The House of Thunder

by Dean Koontz

  A high, silvery giggle tinkled deep within her, and she knew that she dared not let it escape. It was the whooping, bell-clear sickly sweet laughter of madness. If she gave voice to it just once, there would never be an end to it; she would pass the years in a corner, cackling to herself.

  Harch let go of her hand.

  She snatched it away from his crotch.

  He slammed her back against the wall, jarring her bones. Pressed his body against hers. Ground his hips against her. And grinned.

  She tried to squirm free of him. She was pinned by his weight, trapped.

  “Should’ve banged that pretty little ass of yours thirteen years ago,” Harch said. “A nice little gangbang right there in the goddamned cave. Then we should’ve slit your throat and dumped you into a sinkhole with the Jewboy.”

  He’s not real, he can’t hurt me, he’s not—

  No. It wasn’t doing a bit of good to chant that stupid litany. He was real, all right. He was here.

  And, of course, that was impossible.

  He was real; he was here; he could hurt her; and he would hurt her.

  She gave up the struggle to control the situation. She threw her head back and screamed.

  Harch leaned away from her, taking his weight off her. He tilted his head, watching her with unconcealed amusement. He was enjoying this, as if her screams were music to him.

  No one came to find out why she was screaming. Where were the nurses? The orderlies, the doctors? Why couldn’t they hear her? Even with the bathroom door shut, they should be able to hear her screaming.

  Harch bent toward her, bringing his face close to hers. His gray eyes were shining like a wild animal’s eyes in the beams of a car’s headlights.

  “Give me a little sample of what I’m going to get from you Friday night,” he said in a sandpapery, wheedling voice. “Just a kiss. Give me a nice little kiss. Huh? Give your old Uncle Ernie a little kiss.”

  Whether or not this was really happening to her, she could not surrender entirely. She couldn’t bring herself to kiss him even if it was all a dream. She twisted her head violently to one side, avoiding his lips, then to the other side, as he pursued her mouth with his own.

  “You stinking bitch,” he said angrily, finally giving up. “Saving all your kisses for your Jewboy?” He stepped back from her. He glanced at the head that rested on the commode ; he looked at Susan again; at the head; at Susan. His smile was unholy. His voice became sarcastic, tinged with a black glee. “Saving your kisses for poor old Jerry Stein, are you? Isn’t that touching? Such lovely, old-fashioned constancy. Oh, such admirable fidelity. I’m deeply moved. I truly, truly am. Oh, yes, by all means, you must give your virgin kisses only to Jerry.”

  Harch turned theatrically toward the moldering head, which was facing partly away from Susan.

  No.

  He reached for the head.

  Susan thought of that rotting countenance, and tasted bile in the back of her mouth.

  Still yammering about Susan’s fidelity, Harch gripped a handful of the lank, brown hair on the grisly head.

  Shaking with dread, Susan knew he was going to force her to kiss those cold, oozing lips.

  Heart exploding, she saw an opportunity to escape, a slim chance, and she took it without hesitation; screamed; bolted. Harch was turned away from her, lifting the head off the commode. She pushed past him, squeezed between him and the sink, fumbled with the doorknob, expecting a hand to fall upon her neck, tore the door open, and burst into the hospital room, from the bright fluorescent light into the dim grayness of late-afternoon, throwing the bathroom door shut behind her.

  At first she headed for the bed, for the call button that would summon a nurse, but she realized that she wouldn’t reach it before Harch was upon her, so she whirled the other way, her legs rubbery, almost buckling beneath her, and she stumbled toward the outer door, which was standing open, and beyond which lay the corridor.

  Screaming, she reached the doorway just as Mrs. Baker came in from the hall at a trot. They collided; Susan nearly fell; the nurse steadied her.

  “Honey, what’s wrong?”

  “In the bathroom.”

  “You’re soaked with sweat.”

  “In the bathroom!”

  Mrs. Baker slipped a supportive arm around her.

  Susan sagged against the generously padded woman, welcoming her strength.

  “What’s in the bathroom, kid?”

  “Him.”

  “Who?”

  “That b-b-bastard.”

  Susan shuddered.

  “Who?” Mrs. Baker asked again.

  “Harch.”

  “Oh, no, no, no.”

  “Yes.”

  “Honey, you’re only having a—”

  “He’s there.”

  “He isn’t real.”

  “He is.”

  “Come on.”

  “Where—?”

  “Come with me,” Mrs. Baker said.

  “Oh, no.”

  “Come along.”

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Come along with me.”

  She half coaxed, half carried Susan back into the room.

  “But Jerry’s head—”

  “Jesus, you poor kid.”

  “—his decapitated head—”

  “Nothing’s really there.”

  “It is.”

  “This was a bad one, huh?”

  “He was going to m-make me k-k-kiss that thing.”

  “Here now.”

  They were at the closed bathroom door.

  “What are you doing?” Susan asked, panicky.

  “Let’s take a look.”

  “For Christ’s sake, what’re you doing?”

  Mrs. Baker reached for the doorknob.

  “Just showing you there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  Susan grabbed the woman’s hand. “No!”

  “Nothing to be afraid of,” the nurse repeated soothingly.

  “If it was just an hallucination—”

  “It was.”

  “—then would I have been able to feel the goddamned buttons on his goddamned shirt?”

  “Susan—”

  “And would his disgusting erection have felt so big, so hot, so real?”

  Mrs. Baker looked baffled.

  I’m not making sense to her, Susan thought. To her, I sound and look like a babbling lunatic. For that matter, am I making any sense to me?

  Suddenly she felt foolish. Defeated.

  “Have a look, Susan.”

  “Please don’t do this to me.”

  “It’s for your own good.”

  “Please don’t.”

  “You’ll see it’s okay.”

  Whimpering now: “Please ...”

  Mrs. Baker started to open the door.

  Susan snapped her eyes shut.

  “Look, Susan.”

  She squeezed her eyes tightly shut.

  “Susan, it’s all right.”

  “He’s still there.”

  “No.”

  “I can feel him.”

  “There’s no one here but you and me.”

  “But...”

  “Would I lie to you, honey?”

  A drop of cold sweat trickled down the back of Susan’s neck and slithered like a centipede along her spine.

  “Susan, look.”

  Afraid to look but equally afraid to keep her eyes closed, she finally did as Mrs. Baker asked.

  She looked.

  She was standing at the threshold of the bathroom. Bleak fluorescent light. White walls. White sink. White ceramic tile. No sign of Ernest Harch. No staring, rotting head perched on the white commode.

  “You see?” Mrs. Baker said cheerily.

  “Nothing.”

  “Never was.”

  “Oh.”

  “Now do you feel better?”

  She felt numb. And very cold.

  “Susan?”

  “Yeah. Better.”

&nb
sp; “You poor kid.”

  Depression settled over Susan, as if someone had draped a cloak of lead upon her shoulders.

  “Good heavens,” Mrs. Baker said, “your pajamas are soaked with sweat.”

  “Cold.”

  “I imagine you are.”

  “No. The head. Cold and greasy.”

  “There was no head.”

  “On the commode.”

  “No, Susan. There wasn’t a head on the commode. That was part of the hallucination.”

  “Oh.”

  “You do realize that?”

  “Yeah. Of course.”

  “Susan?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “Are you all right, honey?”

  “Sure. I’ll be all right. I’ll be fine.”

  She allowed herself to be led away from the bathroom and back to her bed.

  Mrs. Baker switched on the nightstand lamp. The huddling, late-afternoon shadows crept into the corners.

  “First of all,” Mrs. Baker said, “we’ve got to get you into something dry.”

  Susan’s spare pajamas, the green pair, had been washed just that morning and were not yet ready to be worn. Mrs. Baker helped her strip out of the damp blue pair—they really were heavy with perspiration; you could almost wring them out as you would a washcloth—and helped her into a standard-issue hospital gown that laced up the back.

  “Isn’t that better?” Mrs. Baker asked.

  “Isn’t it?”

  “Susan?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “I’m worried about you, honey.”

  “Don’t worry. I just want to rest. I just want to go away for a while.”

  “Go away?”

  “Just for a little while. Away.”

  13

  “Susan?”

  She opened her eyes and saw Jeff McGee looking down at her, his brow lined with concern.

  She smiled and said, “Hi.”

  He smiled, too.

  It was funny. The slow reshaping of his face from a frown into a smile seemed to take an incredibly long time. She watched the lines in his flesh rearrange themselves as if she were viewing a slow-motion film.

  “How are you feeling?”

  His voice was funny, too. It sounded distant, heavy, deeper than it had been before. Each word was drawn out as if she were listening to a phonograph record played at the wrong speed; too slow.

  “I’m not feeling too bad,” she said.

  “I hear you had another episode.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Want to tell me about it?”

  “No. Boring.”

  “I’m sure I wouldn’t be bored.”

  “Maybe not. But I would.”

  “It’ll help to talk about it.”

  “Sleep is what helps.”

  “You’ve been sleeping?”

  “A little... on and off.”

  Jeff turned to someone on the other side of the bed and said, “Has she been sleeping ever since?”

  It was a nurse. Mrs. Baker. She said, “Dozing. And kind of disassociated like you see.”

  “Just tired,” Susan assured them.

  Jeff McGee looked down at her again, frowning again.

  She smiled at him and closed her eyes.

  “Susan,” he said.

  “Hmmm?”

  “I don’t want you to sleep right now.”

  “Just for a while.”

  She felt as if she were adrift on a warm sea. It was so nice to be relaxed again; lazy.

  “No,” Jeff said. “I want you to talk to me. Don’t sleep. Talk to me.”

  He touched her shoulder, shook her gently.

  She opened her eyes, smiled.

  “This isn’t good,” he said. “You mustn’t try to escape like this. You know it isn’t good.”

  She was perplexed. “Sleep isn’t good?”

  “Not right now.”

  “‘Sleep ravels up the knitted sleeve of care,’” she misquoted in a thick voice.

  And closed her eyes.

  “Susan?”

  “In a while,” she murmured. “In a while...”

  “Susan?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “I’m going to give you an injection.”

  “Okay.”

  Something clinked softly.

  “To make you feel better.”

  “I feel okay,” she said drowsily.

  “To make you more alert.”

  “Okay.”

  Coolness on her arm. The odor of alcohol.

  “It’ll sting but only for a second.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  The needle pierced her skin. She flinched.

  “There you go, all finished.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  “You’ll feel better soon.”

  “Okay.”

  Susan was sitting up in bed.

  Her eyes were grainy, hot, and itchy. She rubbed at them with the back of one hand. Jeff McGee rang for a nurse and ordered some Murine, which he applied to Susan’s eyes himself. The drops were cool and soothing.

  She had a sour, metallic taste in her mouth. Jeff poured a glass of water for her. She drank all of it, but that didn’t do much good.

  Drowsiness still clung to her, but she was shaking it off minute by minute. She felt a bit cross at Jeff for spoiling her nice sleep.

  “What did you give me?” she asked, rubbing one finger over the spot where he had administered the injection into her arm.

  “Methylphenidate,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “A stimulant. It’s good for bringing someone out of a severe depression.”

  She scowled. “I wasn’t depressed. Just sleepy.”

  “Susan, you were heading toward total withdrawal.”

  “Just sleepy,” she said querulously.

  “Extreme, narcoleptic-phase depression,” he insisted. He sat on the edge of the bed. “Now, I want you to tell me what happened to you in the bathroom.”

  She sighed. “Do I have to?”

  “Yes.”

  “All of it?”

  “All of it.”

  She was almost completely awake. If she had been suffering from a form of depression that caused her to seek escape in sleep, she certainly wasn’t suffering from it any longer. If anything, she felt unnaturally energetic, even a bit edgy.

  She thought about Ernest Harch in the bathroom. The severed head on the commode.

  She shivered. She looked at Jeff and was warmed by his encouraging smile.

  She forced a thin smile of her own. Trying hard to make light of what she’d been through, she said, “Gather ‘round the old campfire, children, and I’ll tell you a scary story.”

  She had dinner an hour later than usual. She didn’t want anything; she wasn’t hungry. However, Jeff insisted that she eat, and he sat with her, making sure that she finished most of the food on her tray.

  They talked for more than an hour. His presence calmed her.

  She didn’t want him to leave, but he couldn’t stay all night, of course. For one thing, he intended to go home and spend a couple of hours with her EEG printouts, her cranial X rays, and the lab reports on the spinal workup.

  At last the time came for him to go. He said, “You’ll be all right.”

  Wanting to be brave for him, braver than she felt, Susan said, “I know. Don’t worry about me. Hey, I’ve got a lot of moxie, remember?”

  He smiled. “The methylphenidate will start wearing off just about by bedtime. Then you’ll get a sedative, a stronger one than you’ve been getting.”

  “I thought you didn’t want me to sleep.”

  “That was different. That was unnatural sleep, psychological withdrawal. Tonight, I want you to sleep soundly.”

  Because when I’m sleeping soundly, Susan thought, I can’t have one of my hallucinations, one of my little expeditions into the jungle of insanity. And if I have one more of them ... one more safari into madness... I very likely won’t come back. Just be
swallowed up by the lions and tigers. One gulp. Gone.

  “The nurses will stop in and out all evening,” Jeff said. “About every fifteen minutes or so. Just to say hello and to let you know you aren’t alone.”

  “All right.”

  “Don’t just sit here in silence.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Turn on your TV. Keep your mind active.”

  “I will,” she promised.

  He kissed her. It was a very nice kiss, tender and sweet. That helped, too.

  Then he left, glancing back as he went out the door.

  And she was alone.

  She was tense for the rest of the evening, but the time passed without incident. She watched television. She even ate two pieces of candy from the box of chocolates that Jeff had brought her a couple of days ago. Two nightshift nurses—Tina Scolari and Beth Howe—took turns checking in on her, and Susan found that she was even able to joke with them a little.

  Later, just after she took the sedative that Jeff had prescribed for her, she felt the need to go to the bathroom. She looked at the closed door with trepidation and considered ringing the nurse to ask for a bedpan. She hesitated for a few minutes, but she grew increasingly ashamed of her timidity. What had happened to the stiff backbone on which she had always prided herself? Where was the famous Thorton pluck? She reached for the call button. Stopped herself. Finally, reluctantly, driven more by her protesting bladder than by her humiliation, she threw back the covers, got out of bed, and went to the bathroom.

  Opened the door.

  Turned on the light.

  No dead men. No severed heads.

  “Thank God,” she said, her breath whooshing out of her in relief.

  She went inside, closed the door, and went about her business. By the time she had finished and was washing her hands, her heart had slowed to a normal beat.

  Nothing was going to happen.

  She pulled a paper towel from the wall dispenser and started to dry her hands.

  Her eye was suddenly caught by something gleaming on the bathroom floor. It was in the corner, against the wall. Something small and shiny.

  She dropped the paper towel in the waste can.

  She stepped away from the sink. Bent down. Picked up the glittering object.

  She stared at it in disbelief.

  Earlier, she had wished that ghosts were real. And now it appeared as if she’d been granted her wish.