by Unknown
“That hurt,” Anne said.
"No."
Anne stood straight. She unbuttoned her blouse and let it drop from her shoulders. She could not look at Stephen for fear of revulsion in his eyes. She removed her bra, and then slipped from her skirt and panties.
She looked at Stephen, and thought she saw him nod.
Anne climbed onto the foot of the bed. Beneath her knees the folded, unused blanket was cold. She moved forward, and bent over Stephen’s body. Around her and beside her was the tangle of supports. Her body prickled; the veins in the backs of her hands flushed with icy fire. She tried to reach Stephen, but the web held her back.
“I can’t,” she said.
Stephen looked at her.
“These are in the way. I can’t.”
He said nothing.
And Anne, one by one, removed the web that kept her from him. She loosened the wires, she withdrew the needles, she pulled out the tubes. She touched the bruises and the marks on the pale skin. “I do love you,” she said.
Anne lay with Stephen. Her hands were at first soft and tentative, then grew urgent, caressing his body, caressing her own. As she touched and probed and clutched, her fingers became his fingers. Gentle, intelligent fingers studying her and love her.
Healing her.
She rode the current, rising and falling, her eyes closed.
Stephen kissed her lips as she brought them to him, and her breasts as well, and as she lifted upward, he kissed the trembling, hot wetness between her thighs. She stretched her arms outward, reaching for the world, and then brought them down and about herself and Stephen, pulling inward to where there was nothing but them both. His breathing was heavy; her heart thundered. An electrical charge hummed in the pit of her stomach. It swelled and spread, moving downward. Anne opened her mouth to cry out silently to the ceiling. The charge stood her nerves on unbearable end, and it grew until it would hold no longer. The center of her being burst. She wailed with the pulses. And she fell, crumpled, when they were spent.
“Dear God,” she whispered. She lay against Stephen, one hand entangled in the dark curls. Their warmth made her smile.
Her fear was gone.
Then she said, “Stephen, tell me. Only if you want. Why are you here? What put you in this place?”
Stephen said nothing. Anne hoped he had not slipped into sleep again.
“Stephen,” she said, turning over, meaning to awaken him. “Tell me why you had to come to the center. What happened to you?”
Stephen said nothing. His closed eyes did not open.
Anne pressed her palm to his heart.
It was still.
The party was over. Back in the recreation hall, Anne could hear Michael tooting his paper horn and calling out, “Hey, Miss Zaccaria, where are you? I’m ready to give you that swimming lesson. What about you?”
The water in the pond did not move. The breeze had died down, and the mist was being replaced by an impenetrable fog that sucked the form and substance from the trees and the benches around the surface of the blackness.
There were leaves at her feet, and she kicked them off the edge of the bank and into the pond. Small circles radiated from the disturbances, little waves moving out and touching other waves.
Anne took off her shoes and walked barefoot to the end of the pier. The boat was still moored there, full of leaves. The deep water below was as dark as Stephen’s hair.
Some have their dreams, others nightmares.
Stephen had his dreams now. Dreams without end. Amen.
And Anne would now accept her nightmare.
The leaves on the water were kind, and parted at her entrance.
ALEXANDRA
Charles L. Grant
I guess you could say I'm an easy mark for stories about dangerously seductive, decidedly strange women. What this says about my real-life preferences, I'm not sure, but when Charles L. Grant sent me the following introduction to a lady named Alexandra, I knew I couldn't refuse her come-ons.
Grant is one of HDF's best-known proponents of what he calls "quiet horror." Living in the unhurried regions of northwestern New Jersey with wife and fellow writer, Kathryn Ptacek, he continues to write the stories that have garnered him praise and reputation. For more than ten years, he edited the award-winning anthology series, Shadows, publishing stories that left their readers with a lingering chill instead of an in-your-face, cheap shot ending. He is a traditionalist in all the best senses of that word, and his stories employ the polished instruments of suggestion rather than the bludgeons of explicitness. Charlie has written a succession of finely crafted novels of horror and psychological suspense, many of them based in his personal Arkham—the town of Oxrun Station. It's a place where most of you wouldn't want to even visit, much less close a deal on some real estate. After you meet one of its more alluring residents, you'll understand what I'm talking about.
Publisher's note: Since the publication of Borderlands, Charles Grant has passed away. His stories continue to entertain and inspire.
You must understand, Michael–you don't mind if I call you Michael, do you, Mr. Vaulle?–it's difficult to talk about her.
In fact, I do this only for those I believe have an understanding beyond that which is normally given to men. Most of the time, and I feel no shame in admitting it, visitors I have incorrectly appraised pat me on the shoulder and tell me that time, precious time, heals all wounds, brings fresh adventure, settles old scores.
Most of the time they see nothing special about the display case in my study, and the cameo on black velvet that lays in its center.
I trust you don't mind this digression. It is your appointment, of course, and if you're pressed for time as so many youth are these days
No?
Splendid.
Then there's no need to bother the receptionist just yet, we can get your vitals later. If you'll just follow me into the study–be careful of that rug, that fringe has tripped me many a time when I'm careless–I'll just switch on the light and you can see for yourself what I am talking about.
The cameo.
It's larger than most, as you've no doubt already noted–here, I have the key, but be patient, the lock sticks now and then–and the ivory is slightly darkened though it's been in the case for I don't know how many years. I made the gold frame myself, actually. Simple white on rose seemed somehow inadequate; I felt she needed something…regal, I guess. As good a word as any.
But if you think that is excess, you cannot deny that her silhouette is perfection. Well, I suppose that's rather presumptuous, isn't it. You didn't know her. You couldn't tell if it were perfection or not. You'll have to take my word, I'm afraid. I guarantee it's her. The curls that cap and frame her skull–her hair was black–that faint uptilt of the chin, the hollow of the cheek where three fingertips could lie and feel satin, the eye that even in person seems to follow you everywhere, like some cheap religious painting.
Quite the angel in profile; quite the demon when she stares at you in anger, something I am fortunate not to have witnessed myself.
Time passes, so many years, and I still, in my dreams, see the way she looked at me at Derick Arman's party. If you don't know him, surely you must know the place–a ridiculously ornate Victorian down near the hospital on King Street. Red and cream. White porch. Stained glass in the attic window. The man has San Francisco taste, no question about it, but his parties weren't to be ignored.
She was there.
I was alone.
When she looked at me…in my dreams, lord, in my dreams that even when I walk through these halls do not leave me
Apologies, my friend. Sometimes I drift, but I can assure you it isn't reverie. I'm much too old for that now.
We were talking about the look.
It was a curious one, as a matter of fact. At first I had the impression she felt as if she knew me, or had perhaps seen me somewhere before. Distant acquaintance. Well met and forgotten at some other party, glimpsed on the tra
in platform, brushed by on the street. It almost made me smile so she'd either nod or look away.
I didn't.
I turned instead to my somewhat overdressed host and asked some idle question about his financial business, received some equally inane response in which I had no interest, and passed the rest of the evening making sure that those who wanted to see and speak to me did, avoiding those whose lives had no bearing on mine.
After my taste and fashion, I was enjoying myself.
The food had been catered, the wine freshly brought up from the cellar, the guests a mixture of the loud and the louder–the mice and the social lions.
There was music from somewhere, speakers cleverly in the wall, not terribly intrusive, not distinctive enough to make one stop to listen.
The conversation as well was unintrusive to decent thinking and listening.
You can see, there, in the expression, that she too cared little for sound that meant nothing to her. Not quite haughty, as you might expect. Distant. Very distant.
I touched her when Stanley died just as the first guests were making noises about their departure.
He was an obese man was Stanley Pringle, florid face made bloodlike by the screaming white hair he seldom bothered to have cut. White suit completely out of season. Pointed black shoes. A self-styled connoisseur and collector of antique automobiles which had, for some unfathomable reason, made him extremely wealthy, and just as obnoxious. He called me Mat, Mats, and sometimes, God help us, Matsie. Immediate familiarity was his aim, I suppose. I had given him no permission to address me that way, but he was the sort of man who took it anyway.
Hateful.
That night he was out on the porch and lecturing, for that is all he could do when he was drinking, when, without warning according to those who were there, he toppled. Not sagged. Not folded. Not a damn dramatic thing. Toppled as though clubbed from behind. Before anyone could move to assist him, he was prone. Blood from a smashed nose in bright spatters across the wood flooring. Hair thrown forward. Right hand grasping a shattered tumbler, a piece of which had been driven through his palm like a nail, the spike severing a vein and staining his skin a dark crimson.
Like fools we gathered at the door, at the living room windows, to see what all the commotion was about, to gasp at the figure we finally did see, to shout in varied stages of controlled hysteria instructions to Derick about the police, an ambulance, someone even wanted to know if there was a doctor in the house. There was. But I knew the man was dead and my services would be of no use save to expiate those hovering helplessly around him from further involvement.
Now look closely as I hold this to the light, don't worry, you won't hurt it, not with just a look, and you can see how delicate are the shadows that are formed by the engraved lines beneath her eyes.
You see?
That's precisely the way she looked when she came up behind me and peered over my shoulder at poor Stanley. She murmured a question; I told her Stanley had evidently made one speech too many, drank one scotch too many, and all that he carried on his enormous back had finally caught up with what was left of his heart. She giggled, though I hadn't meant it in jest. She told me her name was Alexandra Copeland, and it was a terrible thing to admit but even though she had exchanged a few words with him earlier, she felt nothing. A man had died, and though she supposed she ought to at least feel something, she felt nothing at all. I half turned and explained that the death of a stranger was, in effect, no death at all to other strangers. She gave me that look again. Matson Fremont, I told her in case her memory desired jogging; but she made no sign of recognition. She just looked. And my profession began to wonder about shock and such things, to such a degree that I suggested that perhaps she might like to sit down, have a glass of water or sherry; all the other women were playing their roles quite well, snaring their men in feigned helplessness and horror, and I'd imagined she Would be ready to do the same.
She was not.
She merely glanced at the body one last time, touched a gloved finger to the beauty mark mole just below her nose–you can see it, just here, that bump, no, Michael, please, you can't touch it!–and decided that the party was over, she might as well go home.
Derick prevented me from doing the gentlemanly thing in offering her my company by grabbing my arm and absolutely insisting I do something, people were afraid, there might be a disease or food poisoning or something. I could not, told him so, nevertheless allowed myself to be hauled onto the porch to establish the motions and the routine which, while doing Stanley no earthly good at all, served to reassure the others that help was indeed within arm's reach.
By the time it was over, police and ambulance and onlookers departed, she was gone.
I walked home alone, thinking about Stanley, thinking about the woman, finally thinking about myself and what I might have done with my life, what fortunes I might have made, had I chosen to live in a major city instead of a village like Oxrun Station. Death affected me that way. Spawned an introspection that usually lasted but an hour or so. I suspect part of it came from my facing that challenging specter every time I donned a surgical gown, every time I picked up a clamp, a scalpel, took a calming breath, and invaded another's fortress; and the rest was the most natural of reactions to seeing someone you know forever lost to further conversation, conviviality, a handshake, a nod, a sharing of tempers.
She called me that night.
You can see, as I turn it…so…how the lips seem to smile. Not much. An imagined twitch of the lips. It almost borders on amusement, wouldn't you say?
She called me that night.
In my dreams she always calls me.
She asks if I wouldn't mind spending some time with her the next evening, that the death of the stranger was not, as she had thought, so terribly remote. She can't seem to rid her imagination of his image. I accept readily; my mood demands it. She smiles with her voice–that twitch, just a hint–and leaves me to midnight, to the full moon that casts rooftops in mercury and sidewalks in gray shrouds, leaves me to walk the halls and wonder if she is attracted to me. I am not in love. I have no feeling toward her one way or the other, yet I am oddly excited, so much so that I cancel most of my appointments the next day and spend time in the park picking autumn flowers for her. In my dreams. Autumn flowers. Which I hand to her at her front door, as arranged. Which she brings to her face and breathes. Breathes. Inhales. Until they shrivel, brown, grow brittle, fall to her feet, and shatter on her shoes.
I think nothing of it.
I take her hand.
We walk.
Through the streets of the Station, conjuring stories of the lives we see behind the lights in the windows of the houses on the blocks that we travel; telling life stories that are lies but are determined to be grand, enticing, enthralling, captivating as a web with a single droplet of rain on the uppermost strand where it catches the moonlight and turns it to pearl.
We do not kiss upon parting.
We never kiss.
Instead we agree to attend a dinner party together in one of the mansions out on Williamston Pike.
We meet.
We smile somewhat shyly, endearing for her, rather foreign for me.
We feed.
A woman dies in the midst of a silly game of hide-and-seek on the back lawn.
I am called because I am who I am and the only one of my profession at that party that night.
She leaves without me. I understand. Tending the dead among the living is not the way to run a courtship. I call her later. She apologizes. She wants to see me again.
As I dress, I note how distinguished the silver is among the dark of my hair. I had not noticed it before. Surely it had not been there a few days ago. But I am not concerned, for in my profession youth is an anathema to those who demand the charade of age.
I feel a bit tired as I hurry down the stairs. Leaning against the newel post, I catch my breath, shake my head. Too much excitement, Matson, I tell myself; she is only a
woman, after all. Nevertheless, I tire.
And as I leave the house—this house, in fact—I note that I am trembling.
We meet.
I take her hand.
A hardness in her palm, and when I hold it under a street lamp I see a cameo there. A sly look. I smile. It is her. She is mine.
Unless, of course, it is the other way around.
I slip it into my coat pocket and we walk through the streets, telling stories, telling fantasies, stopping by a Collie standing perplexed on a corner so she may stroke it until its legs begin to quiver, its fur begins to shed, its teeth begin to fall, its eyes begin to fade, and we walk on over the bones, telling stories, telling lies.
In my dreams she kisses me at last on her porch.
In my dreams I hold the cameo as she closes the door behind her.
Notice, if you will, the lock on the display case.
I envy your envy, and would that I could allow you to hold it, to feel the ivory as cool as spring and hard as ice, to sense the smile, touch the hair.
Would that I could.
But if I did, she would be yours, not mine.
And age comes soon enough, without hurrying it along.
Oh, good lord, can you ever forgive me, Michael! You've come all this way for your appointment, and here I am, behaving like a dotty old fool, taking up your valuable time. No, it's all right, I sometimes get this way, though damned if I know why. Not loneliness, I can assure you. Not loneliness. And here I am, babbling again. My apologies.
Come this way, please.
The examination room.
Not so many people in here these days, I'm afraid. I'm not at the hospital at all anymore. Please, take off your shirt. Few friends, fewer patients. They fade away too soon, don't you think? They come, they literally bare themselves to you, and then they fade away.
Sit up here, please.
Michael Vaulle.
