The Complete Short Fiction of Charles L. Grant Volume 1: Nightmare Seasons (Necon Classic Horror)

by Charles L. Grant

  The man was gone.

  Instantly, she grabbed a coat from the hall rack and rushed outside, ignoring the snow clinging wetly to her hair and neck, elbows tucked against her waist as she moved as quickly as she dared down toward the light. She could see no one in either direction, heard no doors closing, no car’s ignition grinding.

  And when she came to where the figure had been standing, there were no footprints in the snow.

  The couch was small, virtually a love seat, but it was set against the room’s rear wall facing the tree, and the lights comforted her more than Michael’s pacing. He still wore his topcoat, his hat darkly wet, and when he spoke she felt as though she were a jury addressed instead of a lover pacified.

  “You know how hard you’ve been working, Mel. I’m not at all surprised you’re—”

  “Seeing things?”

  He paused, glanced at her, resumed his pacing. “I wasn’t going to say that, love. I was going to say, I’m not surprised you’re making mountains out of molehills.”

  “Moles don’t usually make a habit of casing my house.”

  “Melissa, Melissa,” he said. “There are days when I just don’t know what I’m going to do with you.”

  “Try flopping down in my lap and I’ll show you.”

  He pushed his glasses to the end of his nose and peered at her over the top. She stuck her tongue out at him and faked a stubborn pout.

  “Melissa,” he said. Sighed. Said “Melissa” again.

  Mel resigned herself to a long chorus of her name, not to mention a verse or two about how she was a scientist and should be more careful with her observations. She knew all the signs; she had been faced with them often. Try as he might (and she knew that he tried), Michael simply could not get over the fact that she had actually managed to conquer the fear that had given her nightmares when she’d first returned—the fear that whoever had killed her mother and those other men would someday return to kill her, too.

  Paul, a practicing psychiatrist as well as an author and classroom lecturer, had told her this wasn’t exactly the most normal of reactions; on the other hand, considering the circumstances of her mother’s death (and the deaths of her two brothers, however unrelated), it was understandable. He had worked with her for several months (unofficially and at his office), finally convincing her that the dreams and the fear would vanish immediately she grasped how farfetched her fear was.

  He had been right.

  It was gone, as well as the dreams.

  For two years she had slept without waking with a scream, had been able to walk into the post office without almost blacking out.

  But what in bloody hell had happened to those footprints? Unless, she thought suddenly, the man had been standing off the curb, in the gutter. It was dark. And he had been wearing black. And suddenly she felt incredibly stupid.

  Before she could say anything, however, Michael stopped his pensive wandering and stepped around the cobbler’s bench she kept in front of the couch. He shoved aside a low pile of magazines and sat, throwing his coat away from his knees, clasping his hands and rocking them for emphasis. “Mel, I may only be a country lawyer, you know-”

  For god’s sake, stop fishing for compliments, she thought at him, one of the few faults she’d discovered in him thus far.

  “—but I do manage to learn something about people’s reactions to stress.”

  “Stress?” She frowned, puzzled and not at all liking the tone of his voice. “What stress are you talking about, Mike? This house is all paid for, I get a regular—but not spectacular—paycheck, and I like living in the Station better than anyplace else I’ve been in the world. What in god’s name kind of stress are you talking about? That man out there? He’s a kid. I just figured it out. He’s just a kid trying to scare me.”

  He cleared his throat perfunctorily. “Just what I’m talking about. Ordinarily, something like that wouldn’t bother you, would it. On the other hand, I should tell you Tammy called me at the office after they let you off this afternoon.”

  “Oh . . . damn,” she said to the ceiling.

  “Mel, you have to take this more seriously.”

  She grimaced. “That’s what Sam said, too.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  She pushed herself into the corner and drew her legs up beneath her. “I know what you mean,” she said curtly. “And I don’t think Sam’s amorous attentions are putting more stress on me than . . . than anyone of a dozen students of mine who are dying to find out what I wear under my lab coat.”

  “But they are your students,” he pointed out. “Sam is your boss. You’ll be up for tenure at the end of next term, and if Sam gives you thumbs down, you’ll—”

  “He won’t.” She shook her head emphatically. “He wouldn’t do that to me.”

  Michael shrugged. “Maybe he will, maybe he won’t. But Mel, you’ve got to at least consider the possibility that your job is more tied up with his making passes at you than you think.”

  She opened her mouth to protest, closed it when acceptance of Michael’s suggestion reached her before she was ready. “It’s almost enough to make me start smoking again,” she whispered, uncurled and reached for him awkwardly. He took her shoulders and kissed her, stroked her hair, brushed a thumb over each of her eyes in a gesture that had begun eight months ago, when they’d first met and he’d tried unsuccessfully to sweep hair from her face. It was a warm move, a silent and eloquent one that never failed to bring her peace.

  “Are you jealous?” she asked with her eyes still closed.

  She could hear a laugh bubbling deep in his throat, felt a momentary disappointment when he said that he wasn’t. Well, you should be, she thought. Though she wasn’t any more vain than most people were, she also knew she would get no sympathy at all protesting that she was plain, unpretty, not worthy of attention. She knew (or suspected) how attractive she really was; but unlike Tammy—perhaps because of her friend’s teaching of drama and theater arts—she never made a point of accentuating looks over skills. At least, she thought guiltily, not deliberately, not consciously.

  “I have to go,” Michael said, and kissed her again, kept his arm about her waist until they reached the front door. “Don’t worry. I think you’re right about that kid. As for Sam . . . well, he can’t hurt you unless you let him.”

  “But it wasn’t Sam I saw out there, Michael.”

  “Melissa, for pete’s sake!”

  She laughed and pushed him gently out the door, waited until he’d driven away before returning inside and heading for another hot shower and a good night’s sleep. But it wasn’t until she was under her blankets and sighing at the dark that she decided she had better try to figure out how to cool Sam Litten down without hurting him, or somehow losing him as a friend. Not that she believed he would link her tenure with her compliance. Sam wasn’t like that. She knew him too well.

  And she cursed at the fingers that were crossed over her stomach.

  Cursed the next morning when she burned the toast and the coffee and had to leave in a hurry, with nothing but orange juice turning to acid in her stomach.

  Grinning until her cheeks ached when she caught herself checking for prints in the snow. A kid or a figment, no question about it.

  And the stump in the woods was just a stump in the woods when she drove toward the campus to give her car a workout. The sun glared, the sky was sharply blue, and Chancellor Avenue had been plowed to its blacktop. A beautiful day. December. There is nothing, she thought, like winter in New England.

  And she held the thought again when she got out of her car in the faculty parking lot. The buildings were stone-block, arranged in an open-sided rectangle that faced down a gentle slope heavily wooded. The Avenue was nearly a mile away, just visible through the branches, when a passing windshield caught the sun. It was silent here now that the students were gone, the snow undisturbed, icicles under the eaves, boulders like half-completed snowmen spotting the broad quad. “Yes,” she wh
ispered, then tucked the packet of stencils under her arm and headed for the two-story brownstone that housed the Science Department—classrooms, eight labs, and an office for each of Sam Litten’s charges.

  The building was as quiet as the campus outside. But once her hearing adjusted, Mel could identify the muffled mutterings of radiators, the distant clacking of a typewriter, the hum of a vacuum cleaner, probably in the large office where the secretaries worked. Deliberately, then, she kept her heels from cracking on the corridor’s worn flooring as she hurried past a row of frosted-glass doors to the one which had her name on it, still gold and gleaming. From her coat pocket she pulled a key ring, fumbled because the stencils were slipping, finally turned the lock over and nudged the door open with a thrust of her hip.

  The office was crowded, narrow, and she had to sidestep a pile of journals to dump the stencils onto her desk. Sighed loudly and listened for signs of company. When she heard none she smiled. And once out of her coat she gathered the stencils together and took a plastic cafeteria chair closer to the arched window overlooking the quad. She could, she knew, just leave them in the office and let a secretary do the proofing; but she was still too eager to do all the work herself. If there were any mistakes, she wanted them to be hers.

  She sat, stretched, pulled the stencils to her lap and started to read.

  A shadow passed over her.

  She paused. Looked up. Saw nothing out the window but the bright glaring snow. And what if you stood up, she asked herself then; do you think you’d see the man standing under one of the elms?

  No, she thought angrily. Because there is no man.

  “Melissa,” she said aloud, and glad for her voice, “it’s time you stopped thinking and did some work for a change.” And almost jumped from her chair when someone crossed the threshold.

  “My god, Sam, you nearly scared me to death!”

  Litten grinned a weak apology, “You sticking around for lunch?”

  “No,” she said after a moment’s hesitation. “I have things to do later.”

  He nodded. “Oh, Well, if you’re sure . . .”

  She placed the awkwardly long stencils carefully back on her lap. “I’m sure, Sam.”

  “I see. Well . . . it’s just that I thought . . .” He put a quivering hand to the sweater-vest that covered his paunch, stroked it absently. His tie was off, his jacket unbuttoned, almost as if he’d forgotten to dress completely. “I just thought—”

  “Sam,” she cautioned, “please don’t start, okay?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  She felt it immediately—the draining of the sunlight captured in her soul. “Look, just leave it alone, all right? I can’t have lunch with you, and that’s that. No room for argument.”

  The brief scowl that twisted across his face alarmed her and she straightened, her back rigid; but as quickly as it appeared it was gone.

  “Mel, perhaps we ought to talk about . . . about the upcoming semester, do you think? There’s a lot we have to discuss about what you need and—”

  His name was almost a growl. “Sam . . . don’t push it.”

  He left her without another word, and she sagged, breathing deeply as she struggled with her annoyance. It wasn’t fair, she thought, that someone like that—a dear man, but a pest—could come along and threaten to ruin what was sure to be a perfect day. Didn’t the idiot know it was Christmas? Couldn’t he see all that snow out there, feel that marvelously cold air? What the hell was he trying to do, make her unhappy just because she would not respond to his pathetic overtures?

  She snorted her disgust, turned back to her work and completed it without so much as a single alteration. She no longer cared how tough the questions were, or how fair; Sam had effectively spoiled what good feelings she might have had for her students. They would have to know all the work, it was as simple as that. No gifts. No easy problems. And the more she thought about it the angrier she became. She slammed the stencils onto the windowsill, walked the office for nearly five minutes before slipping back into her coat and heading for the secretaries’ room where the duplicating would be done.

  No one was there to take her instructions. She glowered at the deserted chairs and scribbled what she wanted done on a black sheet of paper, paper-clipped the mess together and tossed it onto the nearest desk. If they had any complaints, they could just call her at home.

  As if they would have more complaints than she did right now. Sam, she thought, there are times when I could throttle you. She paused at the exit, one foot tapping the floor. What she should do now, right now, before things went too far, was to confront the fool and convince him to stay away from her, that they were friends and nothing more. This kind of hassle she simply did not need at all; and before she could think about it she was striding purposefully down the corridor, eyes narrowed, hair flaring back over her shoulders.

  Her heels, loud.

  The building, quiet.

  Sunlight in square puddles, shimmering on the floor.

  She flung open Litten’s door . . . and stopped as if a glass wall had been thrown up before her.

  The room, not much larger than her own but longer, was a shambles: books, periodicals, pamphlets, stacks of paper and notebooks had been dragged down from the shelves that lined the walls, a large typewriter and its metal stand had been toppled into the far comer, and through the open window drifted large melting flakes that stained the wall beneath and made dark the worn fringed carpet.

  A movement, and she looked sharply to her left, saw the ancient maple desk Litten had dragged here during the summer, and over it the struggling figures of the darkman and Sam.

  Sam was on the bottom, his hands flailing the air, his thighs pinned hard to the flat of the desk. She could see his face blanched and running red, could see from the sleeves of the black raincoat narrow glittering claws that raked through Sam’s sweater and laid bare his ribs. And still Sam fought, mouth gasping (all of it in silence), fingers working to pry the darkman loose (no sound, no sound at all). He arched his back abruptly and almost wriggled free, one knee coming up between the darkman’s legs swiftly and hard . . . and completely without effect. The claws rose, fell, rose again and splattered rosebuds of blood onto the windowsill, onto the walls. Rose. Fell. And Sam’s nose was split from eye to upper lip.

  (all of it in silence, not even the breathing)

  Mel staggered back into the corridor, hands pressed white-knuckled to her mouth. Her first scream was a gagging that sent her into a tight, weaving spin. The second thrust her against the opposite wall. The third trailed weakly after her as she collapsed to the floor, knees up, hands at her sides, her lips pale and her eyes filled with tears.

  And no matter how hard she tried, she could not lose consciousness, or release the fourth scream.

  She never really got over it, you know. She hid it pretty well, but she never really shook it.

  So you keep telling me.

  So what do you think, Paul? Was it bound to happen, because of her family?

  I don’t know what you’re talking about. Was what bound to happen?

  You know. . . this breakdown, or whatever the term is.

  Mike, sometimes I wonder where in hell your brain is.

  What?

  Breakdowns. I’m talking about breakdowns. Nervous breakdowns.

  Well, what about them? Are you saying . . . are you trying to tell me she hasn’t had one? That this isn’t a breakdown?

  Of course it isn’t, you idiot. No. I’m sorry, I take that back. But honest to god, Mike, I wish you’d remember who’s the lawyer and who’s the doctor around here. I’ve enough troubles with Tammy as it is already.

  All right, all right. I’m sorry, too.

  go away

  No problem. But the first thing is, you can’t go around telling people Mel’s had a breakdown. She hasn’t. She’s only reacting to what she saw, and you have to admit it isn’t everyone who walks into an office and finds a dead body. Especially when that de
ad body belongs to one of your best friends.

  But she kept mumbling about that guy in the raincoat!

  Sure she did. She has to externalize in some way, Mike. She saw a shadow, and she saw Sam sprawled back over the desk like that, and the first thing her mind did was connect the shadow to the man she thought she saw outside the house at the party. She’s already done this once, you know. She thought a tree stump was the man. It was on her way to work yesterday.

  go away . . . please?

  Twice, Paul.

  Huh?

  Twice. She saw him twice at the house.

  When?

  The party was the first time, last night was the second. She called me when she saw him, but when I got there he was gone. She thinks it was probably a student playing a prank, but I think he wasn’t there at all. She showed me where he was supposed to have been, but there weren’t any footprints. The snow was deep enough, but there weren’t any footprints.

  I’ll be damned.

  I told her to call the police, see, and then I got right over. I thought it was for real.

  go

  Did she?

  Sure she thought it was real. She called me, didn’t she?

  away

  No; I mean, did she call the police?

  Mel? She never does anything I tell her. It’s principle, or something. She’s as stubborn as her mother was supposed to be. Why do you ask?

  Just as well she didn’t call. That means this guy in the coat business is just between the four of us.

  Hell of a Christmas, isn’t it.

  Tell me something I don’t already know, Mike. Nuts, look at the time. I have to get back out to the college and pick up Tammy at the theater. Auditorium. Whatever the hell they call it, when they work there. She has a bunch of her Barrymores practicing again. I tell you, Mike, I don’t know how they put up with her.

  Because she’s good, Paul. She’s damned good.

  “Damnit, go away!”

  She heard shuffling, a changing of positions, and felt a hand cover hers on the bed. Her bed.

  “Mel?” It was Paul.