Ghosts areghosts because they areunhappy. Far too many ofyou out there believe thatevery wandering spirit isatoning for some old heart-stuffedmisery,which iswhytheysupposeEtheldriftspastthatwindownowandagain.Ask yourself, now. Is

anything that simple, even in

whatyoucallexperience?Areall the criminals in jail? Areall the innocent free? And ifthepriceofmiseryismisery,what is the price of joy? Inwhatcoindoyoupayforthat,laddy: shekels, sweat, orsleeplessnights?

Though in every moment ofmy youthful existence I wassustained by amost glorioussecret thatwasmine alone, I

too was acquainted withshekels, sweat, and what thepoets call white nights. Nochild of luxury, I. FrancisWardwell, Frank to hischums,borntoparentsontheragged-most fringe of thelower middle class, wascatapulted into corporeality agreat distance from thenearestsilverspoon.Wewereurban poor (lower-middle-class poor, that is), not rural

poor,andIfeeldeeplywithinmyself that a countrylandscape such as that ofwhich I was deprived wouldhaveyieldedtomyinfantselfa fund of riches sorelyneeded. (Mark the firstsounding of the hungertheme, to which we willreturnbetimes.)IsnotNaturea friend and tutor to theobservant child? Does it notoffer a steady flow of stuff

like psychic nutrient to thedeveloping boy? Experts sayitdoes,orsoIhear,andalsothatmuchdoIrecallfrommyreading, which was alwaysfar, far in advance of mygradelevel.(Iwasreadingonthecollegelevelbefore Iwasout of short pants.) Old-timepoets all said Nature is abetter teacher than anyother.In my case, blocked off bycity walls from the wise

friendNature,Iwasforcedtofeed my infant mind on theharsher realities of brick,barbed wire, and peacock-featheroilslicks.ThatIwentasfarasIdid is testimony tomy resilient soul-strength.Forbidden was I to wander’mongst the heather andcowslips, the foxgloves,purple vetch, tiger lilies,loosestrife,andhawkweedoncountry lanes; no larks or

thrushes had I for company,and we never even heard ofnightingales where I camefrom.Iwandered,whenIhadthat luxury—that is, when Iwasn’trunningmygutsouttoget away from a long-nosed,red-eyed, smirking BoyTeuteburg—through uncleancity streets past taverns andboardinghouses, and forstreakygold-redsunsetsIhadneon signs. The air was not,

toputitgoodandplain,fresh.The animals, when notdomestic, were rodentine.And from the seventh gradeon,ata timewhenIsufferedunder the tyranny of atermaganty black-hairedwitch-thing named MissusBarksdale, who hated mebecauseIknewmorethanshedid, I was forced to endurethe further injustice of after-school employment. Daily

had I to trudge from thehumiliations delivered uponmy head by the witch-thing,Missus Barfsbottom,humiliations earned onlythrough an inability toconcealentirelythemirthhererrors caused in me, fromsadistic, unwarrantedhumiliations delivered uponthe head of one of thetopmostscholarseverseenatthat crummy school, then to

trudge through sordiosities totheplaceofmyemployment,Dockweder’s Hardware,where I took up my broomandswept,swept,swept.Forshekels!Inthesenseof

measly, greasy coins of lowdenomination in littlenumber! Earned by mychildish sweat, the honestsorrowful perspiration, eachsalty drop nonaccidentallyjust exactly like a tear (and

that, Miss Doggybreath, iswhatyoucallametaphor,nota methapor, as your wartymustachy cakeholemisinformed the massedseventh grade of the DanielWebsterStateGradedSchoolin the winter of 1928), of apromising, Imean really andtruly promising lad, anintelligentlad,aladdeservingofthefinestthisworldhadtoofferinthewayofbreaksand

opportunities,whatyoumightwant to call and I lookingback am virtually forced tocallaShiningBoy!Who day and night had to

check over his shoulder forthe approach of, who had tostrain his innocent ears incase he could hear thefootfallsof,whowasmadetoquench his glorious shiningspirit because he had to livein total awful fear of the

subhuman,soulless,snakelikefigure of Boy Teuteburg.Who would crouch behindgarbage cans and concealhimself in doorways, was alurkerinalleys,woulddragathis narrow cigarettewith hisnarrow shoulders against thebricks and squint out fromunder thenarrowbrimof thecaponhisnarrowhead,wasalowbeingofnoconscienceorintelligence or any other

merits altogether. A BoyTeuteburg is not a fellow foryour flowery fields andrending sunsets.And such asthis, a lowly brutal creaturewithnopromisetohimatallsave the promise towind upin jail, became yet another,perhapsthemostsevere,baneof the Shining Boy’sexistence.Between Daniel Webster

State Graded School and

Dockweder’s HardwareEmporium would this youngterrorist lurkofanafternoon,stealing someworthless titbitthere, hawking on thesidewalk there, blowing hisnose by pressing two fingersagainst one nostril, leaningover and firing, thenrepeating the gesture on theopposite side, all the whileskulking along, flicking hispuny red eyes over the

passing throng (as Dickenshad it) in search of childrenyoungerthanhe,anychildrenin actual fact, but in mostespecial one certain child.This, you may have divined,was yours truly. I knewmyself the object of BoyTeuteburg’s special hatredbecause of what befell thechild-me on those occasionswhen I managed to set sailfrom one place to another in

convoywithotherkidlingsofmy generation—othersparrows of the street (asBlake might put it)—tosubsume myself within theshelter of a nattering throngof classmates. We all fearedBoy, having suffered underhis psychotic despotismthrough year after year ofgrade-school. Our collectiverelief at his eventualgraduation (he was sixteen!)

chilled to dread when wediscovered that his releasefrom the eighth grade meantonly thatBoyhadbeenfreedto prowl eternally aboutDaniel Webster, a sharkawaiting shoals of smallerfishes. (A simile, MissusDoggybark, a simile.) Therehe was, smirking as hetightened his skinny lips todraw on his skinny cigarette—circling. Let us say our

convoyof joking lads roundsthe corner of Erie Street bythe Oliphant Hotel andspreads across the sidewalkas we carry on toward ThirdStreet, home for some,Dockweder’s and the broomforme.ThenastoatyshadowseparatesfromtheentranceofCandies&Newsagent,athrilloffearpassesthroughus, redeyes ignite and blaze, somedreary brat begins to weep,

and the rest of us scatter asBoy charges, already raisinghis sharp and pointy fists.And of all these larkingchildren,whichparticularboywashisintended target?Thatchild least like himself—theonehehatedmost—myself—and I knew why. Scatterthough I would ’mongst mypeers,rushingfirsttothisonethentothat,myfriends, theirmorality stunted by the same

brutal landscape which hadshaped our tormentor,would’st thrust me away,abandonme, sacrificeme fortheir own ends. It wasme, ImeanI,he searched out, andwe all knew it. Soon theothers refused to leave theschool inmypresence, and Iwalked aloneoncemore.Oftwerethedayswhen thebodythatwieldedthebroomachedwith bruises, when the eyes

withinthebodyweredimmedwithtearsofpainandsorrow,and the nose of the bodycontained screws of tissuepaper within each nostril,purpose of, to staunch theflowofblood.Oft, too, were the nights

when from a multiplicity ofcauses young FrankWardwell lay sleepless abed.His concave boyish tummybeggedforsustenance,forthe

eveningrepastmayhavebeenbut bread and sop, and theday’s beating meant thatcertain much-favoredpositions were out of thequestion.Yethungerandpainwere as nothing whencompared to the primaryreason sleep refused to grantits healing balm. This wasterror.Day camewhen nightbowed out, and day broughtBoy Teuteburg. So fearsome

was my tormentor that I layparalyzed’neathmyblankets,hoping without hope that Imight thenextdayevademynemesis. Desperate hours Ispent mapping deviousalternate routes from schoolto store while still knowingwell that however mazy thestreets I took, they would inthe end but deliver me untoBoy. And many times Isensedthathehadglidedinto

our yard and stood smokingbeneath our tree, staring red-eyed at my unlightedwindow.Othertimes,Iheardhim open our back door andfloat through the kitchen tohover motionless outside mydoor.Whatgoodnowwasmyintellectual and spiritualsuperioritytoBoyTeuteburg?Of what use my yearnings?Ice-cold fearwas all I knew.Mornings, I dragged myself

from bed, quaking, openedmy door to find Boy ofcourse nowhere in sight, fedmy ice-cold stomach a sliceofbreadandaglassofwater,anddraggedmyselftoschool,hopeless as the junkman’snag.Had I but known of thethousandeyesuponme...

Why does Ethel Carrowayreport to her window on thefourth floor of the Oliphant

Hotelatthefullofthemoon?Guilt?Grief?Remorse?In life, this was a

thoughtless girl, vibrant butshallow, the epitome of aVisible,who felt nomore ofguilt than does a cast-ironpump.Formonths,Ethelhadgoneaboutherdutiesinlooseoverblouses to conceal hercondition, ofwhich even herslatternly friends wereignorant.The infant signified

no more than a threat to heremployment. She never gaveitanameor fantasizedaboutit or thought of itwith aughtbutdistaste.CaptainStarbuckhad departed the dayfollowing conception, in anycase a hasty, rather scufflingmatter, no doubt to sow hisseed in foreign ports.Delivery took place behindthe locked door of Ethel’sbasement room and lasted

approximately twelve hours,duringwhichshehadtwicetoshout from her bed that shewas violently ill and couldnotwork.Duringtheprocess,she consumed much of abottle of bourbon whiskeygiven her by another priapicguest of the Oliphant. Whenat last the child bullied itsway out between her legs,Ethelbittheumbilicusintwoand observed that she had

delivered a boy. Its swollenpurple genitals were a vividreminder of CaptainStarbuck. Then she passedout. An hour later,consciousness returned on atideofpain.Despiteall,Ethelfelt a curious new pride inherself—in what she haddone. Her baby lay on herchest, uttering little kittenishmewls. It resembled amonkey, or a bald old man.

She found herself regrettingthatshehadtodisposeofthiscreaturewhohadbroughtherso much pain. They hadshared an experience thatnow seemed almosthallucinatory in its intensity.Shewishedthebabywerethekittenitsoundedlike,thatshemight keep it. She and thebaby were companions of asort. And she realized that itwashers—shehadmade this

littlebeing.Yet her unanticipated

affectionfortheinfantdidnotalter the facts. Ethel neededher job, and that was that.The baby had to die. Shemovedher legs to thesideofthe bed, and a freshwave ofpainmadehergasp.Herlegs,hermiddle, the bed, allweresoaked in blood. The babymewed again, and more tocomfort herself than it, she

slid the squeaking childupward toward her rightbreastandbumpedthenippleagainst his lips until heopenedhismouthandtriedtosuck. Like Ethel, the babywas covered with blood, aswell as with something thatresembled grease. At thatmoment she wanted morethan anything else to washherself off—she wanted towash the baby, too. At least

he could die clean. Shetransferred him to her otherbreast, which gave no moremilkthanthefirst.Whenshestrokedhisbody,someofthebloodandgreasecameoffonher hand, and she wiped hisbackwith a cleanpart of thesheet.Some time later, Ethel

swung her feet off the bed,ignoredtheboltsofpain,andstood up with the baby

clamped to her bosom.Grimacing,she limped to thesink and filled it with tepidwater. Then she lowered thebabyintothesink.Assoonashis skin met the water, hiseyes flewopen and appearedto search her face. For thefirst time, she noticed thattheir color was a violentpurple-blue, like no othereyes she had ever seen. Theinfant was frowning

magisterially. His legscontracted under him like afrog’s. His violent eyesglowered up at her, as if heknewwhatshewasultimatelygoingtodo,didnotatalllikewhatshewasgoingtodo,butaccepted it. As she swabbedhim with the washcloth, hekept frowning up at her,scanning her face with hisastonishingeyes.Ethel considered drowning

him, but if she did so, shewouldhavetocarryhisbodyout of the hotel, and shedidn’t even have a suitcase.Besides,shedidnotenjoytheideaofholdinghimunderthewater while he looked up ather with that funny old-kingfrown.Sheletthewaterdrainfrom the sink, wrapped thebaby in a towel, and gaveherself a rudimentary spongebath. When she picked the

baby off the floor, his eyesflew open again, then closedas his mouth gaped in anenormous yawn. She limpedback to bed, tore the sheetsoffone-handed,castablanketover the mattress, and fellasleepwith thebaby limponherchest.ItwasstilldarkwhenEthel

awakened, but the quality ofthe darkness told her that itwould soon bemorning. The

babystirred.Itsarms,whichhadworked

free of the towel, jerkedupward,pausedintheair,anddrifteddownagain.Thiswasthe hour when the hotel wasstill, but for the furnaceman.The hallways were empty; asingle sleepy clerk mannedthedesk.Inanotherhour,thebootboyswouldbesettingoutthe night’s polished shoes,and a few early-bird guests

would be calling down theirroom-service orders. In twohours, a uniformed EthelCarroway was supposed toreport for duty. She intendedto do this. When it becamenoticed that shewas in pain,shewouldbeallowedanotherday’s sick leave, but reportshe must. She hadapproximately forty-fiveminutes in which todeterminewhattodowiththe

babyandthentodoit.A flawless plan came to

her.Ifshecarriedthebabytothe service stairs, she wouldavoid the furnaceman’srealm, and once on theservice stairs, she could goanywherewithoutbeingseen.The hallways would remainempty. She could reach oneof the upper floors, open awindow, and—let the babyfall. Her part in his death

would be over in an instant,and thedeath itselfwould beamatterofasecond,lessthanasecond,amomenttoobrieffor pain. Afterward, no onewould be able to connectEthelCarrowaywiththelittlecorpse on the Erie Streetpavement. It would seem asthough a guest had droppedthe baby, or as though anoutsiderhadenteredthehotelto ridherselfof anunwanted

child. Itwouldbe amystery:a baby from nowhere, fallenfrom the Oliphant Hotel.PoliceAreBaffled.She pulled on a nightdress

andwrappedherselfinanoldhotel bathrobe. Then sheswaddled her child in thetowel and silently left herroom.Ontheothersideofthebasement, the furnacemansnored on his pallet. Grittingherteeth,Ethel limpedtothe

stairs.The second floor was too

low, and the third seemeduncertain. To be safe, shewould have to get to thefourth floor. Her legstrembled, and spears of painshotthroughthecenterofherbody. She was weeping andgroaning when she reachedthe third floor, but for thesake of the baby forcedherself to keepmounting the

stairs.Atthefourthfloor,sheopenedthedoortotheempty,gas-lit hallway and leanedpanting against the frame.Sweat stung her eyes. Ethelstaggered into the corridorand moved past numbereddoors until she reached theelevator alcove.Opposite theclosed bronze doors, twolarge casement windowslooked out onto Erie Street.She hugged the baby to her

chest, struggledwithacatch,andpushedthewindowopen.Cold air streamed in, and

the baby tugged his browstogether and scowled.Impulsively, Ethel kissed thetop of his lolling head, thensettled her waist against theridge at the bottom of thecasement. She gripped thebabybeneathhisarmpits,andthe towel dropped onto herfeet. The baby drew up his

legs and kicked, as ifrejecting the cold. A bright,mottledpinkcoveredhisfacelike a rash.Hismouthwas atinyredbeak.Oneofhiseyessqueezedshut.Theother slidsideways in a gaze ofunfocusedreproach.Gripping his sides, Ethel

extendedherarmsandmovedhis kicking body through thecasement. She could feel theribs beneath his skin. The

bottomof the framedug intoher belly. Ethel took a sharpinhalationandprepared to letgo by loosening her grip.Instantly, unexpectedly, heslippedthroughherhandsanddropped into the darkness.For a moment briefer than asecond, she leaned forward,open-mouthed.

What happened to her in themoment she watched her

baby fall away toward theErie Street sidewalk is thereason Ethel Carrowayreturns to thewindowon thefourth floor of the OliphantHotel.

A doorman found the deadinfant half an hour later. Bythestartofthemorningshift,the entire staff knew thatsomeone had thrown a babyfrom an upper window.

Policemenwentfromroomtoroom and in a maid’sbasementchambercameuponan exhausted young womanstuffing bloody sheets into apillowcase. Despite herdenials of having recentlygiven birth, she was arrestedand given a medicalexamination.Ather trial, shewascondemnedtodeath,andin April 1893, EthelCarroway departed from her

earthly state at the end of ahangman’s rope. During thenext two decades, severalfourth-floor guests at theOliphant remarked a peculiaratmosphere in theareaof theelevators: some found itunpleasantly chilly even inthe dog days, others said itwasoverheatedinwinter,andNellyTetrazelli, the “GoldenThrush,” an Italian mezzo-soprano touring the northern

states with a program ofsongsrelatedtofaerielegend,complained that a “nasty,nasty porridge” in theelevator alcove hadconstricted her voice. In1916, the Oliphant went outof business. For three years,the hotel steadilydeteriorated, until newowners took itover; they ranituntil1930,whentheywentbroke and sold the building

for use as a boarding schoolfor young women. The firstsightings of a ghostly figureonthefourthfloorweremadeby students of the ErieAcademy forGirls; by 1948,when the academy closed itsdoors,locallorehadsuppliedthe name of the spectralfigure,andayearlater,whenthe Oliphant opened yetagain, Ethel Carroway beganputting in regular

appearances,notunlikeNellyTetrazelli, the “GoldenThrush.” Over the decades,Ethel acquired a modestnotoriety. The Oliphantdevotes a long paragraph ofitsbrochure to the legend,anundoubtedlyidealizedportraitof the revenant hangs abovethe lobby fireplace, and abronze plaque memorializesthe site of the crime. Guestswith amateur or professional

interests in the paranormalhave often spent weeks inresidence, hoping for aglimpse,ablurryphotograph,a sonic, tape-recorded rustle.(Nonehaveeverbeengrantedtheirwish.)Ethel Carroway does not

reappear before her windowto increase her fame. Shedoes it for another reasonaltogether.She’shungry.

I have told you of bad Boyand the thousand eyes fixedupon the Shining Boy, andalluded to a secret. In thesame forthright manner withwhich I introduced myself, Ishall now introduce thematter of the wondroussecret, by laying it out uponthe methaporical table. Allthroughout my life Ipossessed a crystalline butpainful awareness of my

superiority to the commonman. To put it squarely: Iunderstood that I was betterthantheothers.Justaboutalltheothers.Afoolmaysaythisandbe

ridiculed.Amadmanmaysayit and be bedlamized. Whatbefalls the ordinary-seemingmortalwhose great gifts, notdisplayed by any outwardshow,hedares proclaim?Herisks the disbelief and

growing ire of his peers—inhumbler words, spitballs,furtive kicks and knocks,whispered obscenities, andshoves into muddy ditches,that’s what. Yet—and thismust be allowed—that themortalinquestionissuperiorhas already aroused ire andeven hatred amongst thosewho have so perceived him.Whywas I the focus ofBoyTeuteburg’s psychopathic

rage?Andwhydidmyfellowkidlings not defend me fromour common enemy? Whatinflamed our enemy, Boy,chilled them. It would havebeen the same had I nevergenerously taken pains toilluminate their little errors,hadIneverpressedhomethepoint by adding,and I knowthisbecauseI’malotsmarterthan you are. They alreadyknew the deal. They had

observed my struggle tosuppress my smiles as Iinstructed our teachers intheir numerous errors, andsurely they had likewisenoted the inner soul-lightwithin the precociousclassmate.Now Iknowbetter than to

speak of these matters (savein privileged conditions suchasthese).Inmymid-twentiesI gave all of that up,

recognizing that my life hadbecome a catastrophe, andthat the gifts which soelevatedmeabove therunofmankind (as the protagonistsof the great Poe knowthemselvesraisedup)hadnotas it were elevated myoutward circumstancesaccordingly.Theinwardsoul-light had dimmed andguttered, would no longerdraw the attacks of the

envious. Life had circled’round and stolen what wasmostessentiallymine.Notallghostsaredead,but

onlythedeadcanbecountedon for twenty-twenty vision.Youonlygettoseewhat’sinfront of your nose when it’stoolatetodoyouanygood.Atthatpoint,enterhunger.

My life had already lost itslusterbeforeIunderstoodthat

the process of diminishmenthad begun. Grade schoolwent by in the mannerdescribed. My high schoolcareer, which should havebeenafour-yearspanofever-increasing gloriesculminating in a 4.0 averageand a full scholarship to aHarvardorevenaCollegeofWilliam and Mary, groundinto a weary pattern of C’sandD’shurledatmebyfools

incapable of distinguishingthe creative spirit from theglib, mendacious copycat. Inhis freshman year, youngFrankWardwell submitted tothe school literary magazineunder the pen name Orionthree meritorious poems, allof which were summarilyrejected on the grounds thatseveraloftheirnoblerphraseshad been copied down frompoets of the Romantic

movement.Didthepoetsownthese phrases, then? AndwouldthenayoungchaplikeFrankWardwellbeforbiddento so much as utter thesephrases in the course ofliteraryconversationssuchashe never had, due to theabsenceoflike-mindedsouls?Yes, one gathers, to theeditors of a high schoolliterarymagazine.Iturnedtothecreationofa

private journal in which toinscribemy exalted thoughtsandfar-flungimaginings.Butthepoisonhadalreadybegunits deadly work. Brutalsurroundings and moralisolation had robbedmy penof freshness, and much ofwhatIcommittedtothepagewasmere lamentationformymisunderstood and friendlessstate. In coming from thedepths to reach expression,

the gleaming heroes withcascading blond hair of myhigh-archingthoughtsmetthestultifying ignorance aboutme and promptly shriveledintogat-tootheddwarves.ThetaleswithwhichIhadvowedto storm this world’s castlesandfour-starhotelsrefusedtotake wing. I blush toremember how, when stalledinthemidstofwhatwastobea furious vision of awe and

terror,mytalentturnednottoGreat Imagination for itsforms but to popular serialsbroadcastatthetimeover theradio waves. The GreenHornet and Jack Armstrong,the All-American Boy, mypersonal favorites amongthese, supplied many of myplotsandeven, Igrant, someofmylesspungentdialogue.A young person suffering

the gradual erosion of his

spiritcannotbefullyawareofthe ongoing damage to hisbeing. Some vestige of theinborn wonder will beat itswingsandhopeforflight,andI saw with weary regularitytheevidencethatIwasasfarsuperior to my fellowstudentsatEdnaFerberHighas I had been at DanielWebsterStateGradedSchool.As before, my well-intentioned exposures of

intellectual errors earned meno gratitude. (Did you reallyimagine, Tubby Shanks, youof the quill-like red hair andcarbuncled neck who satbefore me in sophomoreEnglish, that Joyce Kilmer,immortal author of “Trees,”wasnecessarilyofthefemalegenderforthesolereasonthatyourmotherandsistersharedhis Christian name? Myrapierlikewitticism that Irish

scribeJamesJoycemust thenbeasideshowmorphaditedidnot deserve the blow youaddressedtomysternum,northewad of phlegmdepositedatopmydeskatcloseofday.)True, I had no more to fearthe raids of Boy Teuteburg,whohadmetamorphosed intoasleek ratty fellow ina tightblackovercoatandpearlgraysnapbrim hat and who, byreason of constant

appointments in pool halls,the back rooms of taverns,andthebasementsofgarages,had no time for childishpursuits. Dare I say I almostmissed the attentions of BoyTeuteburg? Almost longedfor the old terror he hadaroused in me? That hisindifference,whatmightevenhave been his lack ofrecognition, awakenednameless but unhappy

emotions on the fewoccasions when we ancientenemies caught sight of oneanother,me, sorry, Imean I,dragging through our nativebywaysat theendofanotherhopeless day atEdna Ferber,he emerging from an ErieStreet establishment knownas Jerry’s Hotcha! Lounge,his narrow still-red eyefallingonminebut failing toblaze (though the old terror

didleapwithinme,thattime),then my immemorial foeslidingpastwithoutawordorgesture to mark themomentous event? At suchtimes even the dull being Ihad become felt the passingof a never-to-be-recoveredsoul-state.Then,Ihadknownof my preeminence andnurturedmyselfuponit;now,knowing of it still, I knew itdid not make an ounce of

difference. Boy Teuteburghad become a moreconsequential person thanFrancis T. Wardwell. I hadseen the shadesof theprisonhouse lowered ’til nearly allthelightwasblocked.Soon after the unmarked

momentousness, two othersuchyankedthemallthewaydown.After an unfortunate

incidentatschool,admittedly

not the first of its kind,involving the loss of a pettysum on the order of six orsevendollarsfromahandbagleft hanging on a lunchroomchair, the meaninglesscoincidence of my havingbeen seated adjacent to thechair from which hung theforgotten reticule somehowled to the accusation that Iwas the culprit. It wassupposed, quite falsely and

with no verificationwhatsoever, that I had alsobeen responsible for theearlier incidents. I defendedmyself as any innocent partydoes,bydecliningtorespondtotheoffensiveaccusations.Idid possess a small, secretstore of money, and whenordered to repay the carelessslatternwhohadbeentherealsource of the crime, Iwithdrew thewretched seven

dollarsfromthissource.Humiliated, I chose to

avoid the hostile stares andcrueltauntssurelytogreetmein our school’s halls, so forsome days I wandered thestreets, squandering far toomany quarters from myprecious cache in diners andmovie theaters whensupposed to be in class, thenreporting as ever toDockweder’s Hardware,

where, having passed downmy broom to a shifty urchinof unclean habits, I wasentrustedwiththestockingofshelves, the fetching ofmerchandise to the counter,and, during the generallyinactive hour between 4:30P.M. and 5:30 P.M., themanipulation of the cashregister.Afterthefifthdayofmy self-imposed suspensionfrom academe, Mr.

Dockweder kept me afterwork as he ostentatiouslybalanced the day’s receipts,the first time Ihadever seenhim do so, found theawesome,themajesticsumof$1.65 missing from the cashtray, and immediatelycharged me with the theft.Not the boyish mistake ofreturningasurplusofchangeto an impatient customer orhitting a wrong button when

ringing up a sale, but thetheft. I protested, I denied,alasinvain.Thenlooktotheboy, I advised, I believe hesteals from the stockroom,too,firehimandthepilferingwill cease. As if he hadforgotten my seven years ofunstinting service, Mr.Dockweder informedme thatsumsofvaryingamountshadbeen missing from theregister many nights during

the period when I had beenentrusted with itsmanipulation between thehours of 4:30 P.M. and 5:30P.M.HedemandedIturnoutmy pockets. When I did so,he smoothed out one of thethree bills in my possessionand indicated on its face thecheck mark he had placedupon each bill in the registerbefore entrusting it to mycharge.

Inallhonesty,checkmarksare entered upon dollar billshundredsof times a day, andfor hundreds of reasons. Ihaveseeneverypossiblesortofsymbolused todefaceournation’s currency. Mr.Dockweder, however, wouldaccept none of my sensibleexplanations. He insisted onbringing me home, andgripped my shoulder in aniron clampaswe took to the

streets. Within our shabbydwelling, he denounced me.My denialswent unheard. Infact, I was trembling andsweating and undergoing athousand torments, for onceortwiceIhaddippedintotheregister and extracted aquarter, a dime, a penny ortwo, coins I assumed wouldnever be missed and withwhich I could sustainmyselfthrough the long day. I even

confessed thesepaltry lapses,thinking to improve thesituation with a show ofhonest remorse, but thisfearlesscandordidnothingofthe kind. After remuneratingDockweder from his ownskimpy reserve of cash, myfather announced that Ipersonally wouldmake goodthe (inflated) sum and learnthewaysoftherealworld.Hewas sick of my airs and

highfalutin’manners, sick ofmy books, sick of the way Italked—sickofme.FromthatdayforthIshouldwork.Asadumbbeastworks(myfather,an alcoholic welder, being aprime example of thespecies), without hope,without education, withoutletup, without meaning, andwith no reward save aninadequate weekly paypacket.

Reelingfromthedepthandswiftness of my fall, thatevening after thewelder andhis weeping spouse hadretiredIletmyselfoutofourhovel and staggered throughthe darkness. What I hadbeen,Iscarcelyknew;what Inowwas, I couldnotbear tocontemplate; what I was tobecome, Icouldnot imagine.On all sides life’s prisonhouse rose up about me. In

thatprisonhouselayagrave,and within that grave lay I.The streets tookme,where Iknew or cared not. Atintervals I looked up tobehold a dirty wall, a urinestain belt-high beneath abrokenwarehousewindow,amoundoftiresinavacantlot.These things were emblems.Once I glimpsed a leeringmoon; once I heard theshuffle of feet close by and

stopped in terror, sensingmortaldanger,andlookedall’roundatemptyErieStreet.Bitterly, childhood’s

stillborn fantasies returned tome, their former glow nowcorpse gray. Never would Ikneelinmeadowsandwoods’midst bird’s-foot trefoil,daisyfleabane,devil’spulpit,Johnny-jump-up, jewelweed,the foxglove, and the smallsundrop.NeverwouldIbend

an enchanted ear to thelowingofthekine,thetollingof bells in a country rectory,the distant call of theshepherd, the chant of thelark. Mountain lakes andmountain streams wouldneverenfoldmeintheirchill,breath-giving embrace. ThethingsIwastoknowwerebutemblems of the death-in-liferanged’roundmenow.Iliftedmyall-but-unseeing

eyestothefacade,sixstorieshigh, of the Oliphant Hotel,dark dark dark. Above thelobby, dimly visible throughthe great glass doors, theranks of windows hung darkandemptyinthedarkerbrick.Behind those windows sleptmen and women endowedwith college degrees andcommercial or artistic skills,owners of property,sojourners in foreign lands,

menandwomenontheinsideof life. They would neverknowmy name, norwould Iever be one of their Visiblenumber. Radiantly Visiblethemselves, they would nomore take note of me bydaylight thanatpresent—andif they happened to lookmyway,wouldseenothing!A figure moved past an

upper window, moved backand then reappeared behind

thewindow.Dark dark dark.A guest, I imagined,wandering sleepless in thehalls, and thought to turnaway for my long journeyhome.Somesmallawarenessheld me, looking up. Highabove behind a casementwindow hovered a figure inblackgarb, thatfigure,Inowobserved, unmistakably awoman’s. What was shedoing, why was she there?

Sometroublehadsentoneofthe gilded travelers roamingthe Oliphant, and on thattrouble she brooded now,pausing at the window.Recognizingafellowbeinginmisery akin to my own, Ibrazenlysteppedforwardandstaredup,silentlydemandingthis woman to acknowledgethat,despiteallthatseparatedand divided us, we wereessentially the same. White

hands twisted within herblack garment. We were thesame, our world the same,beingdarkdarkdark.Perhapsthe woman would beckon tome,thatweeachcouldsoothethe shame of the other. Forstreaming from her vaguefigure was shame—so Ithought. An oval faceemerged from shadow orfrom beneath a hood andnearedtheglass.

Youshallseeme,youshall,Ivowed,andsteppedforwardonceagain.Thealabasterfacegazed at a point some fivefeet nearer the hotel thanmyself. I moved tomeet hergaze,andjustbeforedoingsoexperienced a hopeless terrorfar worse than anything BoyTeuteburg had ever raised inme.Yetmy body had begunto move and would not stopwhen the mind could not

command it. Two mentalevents had birthed this sickdread: I had seen enough ofthe alabaster face to knowthat what I had sensedstreamingoutwas somethingfar, far worse than shame;and I had suddenlyremembered what the firstsight of this figure at thiswindow of this hotel wouldhave recalled had I been inmynormalmind—the legend

of the ghost in theOliphant.EthelCarroway’seyeslockedon mine and scorched myinnards.Icouldnotcryout,Icould not weep, with throatconstricted and eyes singed.For a tremendous moment Icould not move at all, butstood where her infant hadfallen to the pavement andmet her ravishing, her self-ravishing gaze.When it wasover—when she released me

—Iturnedandran likeadogwhom wanton boys had setonfire.

The following daymy fathercommanded me to go toMcNair’s Fine Clothing andDraperies and inquire after afull-time position. He hadrecently done somework forMr.HaroldMcNair,whohadspoken of an openingavailable to an eager lad.

Now that my circumstanceshad changed, I must try toclaim this position and begratefulfortheopportunity,ifoffered.Iobeyedthepaternalorders. Mr. Harold McNairindeed had a positionavailable, theposition thatofassistantstockboy,hours7:30A.M.–6:00 P.M., Monday–Saturday,wages@$0.45/hr.,meals not supplied. He hadthought the welder’s boy

might be responsive to hismagnanimity, and thewelder’s boy, all thatremained of me, wasresponsive, yes sir, Mr.McNair, sir. And so myendlessdrudgerybegan.At first I worked to

purchase, at the employeerate, the shirts and trouserswith which an assistantstockboy must be outfitted;and for the next twenty-nine

years I spun long hours intodress shirts and cravats andworsted suits, asRumpelstiltskin spun strawinto gold, for a McNair’srepresentative must advertiseby wearing the very samearticlesofclothingoffered itsbeloved customers. I had nofriends. The only company Iknewwas that of my fellowemployees, a half-brained lotdevoted to sexual innuendo,

sporting events, and themoving pictures featuringMiss Jean Harlow. Later on,Wallace Beery and JamesCagneywere a big hit. Evenlater, one heard entirely toomuch of John Wayne. This,not forgetting the pages ofour Sunday newspaperwasted upon the “funnies,”was their culture, and itformed the whole of theirconversation.OfcourseIheld

myself apart. It was the oldstory repeated once again, asall stories are repeated againandagain,eternally,justlookaround you. You aremyself,and I myself am you. Whatwe did last week, last year,what we did in our infancy,shallwedoagaintomorrow.Icould take no delight in thegulf dividing my intellectfrom theirs, nor could myfellowworkers.Doubtlessall

of them, male and femalealike, secretly shared theopinionexpressed during ourChristmas party in 1955 byAustin Hartlepoole, anaccounting junior who hadimbibedtoofreelyofthefish-housepunch:“Mr.Wardwell,have you always been astuck-upjerk?”“No,” I might have said,

“once Iwas a ShiningBoy.”(What I did say is of no

consequence.)By then I was Mr.

Wardwell, note.The superiorqualities that condemned meto social and intellectualisolationhadseenmethrougha series of promotions fromassistant stockboy tostockboy,thenheadstockboy,thence laterally to theshipping department, thenupwardagaintocounterstaff,Shirts and Neckwear,

followed by a promotionliterally upstairs to secondfloor, counter staff, BetterShirts and Neckwear, thenassistantmanager,Menswear,in time manager, Menswear,and ultimately, in 1955, theyear soon-to-be-sackedHartlepoole called me astuck-up jerk, vice presidentand buyer, ClothingDivisions. The welder’s boyhadtriumphed.Justoutsideof

town, I maintained a largeresidence, never seen by myco-workers, formyself and acompanionwho shall remainnameless. I dressed inexcellent clothing, as was tobeexpected.AgrayBentley,which I pretended to haveobtained at a “price,”representedmy single visibleindulgence. Accompanied byNameless Companion, Iregularly visited the

Caribbeanonmyannualtwo-week vacation to occupycomfortable quarters in thesameluxurious“resort”hotel.Bythemiddleofthenineteenfifties,mysalaryhadrisentothirtythousanddollarsayear,and in my regular bankingand savings accounts I hadaccumulated the respectablesum of forty-two thousanddollars. In another, secretaccount, I had amassed the

evenmorerespectablesumofthreehundredand sixty-eightthousand dollars, every centofitwinkledawayalittleatatime from one of the worstpeople, in fact by aconsiderable margin actuallytheworst person, it has everbeenmymisfortunetoknow,my employer, Mr. HaroldMcNair.All was well until my

transfer to Better Shirts and

Neckwear, my “ascension,”we called it, into the vaultedsplendorsofthesecondfloor,where affluent customersweresparedcontaminationbythe commoners examiningcheaper goods below, andwhereMr.McNair,myjailer-benefactor of years ago, waswont to appear from thedepths of his walnut-paneledoffice, wandering betweenthe counters, adjusting the

displays, remarking upon thequalityofafreshlypurchasedtweed jacket or fox stole(Ladies’was sited across thefloor), taking in the state ofhis minions’ fingernails andshoes. Mr. McNair, asmallish, weaselish, darkish,baldishfigure in a navy suit,his solid red tie anchored tohiswhite shirtwith a visiblemetal bar, demandedcourteous smiles, upright

postures, hygienic habits.Scuffed shoes earned anerrantclerkasharplywordedrebuke, unclean nails animmediate trip to theemployee washroom. Thedead thing I was did notobject to these simple, well-intentionedcodes.NeitherdidI object tomy employer—hewas but a fixed point in theuniverse, like his own Godenthroned in His heavens. I

did not take him personally.Not until my “ascension,”when we each fell under theother’sgaze.LivingVisibleslikeHarold

McNairdonotexpectmerelyto be seen. Though they bediscreetly attired, quietlyspoken, and well-mannered,withintheystarve,theyslaverfor attention and exact ithowever they must. In Mr.McNair’s case, this took the

form of divisiveness,capriciousness,sanctimoniousness and, forlackofabetterword,tyranny.He would favor one counterclerk, then another, therebycreating enmity and rivalryand an ardent wish in twoheartstocomprehendhisownheart. He would select anobscureminion for weeks ofspecial treatment, jokes,confidences, consultations,

thenwithoutexplanationdropthe chosen one back intoobscurity, to be pecked todeath by his peers. He drewcertain employees aside andwhisperedsubtlecriticismsoftheir dearest friends.Throughout, he searched forhis true, secret favorites,those whose contempt forthemselves,masked behind asmooth retailer’s manner,matched his own for them,

masked behind the same. Intime I began to think ofHarold McNair as a vastarchitectural structuresomethinglikehisgreatstore,a building charminglyappointed with fine thoughnotostentatiousthings,whereasmilingbutobservantguideleads you ever deeper in,decidingroombyroomifyouhave earned the right tobehold the next, by stages

conductingyouintochambersgrowingsuccessivelysmaller,uglier, eventually evenodorous, then through foul,reeking sties, and at lastopens the final door to thecentral, the inmost room, theroom at the heart of thestructure, themost terribleofall, and admits you to—therealMr.HaroldMcNair.HeknewIwashisthefirst

time he saw me behind the

Better Shirts counter on thesecond floor. He may haveknown iton thedayhehiredme,longyearsbefore.Infact,hemight even have regardedthe alcoholicwelder laboringinhisbasementandseenthatthisman’sson,ifhehadone,wouldbehisas ifbyNaturalLaw. His in the sense ofeasily flattered, thus easilydominated. Ready to bepickedupbyakindwordand

downcast by a harsh one.Capable of attentive silencesduring the Great Man’smonologues. Liable to besupine before power, abjectbeforeinsult.Athoroughandspinelesssubordinate.Akindof slave. Or, a slave. Longbeforemy final promotion, IhadbeenshownintothefinalroomandmetthetrueHaroldMcNair. Iknewwhathewasand what I was. In many

ways, I had fallen under thesway of a smoother, morecorruptBoyTeuteburg,aBoywho thought himself a noblebeingandworethemaskofadignified, successful man ofbusiness.I accepted this. But I had

determinedtobepaidwellfortherole.My thefts began with an

impulsive act of revenge. Ihad just departed Mr.

McNair’s office after asession in which the whiplashed out more forcefullythan was customary fromwithin the velvet bag, bothbeforeandaftermyemployerhadexpressedhisapocalypticdisgustforwomankind, thosesly scentedobscenities, thosetemples of lust, et cetera, etcetera. Making my waygranite-faced through BetterGowns,Iobservedanelderly

temple of lust depositing heralligatorbaguponthecounteras she turned to scrutinize abottle-green Better Gownwith Regency sleeves. Awalletprotrudedslightlyfromthe unclasped bag. Customerand saleslady conferred in rethe wisdom of Regencysleeves.Mylegstookmepastthe counter, my hand closedonthewallet, thewalletflewinto my pocket, and I was

gone.Heart athud, I betook

myself to a stall in the maleemployees’ washroom,opened the wallet, anddiscovered there sixty-eightdollars,nowmine.Ihadbeenrash, I knew, but to what anelectric,unharnessedsurgeoflifeforce!AllIregrettedwasthat the money had been thetemple’s,notMr.McNair’s.Ileft the stall and by reflex

stepped up to the sinks andmirrors.Washingmyspotlesshands,Icaughtmyfaceinthemirror and froze—a vibrantroguish Visible a decadeyounger than I looked backwithblazingeyes,myown.Anyone in a business that

receives and disburses largeamounts of cash willeventually devise a methodfordeflectingaportionofthemoolah from its normal

course. Some few will testtheir method, and most ofthose will be found out. Aprimitivesnatchandgrablikemine,unobserved, isas goodas any. During my tenure inthe store, many employeeslocated the imperfections intheir schemes only as thehandcuffsclosedaroundtheirwrists. (Mr. McNair nevershowed mercy or granted asecond chance, ever.) From

the moment I met my livingeyesinthewashroommirror,I was withdrawing from thecash available an amountappropriate to mydegradation, or stealing myrealsalary.Allthatremainedwas to work out a methodthatwouldpassundetected.Many such methods exist,

and I will not burden youwiththedetailsofmine,saveto reveal that it involved a

secret setofbooks. Itprovedsuccessfulforbetterthantwodecades and yielded a sumnearly compensatory to myendless humiliation. Mr.McNairknew that significantquantities of money wereescaping his miserly graspbut, despite feverish plottingand the construction ofelaborate rat-traps, could notdiscover how or where. Thetrapssnappeddownupon the

necks of minor-leaguepeculators, till tappers,shortchange artists, billpadders, invoice forgers, butnever upon his greatestenemy’s.On the night I placed my

hundredthousandthunofficialdollarinmysecretaccount, Icelebrated with a lobsterdinnerandasuperiorbottleofchampagne in our finestseafoodrestaurant(alone,this

being prior to the NamelessFriend era) and, when filledwith alcohol and rich food,remembered that the moonwasfull,rememberedalsomynight of misery so long ago,and resolved to return to theOliphant Hotel. Then, I hadbeena corpsewithin a gravewithin a prison; now, I wasachieved,awalkingsecretontheinsideoflife,aninvisibleVisible. Iwould standbefore

Ethel Carroway and bewitnessed—what had beenwritten on her face now laywithinme.I walked (in those pre-

Bentley days) to Erie Streetand posted myself against awall to await the appearanceof the shade. By showingherself again to me, shewould acknowledge that theintensity of my needs hadraisedme, as shewas raised,

abovethecommonrun.Minewastheconfidenceofaloverwho, knowing this the nighthisbelovedshallyield,savorseach blissful, anticipatedpleasure. Each moment shedid not appear was madedelicious by its being themoment before the momentwhen she would. When myneckbegantoache,Iloweredmy chin to regard throughenormous glass portals the

Oliphant’s lobby, once aplace of unattainable luxury.Now I could take a fourth-floor suite, if I liked, andpresent myself to EthelCarroway on home ground.Yet it was right to standwhereIhadbefore,thebetterto mark the distance I hadcome.AnhourIwaited,thenanother, growing cold andthirsty. My head throbbedwith the champagne I had

taken, and my feetcomplained. My faithwavered—another trial in atest more demanding withevery passing minute.Determined not to fail, Iturned up the collar of mycoat, thrust my hands in mypockets, and kept my eyesuponthedarkwindow.AttimesIheardmovement

around me but saw nothingwhen I looked toward the

sound. Mysterious footfallscame teasingly out of thedarkness of Erie Street, as ifEthel Carroway haddescended to present herselfbeforeme,but thesefootfallsweremanyandvaried,andnopale figure inblackappearedto meet my consummatinggaze.I had not understood—I

knewnothingofVisiblesandthosenot,andwhatItookfor

confidence was but itsmisshapen nephew,arrogance. The cynosure andfocus of myriad pairs ofunseen eyes, I surrendered atlast after 3:00 A.M. andwandered sore-footed homethrough an invisible crowdthat understood exactly whathadhappened thereandwhy.In themorn, I rose from therumpledbedtostealagain.

Understanding, ephemeral asatranscendentinsightgrantedinadream,ephemeralasdew,came only with exposure,which is to say with loss offortune and handsomeresidence, loss of NamelessCompanion, of super-duperBentley,ofelegantsobersidesgarb, of gay Caribbeanholidays on the AmericanPlan, loss of reputation,occupation(bothoccupations,

retailer and thief), privacy,freedom, manyconstitutionally guaranteedcivil rights, and, ultimately,of life. Aswith all of you, Iwould have chosen theseforfeited possessions,persons, states, andconditions over anymere actofunderstanding,yetIcannotdeny the sudden startlingconsciousness of a certainpiquant, indeterminate

pleasure-state, unforeseen inthe grunting violence of mylast act as a freeman,whichsurfaced hand in hand withmy brief illumination. Thissense of a deep butmysteriouspleasure linked tomy odd flash ofcomprehension oftenoccupiedmy thoughts duringthe long months of trial andincarceration.I had long since ceased to

fear exposure, and theincarnadine (seeShakespeare) excess ofexposure’s aftermath wouldhave seemed a nightmarishimpossibility to themanagerial Mr. Wardwell,stoutly serious and seriouslystout, of 1960. Weekly, agratifying sum wafted fromMr. McNair’s gnarled, liver-spotted grip into mywelcoming hands, and upon

retirement some ten stonyyearshenceIexpectedatlastto float free in possession ofapproximately one and aquarter million dollars,maybe a million and a half.My employer’s rat-trapscontinued to snap down onemployees of the anathemastripe, of late less frequentlydue towidespread awarenessof the Byzantinely complexmodes of surveillance which

universally“kickedin”at thestagebeneaththeintroductionof my invented figures, onaccount of their having beenset in place by the veryanathema theyweredesignedtoentrap.Hadnot theodiousMcNair decided upon astorewide renovation tomarkthenewdecade,Ishouldaftertwenty,withlucktwenty-five,years of pampered existencein some tropic clime and

sustainedexperienceofeveryluxury from the highestlyrefined to basestly,piggishestly sensual, haveattained upon death fromcorrupt old age an entireunderstanding of myfrustrated vigil before theOliphant, of the walkers andshufflersIhadheardbutwerenot there, also of EthelCarroway and her refusal torecognize one who wrongly

supposedhimselfherspiritualequal.ButMcNairproceededupon his dubious inspiration,and I induced a prematureunderstanding by smashingthe fellow’s brains intoporridge—“nasty, nastyporridge”—withaworkman’sconveniently disposedballpeenhammer.The actual circumstances

of my undoing were banal.Perhaps they always are. A

groom neglects to shoe ahorse,andaking iskilled.Astrangerhearsawhisperinanale-house, and—a king iskilled. That sort of thing. Inmy case, coincidence of anotherwise harmless sortplayed a crucial role. Thedreadrenovationhadreachedthe rear of the second floor,lappingdaybydaynearertheaccounts room, the artdepartment, and the offices,

onemine,oneMr.McNair’s.The tide ofworkers, ladders,dropcloths,yardsticks, plumblines,sawhorses,andsoforthinevitably reached our doorsand then swept in. As myemployer lived above thestore in a velvet lair only heandhiscourtiershadseen,hehad directed that therepaneling and recarpeting,the virtual regilding, of hisofficebedoneduringnormal

working hours, he thenenduring only the minorinconvenience of descendingone flight to be about hisnormal business of oozingfrom customer to customer,sniffing, adjusting, prying,flattering. As I owned nosuch convenient bower andcouldnotbepermittedaccesstohis,noteventoonecornerfor business purposes, myown office received its less

dramatic facelift during thehour between the closing ofthe store, 6:00 P.M., and thebeginning of overtime, 7:00P.M.Atask thatshouldhavetakentwodaysthusfilledten,at the close of every one ofwhich, concurrent with myofficial duties, I had tomanage the unofficial dutiescentered on the fictive set ofbooks and the disposition oftheday’sharvestofcash.All

thisundertheindifferenteyesof laborers setting up theirinstrumentsoftorture.Callous, adamantine men

shiftedmydesk fromport tostarboard, frombow to stern,and on the night of mydownfall informed me I hadto jump ship posthaste thatthey might finish, our bosshavinglostpatiencewith thisstageofaffairs.Ijumpedshipand bade farewells to

departing employees from apositionnear the front doors.At6:55P.M.Imademywaythrough the familiar aisles tomy office door, throughwhich I observed HaroldMcNair, on a busybody’sjourney from the sultan’squarters above, standingalone before my exposeddesk and contemplating theevidence of my variousanathematicpeculations.

The artisans should havebeen packing up but hadfinished early and departedunseen by the rear doors;McNair should have beenconsulting his genius fordepravityinthevelvetlairbuthad slithered down to ensuretheir obedience. We werealone in thebuilding.AsMr.McNair whirled to confrontme,acombinationofjoyandrage distorted his unpleasant

featuresintoademonicmask.I could not save myself—heknew exactly what he hadseen. He advanced towardme, spitting incoherentobscenities.Mr. McNair arrived at a

point a foot frommy personand continued to berate me,jabbing a knobby forefingerat my chest as he did so.Unevenly, his face turned adangerous shade of pink, hot

pinkIbelieveitiscalled.Theforefinger hooked my lapel,and he tuggedme deskward.His color heightened as herantedon.Finallyhehurledatmy bowed head a series ofquestions, perhaps onequestion repeated manytimes, I don’t know, I couldnotdistinguishthewords.Mybeing quailed before theonslaught; I was transportedback to Dockweder’s. Here

againwere amarked bill, anirate merchant, a shamedFrank Wardwell—thewretched boy blazed forthwithin the ample, settled,secretiveman.And it came to the

wretched boy that the ranterbeforehimresembledtwooldtormentors,MissusBarksdaleand Boy Teuteburg,especially the latter, not thesleek rodent in a pearl gray

hat but the red-eyed bane ofchildhoodwhocamehurtlingout of doorways to pummelhead and body with sharp,accurate, knifelike fists. Iexperienced a moment ofpure psychic sensation soforeign I could not at firstaffix a name to it. I knewonly that an explosion hadtaken place. Then Irecognized that what I feltwas pain, everlasting, eternal

pain long self-concealed. Itwas as though I had steppedoutsidemybody.Orintoit.Before me on my oaken

chair lay a ballpeen hammerforgotten by its owner. TheinstantIbeheldthisutilitarianobject,humiliationblossomedintogleefulrevenge.Myhandfound the hammer, thehammer foundMr.McNair’shead. Startled, amazed even,but not yet terrified, Mr.

McNair jumped back,clamoring. I moved in. Hereachedfortheweapon,andIcaptured his wizened arm inmy hand. The head of thehammer tapped his toughlittle skull, twice. Awondrous, bright red feelingbloomedinme,andthenameof thatwondrous feelingwasGreat Anger. Mr. McNairwobbled to his knees. Irapped his forehead and set

himonhisback.Hesquirmedand shouted, and I tattooedhis bonce another half-dozentimes.Bloodbegan todrizzlefrom his ears, also from theabrasionstohisknottyhead.Istruck him well and trulyabove the right eye. At that,his frame twitched andjittered,and I leaned intomyworkandnowdeliveredblowafter blow while the headbecame a shapeless, bloody,

brain-spattered...mess. As theblows landed, it seemed thateach released a newexplosionofblessedpainandangerwithinFrankWardwell;it seemed too that theseblessings took place in arealm, once known but longforgotten, in which emotionstood forth as a separateentity, neither without norwithin, observable,breathtaking, utterly alive,

like Frank Wardwell, thisentranced former servantswinging a dripping hammerat the corpse of his detestedand worshiped enemy. Andtherearoseinanunsuspectedchamber of my mind theremembered face of EthelCarrowaygazingdownatbutin fact not seeing thedisgraced boy—me on ErieStreet, and, like a reward,there arrived my brief,

exalted moment ofcomprehension, with it thatuprising of inexplicable,almost intellectual pleasureonwhichIchewedsoofteninthe months ahead. EthelCarroway, I thought, hadknownthis—thisshock—thisgasp—Into theoffice in searchof

a forgotten hammer came aburly tough in a donkeyjacket and a flat cap,

accompanied by an evenburlier same, and whatever Ihad comprehended blewawayinthebriefcyclonethatfollowed. Fourteen monthslater, approximately doggingEthelCarroway’s footsteps, Imoved like a wonderingcloud out of a sizzling, still-jerking body strapped intoourstate’selectricchair.The first thing I noticed,

apartfromasuddencessation

of pain and a generalizedsensation of lightness thatseemedmoretheproductofanew relationship to gravitythan actual weight loss, wasthe presence in the viewingroom of many more peoplethan I remembered inattendanceat thegreat event.Surely there had been nomore thanadozenwitnesses,surely all of them male andjournalists by profession,

save two? During theinterestingperiodbetweentheassumption of the greasyhood and the emergence ofthewonderingcloud,thirtyorforty onlookers, many ofthem female, had somehowcrowded into the sober littleroom.Despite themiraculousnature of my exit from mycorporeal self, these newarrivals paid me no mind atall. Unlike the original

twelve, they did not face thelarge,oblongwindowlookingin upon the even smaller,infinitely grimmer chamberwhere all the action wasgoingon.I mean, although the

obvious focus of the originaltwelve, one nervouslycaressingashabbyBible,onelocking his hands over aponderousgabardine-swathedgut, the rest scratching

“observations” into theirnotebooks with chewed-looking pencils, was thehooded, enthroned corpse ofthe fiend Francis T.Wardwell, from which rosenumerous curls and twists ofwhite smoke as well as themingled odors of urine andburned meat, these newpeoplewerestaringatthem—the Bible-stroker and thewarden and the scribbling

reporters, really staring atthem, I mean, lapping upthese unremarkable peoplewith their eyes, devouringthem.Thesecond thing Inoticed

was that except for the thirtyor forty male and femaleshadeswho, it had just cometo me, shared my new state,everything in the two soberchambers,includingthegreenpaintunevenlyapplied to the

walls,includingthecalibrateddials and the giant switch,including the blackenedleather straps and thevanishing twists of smoke,including even the bittenpencils of the scribes, butmost of all including thosetwelvemortalbeingswhohadgathered to witness theexecutionofthefiendFrancisT. Wardwell, mortal beingsofdeep,thatistosay,radiant

ordinariness, expansiveoverflowing heartbreakingthroat-catchinglight-sheddingmeaning-steeped—Thesecond thing Inoticed

wasthateverything—At that moment, hunger

slammed into me, stronger,more forceful, and far moreenduring than the river ofvolts that had separated mefrommyformerself.Asavidas the others, as raptly

appreciative of all you stilllivingcouldnotsee,Imovedto the glass and fastenedmyravenous gaze upon thenearestmortalman.

Posted beside the blazingazalea bush on BoyTeuteburg’s front lawn, Iobserve, mild word, what isdisposed so generously to beobserved. After all that hasbeensaid,thereisnoneedto

describe,asIhadintendedatthebeginningofour journey,all I see before me. TulipLane is thronged with myfellow Invisibles, wanderingthis way and that on theirself-appointed rounds; somesixorsevenfellowInvisiblesare at this moment stretchedout upon Boy Teuteburg’shigh-grade lawn of importedKentuckybluegrass,enjoyingtheparticularly lambentskies

we have at this time of yearwhile awaiting the all-important, significance-drenched arrival of a sweethuman being, Tulip Laneresidentorservicepersonage.These waiting ones, myselfincluded, resemble thoseeager ticket buyers who,returning to a favorite playfor the umpty-umpth time,clutch their handbags oroperaglasses in thedark and

lean forward as the curtainrises, breath suspended, eyeswide, hearts already trilling,as the actors begin toassemble in their accustomedplaces, their dear, familiarwords to be spoken, the olddilemmas faced once again,andtheplottospin,thistimeperhaps toward a conclusionequal to the intensity of ourattention. Will they get itright, this time? Will they

see? No, of course not, theywill never see, but we leanforward in passionateconcentration as their achingvoices lift again and enthrallus with everything they donotknowBoy is an oldBoy now in

his eighties I believe, thoughit may be his nineties—distinctions of this sort nolonger compel—and,wonderfully, an honored

personage. He ascended,needless to say without myvote, into public life aroundthe time of my own“ascension” to the secondfloor, and continued to riseuntil a convenient majorityelected him mayor shortlybefore my demise, and uponthat plateau he residedthroughfourterms,orsixteenyears, after which ill health(emphysema) restrained him

from further elevation. Hismansion on Tulip Lanecontains, I am told, manyrooms—seventeen, notcountingtwokitchensandsixbathrooms. I do not bringmyself here to admire themansionofmyoldadversary,nowconfined, Igather, toanupperflooranddependentona wheelchair and anuninterruptedflowofoxygen.I certainly do not report to

TulipLaneatthistimeoftheday to gloat. (Even BoyTeuteburg is a splendidpresence now, a figure whoplants his feet on the stageand raiseshisbrave and frailvoice.)Icomeheretowitnessacertainmoment.A littlegirlopens thedoor

of the room beyond thewindow next to the azalea.She is Boy Teuteburg’syoungestgrandchild,theonly

offspringofthefailedsecondmarriage of his youngestchild,Sherrie-Lynn, daughterofhisown failed secondandfinal marriage. Her name isAmber, Jasmine, Opal,somethinglikethat—Tiffany!Hername isTiffany!Tiffanyisfiveorsix,asolemn,dark-haired little personagegenerallyattiredinapracticalone-piece denim garmentwith bib and shoulder straps,

like a farmer’s overalls butwhite,andprintedwithatiny,repeated pattern, flower,puppy,orkitten.Foodstains,small explosions of ketchupand the like, provide asecondary layer ofdecoration. Beneath thiswinning garment Tiffanymost often wears a long-sleeved cotton turtleneck,blue or white, or a whitecotton T-shirt, as appropriate

to theseason;onher feetareclumsybut informalshoesofa sort that first appearedabout a decade or two ago,somewhat resembling spaceboots, somewhat resemblingbasketball sneakers; inTiffany’s case, the sides oftheseswollen-lookingobjectssport pink check marks.Tiffany is a sallow, almostolive-skinned child in whomalmost none of her

grandfather’s geneticinheritance is visible.Whitish-gray streaks of dust(housekeepinghasslackedoffconsiderably since MayorTeuteburg’s retirement to theupper floor) can often beobserved on her round,inward-looking little face, aswell as upon the wrinkledsleeves of her turtleneck andthe ironic pastoral of thewhiteoveralls.

Smudgy of eye; streakywith white-gray dust; sallowof skin; dark hair dependingin wisps and floaters fromwhere it had been carelesslygatheredat theback, andherwispy bangs unevenly cut;each pudgy hand dirt-crustedin a different fashion, onelikely to be trailing a singlefootlongblondhair, formerlyher mother’s; introspectivewithout notable intelligence,

thus liable to fits ofselfishness and brooding;round of face, arm, wrist,hand, and belly, thus liablefor obesity in adulthood; yetwithalsurpassinglycharming;yet gloriously, whollybeautiful.This little miracle enters

the room at the usual hour,marches directly to thetelevision set locatedbeneathourwindow, tucks her lower

lip beneath her teeth—pearlywhite, straight as a Romanroad—andsnapstheseton.Itis time for the adventures ofTomandJerry.Bynow,mostof those Invisibles who hadbeen sprawled on theKentucky blue have joinedme at the window, and asmatters proceed, some ofthose who have foundthemselves on Tulip Lanewill wander up, too. Tiffany

backpedals to a point on thefloor well in advance of thenearestchair.Thechairshavebeen positioned for adults,who do not understandtelevisionasTiffanydoesandinanycasedonoteverwatchin wondering awe themultiformadventuresofTomand Jerry. She slumps overhercrossedankles,backbent,clumsyshoeswithpinkcheckmarksnearlyinherlap,hands

at her sides, round facebeneath uneven bangsdowsing the screen. Tiffanydoes not laugh and onlyrarely smiles.She is engagedinseriousbusiness.Generally, her none-too-

clean hands flop all anyhowonherflowereddenimknees,on her pink-checked feet, orin the littlewell between thefeetand therestofherbody.At other times, Tiffany’s

hands go exploringunregardedonthefloorabouther. These forays depositanother fine, mouse-graylayer of dust or grime onwhatever sectors of theprobing hands come incontact with the hardwoodfloor.During the forays, the

smallperson’sfacemaintainsa soft immobility, the softunconscious composure of a

deep-diving rapture; and theconjunction of softness andimmobilityrenderseachinnerdelight, each moment ofidentificationor elation, eachcollusion between drama andwitness—in short, youpeople, each emotion thatwould cause another child toroll giggling on the floor ordraw her smeary fists up toher face, each emotion isrendered instantly visible—

writteninsubtlebutpowerfulrunes on the blank page thatisTiffany’sface.Astheeerietube-light washes over thisenchanted child’s features,her lips tighten or loosen; anadult frown redraws herforehead;mysteriouspouches’neath her eyes swell withhorrororwithtears;ahiddensmiletucksthecornersofhermouth; joy leaps candlelikeintoher eyes; thewhole face

irradiates with soul-pleasure.Ihavenotevenmentionedthedreamyplaybroughtoverthewide cheeks and the areabeneath the eyes bythousands of tiny musclemovements, each invokingthe separate character,character as in fictionalcharacter, of a piquant,momentaryshadow.And from time to time, a

probing hand returns to base

andalightsonaknee,aspaceshoe, wanders for a secondthrough the dangling wisps,hesitates, and then, withexcruciating patience,approaches the openingmouth and, finger by finger,enters tobe sucked, tongued,warmed,aboveallcleanedofitslayersofdebris.Tiffanyiseating. She will eat anythingshefinds, anything she picksup.Itallgoesintohermouth

and is absorbed into Tiffany.Cookie crumbs; dust; loosethreads from who knowswhat fabric; now and then abuttonoracoin.Whensheisthroughwith her fingers, shemight graze over the palm.Moreoften,shewillextendanewlywashed forefinger andpushit intoanostril, there torummage until a glisteningmorsel is extracted, thismorsel unhesitatingly to be

brought to the portals of themouth and slipped within,thenmuncheduntil it toohasbeen absorbed into theTiffanyfromwhenceitcame.We watch so intently, we

crowdsoclose,thrustingintothe azalea, that sometimes,havingheardadimversionofwhat twice I heard on ErieStreet, she yanks her eyesfrom the screen and glancesupward. She sees but a

window, a bush. Instantly,she returns to the screen andher ceaseless meal. I havegiven you Ethel Carrowayletting fall her child, and Ihavegivenyoumyself,FrankWardwell, battering in atyrant’s brains; but no riperspectaclehaveIsummonedtothe boards than Tiffany. Sheembraces and encompasseslivingEthelandlivingFrank,andexactlyso,mydearones,

does Tiffany embrace andencompassyou.

COPYRIGHTS

“Eenie, Meenie, Ipsateenie”copyright© in Shadows 6, editedby Charles L. Grant (Doubledayand Company: NewYork).Reprintedbypermissionoftheauthor.

“Hunger:AConfession”copyright

© 2003 by Dale Bailey. Firstpublished in The Magazine ofFantasy&ScienceFiction,March2003. Reprinted by permission oftheauthor.

“Cargo” copyright © 2008 by E.MichaelLewis. First published inShades of Darkness, edited byBarbara and Christopher Roden(Ash-TreePress:BritishColumbia,Canada). Reprinted by permissionoftheauthor.

“Delta Sly Honey” copyright ©1988 by Lucius Shepard. Firstpublished in In the Field of Fire,edited by Jack Dann and JeanneVanBurenDann(TorBooks:NewYork).Reprintedbypermissionoftheauthor.

“Nothing Will Hurt You”copyright ©1992 by DavidMorrell. First published inMetaHorror, edited by DennisEtchison (TorBooks:NewYork).Reprinted by permission of the

author.

“The Ammonite Violin (MurderBalladNo. 4)” copyright 2006 ©by Caitlín R. Kiernan. Firstpublished in Sirenia Digest #11.Reprinted by permission of theauthor.

“Haunted” copyright © 1987 byJoyceCarolOates.FirstpublishedinTheArchitectureofFear,editedby Kathryn Cramer and Peter D.Pautz (Arbor House: New York).

Reprinted by permission of JohnHawkins&Associates,Inc.

“The Have-Nots ” copyright ©1992 by Elizabeth Hand. Firstpublished in Isaac Asimov’sScience Fiction Magazine, June1992. Reprinted by permission oftheauthor.

“ClosingTime” copyright©2003byNeilGaiman.FirstpublishedinMcSweeney’s Mammoth Treasury

of Thrilling Tales, edited byMichael Chabon (Vintage Books:New York). Reprinted bypermissionoftheauthor.

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“Mr. Fiddlehead” copyright ©

1989 by Jonathan Carroll. Firstpublished in OMNI, February1989. Reprinted by permission oftheRichardParksAgency.

“TheFooly”copyright©2008byTerryDowling. First published inDreaming Again, edited by JackDann (Harper Voyager: NewYork).Reprintedbypermissionoftheauthor.

“The Toll” copyright © 2000 byPaul Walther. First published in

New Genre #1, Spring 2000.Reprinted by permission of theauthor.

“The Pennine Tower Restaurant”copyright © 2010 by Simon KurtUnsworth. First published in LostPlaces (Ash-Tree Press: BritishColumbia, Canada). Reprinted bypermissionoftheauthor.

“Distress Call” copyright © 1991byConnie Willis. First publishedin The Berkley Showcase: New

Writings in Science Fiction andFantasy, Vol. 4, edited by JohnSilbersack and Victoria Schochet(Berkley: New York). Reprintedbypermissionoftheauthor.

“The Horn” copyright © 1989 byStephenGallagher.FirstpublishedinArrowsofEros, editedbyAlexStewart (New English Library:London, England). Reprinted bypermissionoftheauthor.

“Everybody Goes” copyright ©

1999 byMichaelMarshall Smith.First published in The ThirdAlternative 19. Reprinted bypermissionoftheauthor.

“Transfigured Night” copyright ©1995 by Richard Bowes. Firstpublished in TomorrowSpeculative Fiction, April 1995.Reprinted by permission of theauthor.

“HulaVille”copyright©2004byJamesP.Blaylock.Firstpublished

in SCIFICTION, November 3,2004.Reprinted by permission oftheauthor.

“TheBedroomLight”copyright©2007 by Jeffrey Ford. Firstpublished in Inferno, edited byEllen Datlow (Tor Books: NewYork).Reprintedbypermissionoftheauthor.

“Spectral Evidence” copyright ©2007 by Gemma Files. Firstpublished in The Chiaroscuro e-

zine 31. Reprinted by permissionoftheauthor.

“Two Houses” copyright © 2012byKelly Link. First published inShadowShow: All New Stories inCelebration of Ray Bradbury,edited by Mort Castle and SamWeller (Gauntlet/Borderlands,Harper Perennial: New York).Reprinted by permission of theauthor.

“Where Angels Come In”

copyright©2005 byAdamL.G.Nevill. First published in Poe’sProgeny,editedbyGaryFry(GrayFriar Press: West Yorkshire,England).Reprintedbypermissionoftheauthor.

“Hunger, An Introduction”copyright©1995byPeterStraub.First published in Peter Straub’sGhosts, edited by Peter Straub(Pocket Star Books: New York).Reprinted by permission of theauthor.