by Rick Hautala
Another thing—perhaps the only thing he was waiting for really—was some indication that Dianne had fallen asleep. He certainly wasn’t ready to go to sleep yet, but he didn’t feel as though he could concentrate on anything—even a mindless TV show—knowing she was still awake. He wouldn’t feel quite so uncomfortable about going downstairs and doing something if he was positive she was asleep; but short of peeking into her bedroom, there was no way of knowing.
He shivered at the memory of the first and only time he had gone into that particular bedroom—that night last June when he had helped his grandmother when she was having that heart attack or whatever it was that had killed her shortly thereafter.
Scritch—scritch—scre-e-e-ch.
And what if he looked in there now, and saw Dianne, scarred and mutilated, glaring back at him from the bed?
His mind filled with horrible images of his grandmother, lying there in bed, her eyes blank, her slack mouth open, a thin line of drool running down her chin. He knew he wouldn’t be able to handle seeing anything like that again, so he decided just to stay where he was, even if it meant sitting here until well after midnight. He’d wait right here until he was absolutely positive it was safe to come out of his room.
“Yeah, like maybe sometime next year,” he whispered, snickering softly under his breath.
But after a while, as the storm continued to slam against the house with hissing bursts of rain, he finally decided that he was going to go nuts if he didn’t do something! Besides, it was absolutely ridiculous to feel like a prisoner in his own house. And yes, goddamnit, this was just as much his house as it was hers.
Maybe more!
Sighing heavily, he swung his feet to the floor and stood up. The floorboards creaked underfoot as he went over to his door and ever so slowly turned the doorknob until the latch clicked. The old hinges squeaked like a frantic mouse as he eased the door open until there was just enough room for him to squeeze out into the hallway. His breath caught in his chest, as he started down the hall toward the stairway. With every other step, he paused and glanced over his shoulder at Dianne’s closed bedroom door. In his fevered imagination, his living stepmother and his dead grandmother blended together, and he began to wonder what kind of horror was waiting for him there inside that bedroom.
Why not go right down there and take a look? he thought as a chill rippled up his back.
What would it hurt?
Did he really think Dianne was some kind of monster? Did he think he might catch her off guard and see that she was some grotesque parody of what a human being should be? Probably the best thing to do right now, the sanest thing would be to look in there and see that she was nothing more than a woman—a woman who should be pitied, instead of feared, because of what she’d had to deal with over the past few months. Why not face her down and see that there was truly nothing to be afraid of?
But he wouldn’t—or couldn’t—bring himself to do that.
Why take the chance that she might still be awake and catch him at it. And anyway, he would be going back to Arizona in a couple of weeks to begin the new school year; he wouldn’t even have to think about Dianne after the first of September. One thing for sure, he was never going to come and stay in Maine for this long ever again!
So he continued down the hall toward the stairway, step by cautious step. When he was at the top of the stairs, though, he looked back and something else at the far end of the hall caught his attention—the narrow door that led up into the attic.
He drew to a halt and stared at the door, holding his breath until his lungs began to hurt. Ever since they had moved into the house following the fire, he had wondered what might be up there. At least until now, he’d never taken the time to go up there and explore. For all he knew, the attic might contain some unbelievable treasures—old coins, books or magazines, and other stuff. With Dianne in her room and his father out for the evening, he thought this might be his last chance to get up there and check it out before he went back to Arizona.
Keeping a watchful eye on his stepmother’s bedroom door, he started back down the hall until he was standing in front of the attic door. The dim hall light seemed barely able to reach all the way to the door. He tingled with excitement as he snapped the small hook and eye lock that kept the door shut. As soon as the lock was sprung, the door popped and swung halfway open, making a silly horselike whinny.
Brian glanced quickly over his shoulder, but there was no indication from Dianne’s room that she had heard anything. Leaning against the edge of the door, he reached into the gloom, feeling around for a wall switch. His hands brushed against bare wall on both sides of the stairway.
“Come on! There’s gotta be a light here somewhere,” he whispered as he leaned further into the darkness and ran his flattened hands up along the wall. The plaster felt gritty and cool to the touch, but there wasn’t enough light to see by. The darkness at the top of the stairs swelled like a living, breathing thing. When he placed his foot onto the first step and leaned forward, the step snapped, sounding like breaking ice. He felt higher up on the walls on both sides of the narrow staircase but still didn’t find a switch. When he took another step up, something tapped lightly against his forehead.
He dodged to one side, thinking for a heart-stopping instant that it might have been a spider web or something, but then he realized that it might be a string, hanging down from the attic ceiling—a string that might be attached to the pull chain of a light. He reached out until he found it again and, after feeling it in the dark to make sure it was indeed a string, pulled on it. There was a faint click, and at the top of the stairs, a single, bare light bulb came on, casting a faint, yellow glow.
Brian sucked in a nervous breath as he looked up the steep flight of stairs and counted them.
Thirteen steps. Great!
For a moment he reconsidered what he was about to do. What if he made too much noise and woke Dianne up? What if his father came home and caught him poking around up there? Or what if he found something he wasn’t suppose to find? Maybe there was stuff up here that his grandma had wanted to get rid of but couldn’t before she died. He hesitated, thinking there probably was nothing but piles of old junk anyway. Why even bother going up there? Why not just go downstairs and watch MTV until his father came home?
Why? Because there’s gotta be some cool stuff up here, that’s why, and this is probably my last chance to check it out.
Brian was unable to ignore the wave of excitement that swept through him as he stared up at the light glowing at the top of the stairs. It looked so warm and welcoming, and the soft, brown shadows on the stairway seemed to reach out like arms and beckon him forward. Even from where he stood, he could see several stacks of boxes that were tied together with fraying gray twine. Dust coated everything—even the steps—like a thin glaze of snow. Brian realized that for the last several years of her life, his grandmother had probably been too old and stiff to make it up this steep flight of stairs. There had to be some really neat stuff up there!
A strong shiver of excitement raced through him as he started up the stairs, taking each step carefully so the dried-out treads wouldn’t creak beneath his weight. He could imagine that with every step he took, he was leaving behind the real world and entering an entirely different universe. The yellow light looked as mellow as the setting sun; the air, although dust-dry and almost too thin to breathe, carried with it a rich mixture of age and mystery. The patter of rain against the roof was louder, but it seemed somehow muted, too—more gentle, as though it fell from a different, less angry sky. Even the wind, which had whistled like a banshee outside his bedroom window—Scritch—scritch—scre-e-e-ch!—now sounded hushed and seemed almost to carry faint, whispering voices. Brian grew lightheaded with the feeling that he had been magically transported back to a different time and place.
He stopped at the top of the stairs and looked back down. The hall light shining onto the worn carpet made everything in the hallway look some
how thin and watery. The open door framed his view, and for a horrifying instant, he had the impression that the hallway he had just left was nothing more than a flat, dimensionless painting. The angled perspective of the stairs seemed horribly exaggerated, and for a dizzying moment, the staircase seemed to telescope crazily in and out.
Whimpering softly under his breath, Brian backed away from the top of the stairs. He reached out blindly behind himself for something to grab onto, but there was nothing there, and he bumped into a stack of boxes. Thankfully, he didn’t knock anything over. All he could think was how lucky he had been not to fall down the stairs and break his neck.
It’s just because of how steep the stairs are, and the dim light is playing tricks on my eyes, he told himself, but he found that he didn’t dare look back down there again.
He shook his head to clear it and squared his shoulders before moving further away from the top of the stairwell. All around him were piles of old furniture, stacks of magazines, and dozens of boxes, but he didn’t dare start exploring them yet. He had to calm down, get a grip on himself. He took a deep, calming breath, but his chest hurt as though it were somehow being restrained.
Suddenly he was filled with a sharp sense of immediate danger. He knew it wasn’t because he was afraid of falling down the stairs or of getting caught snooping around up here. There was something else—something in the close, dry air that made every nerve in his body tingle as though electrified. A cold, clammy feeling, like the touch of a dead hand brushing against his skin, made the hairs at the nape of his neck stir. He didn’t know how, but he was suddenly convinced that whatever was wrong up here was lurking in the darkness behind him.
Tension bubbled up inside him as he sucked in another breath, held it, and turned around slowly. He wanted to scream but wasn’t even able to whimper when he saw the cold, motionless face staring back at him from a darkened corner of the attic.
“It-t-t’s-s-s so-o-o c-c-c-cold. Can I l-l-light a f-f-f-fire? … P-p-please?”
Michael’s teeth chattered, dicing every word into dozens of tiny pieces. Outside, the wind whisked against the mill like a whipsaw. Darkness filled the small room, wrapping around him so tightly that he could easily imagine it was a cold, hungry beast, nuzzling against him for warmth. The cloying aroma of damp earth filled his nostrils, making him think of a freshly-turned grave …
My mother’s grave!
He whined like a wounded animal, picturing her lying stiff and cold in a darkness that was thicker than this—much thicker, a darkness that had no end, no light … forever! Like a long, steel spike, the thought pierced his stomach and started working its way slowly, inexorably up to his heart.
He sat huddled against the stone wall, his knees pulled up tightly against his chest and his hands clapped over his ears as he rocked gently from side to side. Worse than the wind and rain howling outside, though, were the voices that whispered inside his head, chattering and snapping like the rattle of dry leaves.
“No-o-o-o, I d-d-didn’t th-th-think you’d-d-d want me t-t-to,” he rasped. “B-b-but I-I-I don’t-t-t s-s-see why n-n-not? W-w-why’d you t-t-tell me to g-g-g-et all of my th-th-things out of h-h-h-here?”
Nighttime was the worst—it always had been, even when he was a little boy; but tonight … tonight was horrible! The voices were especially strong, and most of them sounded angry and agitated, as though something—the fury of the wind or something else was whipping them, carrying them like storm-tossed leaves up to new levels of fury. Michael didn’t like what they were saying or what they were telling him to do, but no matter how hard he pounded his head, he couldn’t stop them, couldn’t block them out because they had always been strongest here in the cellar of the old mill.
Oh, yes! He had always been able to hear them, ever since he was a little boy, even when he should have been safe in the closet of his bedroom at home … even during all those years in that hospital in Massachusetts. He had never gotten away from them entirely, but this was where they came from, this was their source … this was where they muttered and murmured to him, and screamed inside his head when they didn’t want to be ignored.
“I ju-ju-just w-w-w-want to sl-sl-sleep,” he said, rocking back and forth and moaning deep within his chest. “I c-c-c-can’t sl-sl-sl-sleep when I’m-m-m s-s-so c-c-ccold. I can’t-t-t st-st-stand it an-an-anymore!”
His hands curled up, and he raked his fingernails down the sides of his face. The pain was like hot wires, but it didn’t change anything; the voices were still there, getting stronger and clearer in his brain. He rolled his head back and forth, but the darkness was so thick, so pressing that he couldn’t tell if his eyes were opened or closed. It didn’t matter. Opened or closed … awake or asleep … alive or dead, those voices were a part of him, and he would never get away from them—never! At least not until he did what they were telling him to do.
Then … maybe … both he and they would find release.
“B-b-b-but I—I c-c-c-can’t!” he whispered in a voice as raw as a fresh, open wound.
“Oh, yes you can.”
“You must!”
“We’ve waited … for so long.”
“And now that your mother has left us, we have to do this.”
“You have to do this!”
“To be free.”
“But my m-m-m-mother,” Michael said, no more than a gasp. Tears stung his eyes like acid, and the jackhammer pounding inside his head got louder. “You t-t-t-told m-m-me … you said you s-s-s-saw her … th-th-that s-s-s-she wanted me to d-d-d-do this.”
“You must!”
“We’ve waited … for so long.”
“But d-d-don’t you s-s-s-see?” Michael wailed. “I just can’t!”
“Oh, yes you can.”
“You must!”
“We’ve waited … for so long.”
“In the morning, you can start.”
“You have no choice.”
“Just as we have no choice!”
Jesus Christ! It’s Dianne!
The thought flashed across Brian’s mind like a stroke of lightning. He crouched and tensed, waiting for the deafening crash of thunder to follow. His eyes were wide open, and he was unable to look away because the woman’s cold, unblinking gaze held him transfixed, like an insect on a pin. He tried to breathe, but the pressure collapsed his chest inward. Small, white dancing dots zigzagged across his vision. The rattling sound of rain on the roof grew deafeningly loud, roaring in bursts like a passing train. Still, the face didn’t move. Then, with his lungs burning for fresh air, just before Brian passed out, a crazy thought hit him—
That’s not a person!
Almost against his will, he took a few steps forward, craning his neck as he strained to see the face that leered at him from the corner.
It’s just a picture … just a painting!
He almost laughed aloud, but his throat was still too constricted to make any more sound than a feeble click. He took a wary step closer, all the while expecting something to jump out at him, but the woman’s face remained impassive, immobile.
Of course she won’t move! She can’t! She isn’t real!
But as soon as he thought that, another voice whispered in the back of his mind, But she used to be real!
The painting was obviously old. The woman’s clothes were old-fashioned—at least a hundred years old—and her face had an aura of antiquity about it. The tarnished gilt frame barely caught and reflected back the weak overhead light. The subject, obviously much older than his stepmother, had been painted with a harsh sidelighting that cast a thin wash of shadow across the lower left side of her face. Loose strands of dark hair curled around her wide, white forehead. She wasn’t smiling. Her thin lips were set in a grim line that was not at all pleasant; but it was her eyes that held Brain. They were wide open, shining with a piercing blue, especially the right one, which caught and reflected back the light. With time, the overcoat of varnish had yellowed. The woman looked as though she were star
ing out from behind a sheet of amber; but even with several years’ accumulation of dust covering them, her eyes seemed to hover in the darkness, glowing with their own internal source of light. Brian took a sip of breath and stared at the painting as though expecting to see the woman blink, but her eyes remained frozen open as though caught in a moment of surprise … or anger.
“Jesus Christ!” he whispered, shaking his shoulders to rid himself of the icy shiver that was dancing up his back. He felt like a fool for being so surprised—and scared—by this; but then again—what did he expect, snooping around in an old attic on a stormy night? Now more than ever he thought he should go back downstairs, but the face and his first impression that it was a real person lingered, irresistibly drawing his attention back to it.
It sure as heck looks like Dianne!
He was unable to repress another cold rush of shivers. The shadow across the left side of the woman’s face suggested the hollow depression under Dianne’s left eye where her cheekbone had been pulverized in the accident. Squinting and leaning forward to see more clearly, he could almost make out the thin line of scar tissue, running up the inside of the woman’s neck along the edge of her jawbone. As impossible as it might be, it was downright uncanny how much this woman—whoever she was—resembled his stepmother.
Or maybe it’s her! Brian thought as another, stronger shiver wracked his body. Maybe it’s a picture of the Old Witch Lady!
He wished he dared to go right up to the portrait, clean the dust off it, and study it closely. It was, after all, nothing more than a painting. What was there to be afraid of? What did he think, as soon as he touched the painting it would bite him or something? No, it was just his overworked imagination and poor lighting that made this woman look so much like Dianne.
