Soulstorm

by Chet Williamson

  ~*~

  He turned and smiled at her, all traces of cynicism gone. He looked, she thought, like the boy she had met in Paris. "I'm fine," he said, "better than ever now."

  "It was real? The manifestation?"

  "No doubt of it." He held out a hand to her. "Life after death, Gabrielle. It must be."

  She ran to where he sat and embraced him. He held her and began to cry. "I never want to leave you," he said, his throat thick. "But if I can wait here, wait for you…"

  Then she was crying, too, and they each became lost in the other's tears.

  Neville's physician had directed him to the Sloan-Kettering clinic when the symptoms began. At first they had thought it was localized, could be contained. But further tests showed that metastasis had begun, and that David Neville's body was a breeding ground for carcinoma cells. That had been in January, and they'd predicted it would be a year before the pain would necessitate hospitalization.

  Neville, naturally enough, hadn't wanted to die. It wasn't so much the fear of death itself that bothered him as the separation from that which he loved most—his wife. So he began to seek immortality. He found most religions vexing because of their inability to prove any existence after death, and considered cryogenics too undeveloped and haphazard to be relied on. It was not until May that he became interested in hauntings, and the more he read, the more he became convinced that there was some substantiality behind the legends, that there were places on the earth where consciousness could survive after the body that housed it had died. Shortly after that he came across the papers concerning The Pines and, always a gambler, decided to place his stake there.

  "If other things live on there," he had told Gabrielle, "then why not me? If I can die there, perhaps I can live there as well, waiting for you, until we can be together forever."

  It had not been unexpected. She had seen it coming slowly, seen the idea take root and grow in his imagination long before he seriously made the suggestion. When he had, she'd been ready for it, and had agreed only on the condition that she could accompany him to the house and stay with him until he gained the knowledge he sought.

  And now that knowledge was within reach, and they cried both in relief and in sorrow, and what heard them remained silent.

  ~*~

  The suite was nice, very nice. It was like what they called railroad car apartments when Cummings was a kid—a long living room, bedroom, and bath joined end to end. The living room had a couch, three comfortable chairs, a desk, and a fireplace, as well as a tall shelf of books, mostly new hardcover best sellers of the past few years as well as some reference works and a few coffee table volumes. The bedroom was comfortable without being lavish, and the bathroom was the largest Cummings had ever seen—about ten by fifteen with a large clawfooted tub and a separate shower stall that he put to immediate use after he'd finished unpacking.

  The warm water felt good, and he was happy to find that the shower head was a modern jet-spray job. As he luxuriated in its needle-sharpness, letting the steam wrap around him like a hot fluffy towel, he looked beyond the thirty-one days to the time when he would leave this place with a million dollars. It would be more than enough to pay back some old debts he owed. But beyond even that was the thought of David Neville. And David Neville's billions.

  With a man like Neville behind him, there would be no limits to what he could do. And here he was, locked up with him for an entire month. He'd have to be careful, though—couldn't afford to be too pushy. Neville would spot that right away. Maybe he'd been born into his wealth, but it would still make him jaded, distrustful. Hell, he'd been enough of a smartass so far.

  But a month was a long time, and Neville would probably be looking for someone to talk to, relate to, and Cummings as a businessman would certainly have more in common with him than McNeely or that jerk Wickstrom.

  As long as he played it cool, maybe let Neville come to him . . . but the wife could be a problem. Neville seemed to be pretty tight with her, and Cummings hoped the month wouldn't turn into a haunted house honeymoon for the pair to the exclusion of himself. Maybe there was a way to slide the two of them apart.

  Like Iago. The day Dan Percy had been let go, he'd come into Cummings's office and called him Iago. Far from insulting Cummings, he'd been flattered by it, and that night he'd read Othello for the first time since college. He especially liked the line, "And what's he then that says I play the villain . . ." It was true, he thought. It all depends on where you stand.

  He turned off the spray and stepped onto the bathmat, drying his hair vigorously. The towel was over his face when he heard the voices, and he froze, suddenly afraid to pull it away and look at what was grunting and moaning in the next room.

  The fear remained, but the curiosity made him slowly draw the towel away from his face until he could see into the bedroom through the bathroom door he was certain had been closed. A man and a woman lay naked on the bed. The man was kneeling over the woman, his hands locked around her throat. Though the man's back was to Cummings so that he could not see the face, he could see the woman's. It was horribly distorted, the eyes and tongue bulging like a dead animal's he had once seen on the highway. The skin of her face was a bluish-purple, and her hands swayed crazily in the air as if trying to beat the man away. The man's large penis was fully erect, towering over the woman's breasts and glistening wetly, stiffening with each pulse of the man's fingers on the woman's neck.

  "No!" shouted Cummings, involuntarily rushing forward, ready to push the man off the whimpering victim. But instead, he found himself lying sprawled across the empty bed. Panicked, he threw himself onto the floor and backed away into the corner as though the bed held a rabid grizzly.

  What happened? he thought over and over again. They could not have been ghosts—they had been too real. He hadn't been able to see through them, they hadn't been wispy and insubstantial—they had been two living people on his bed who had simply vanished, turned off like a light bulb.

  What happened?

  When he stopped trembling, he stood up and looked at the bed. Except for the rumpling of the bedclothes he himself had caused, there were no other marks. No sweat, no semen, no blood. It was as though the man and the woman had never been.

  Chapter Four

  "Hello?" Wickstrom called softly. "Anyone there?"

  He'd showered and tried to take a nap, but had been unsuccessful. Every time he'd drift off to sleep, the memory of that huge voice that had filled the house would come surging back into his mind. So he'd gotten up, dressed, and started to explore. The gym on the third floor was his first stop, and he'd been happy to find a Nautilus system as well as free weights, two benches, and a stationary bike. Maybe later today he'd have a little workout.

  Later today. He smiled and shook his head, wondering what the hell later today meant. The lack of a clock was going to be harder to get used to than the ghosts, if ghosts there were. He was damned if he could come up with any logical explanation for what had happened in the Great Hall. At first he'd thought, like Cummings, that it had been a trick with hidden speakers. But after he'd seen Neville's face, he'd known that if it were a trick, even Neville wasn't in on it.

  Wickstrom stepped into the hall again and walked toward the center of the building, planning to visit the third floor lounge next. He stopped, though, at the railing overlooking the Great Hall three floors below. The room was impressive, even with the steel shutters covering the exquisite stained glass. He noticed the balconies then, running the length of both sides of the room. There were a pair on the second floor, too, and he wondered about their purpose. They were narrow, two feet wide, and they led nowhere, only down the sides of the hall.

  Ornamentation perhaps, he thought, remembering the nearly hidden clerestory walks at St. Patrick's Cathedral, where his mother had taken him for mass once a year instead of St. Anthony's, their usual parish church. He remembered wanting to find some hidden stairs to lead him out on those stones in the shadows under the arches, wh
ere he could look down and see everyone praying and singing, never suspecting that he watched them from above. It would be, he'd thought, like God felt.

  The memory took him then, and he walked slowly and carefully out upon the left walkway. The railing was low and insubstantial, and he feared to put his weight on it. At the center of the walk he paused and looked down. All the illumination was from below, and he wondered how he must look. Like a ghost, he thought, a ghost like the one he imagined stalking the clerestory walkway of the cathedral—a cowled monk, holding a guttering candle, extending a clutching hand . . .

  "Exploring?"

  The nearness of the voice surprised him, and as he spun toward it, he lost his balance, tottering on the narrow walkway. He lurched back from the rail and struck the wall with an impact that sent him to the floor of the balcony. McNeely was by his side in an instant.

  "My God, are you all right? I'm sorry—I thought you saw me!"

  "Saw you?" Wickstrom muttered, rubbing his head where it had hit the wall. "I didn't see you at all. Just heard your voice like you were right next to me . . ."

  "I thought I saw you nod at me. At any rate, I apologize. Stupid thing to do to startle someone out on this . . . precipice. Are you okay?"

  Wickstrom nodded. "Yeah. Just too jumpy, I guess. But honest to Pete, I thought somebody was right beside me."

  McNeely frowned for a moment. "Let's try something. You stay here." He edged past Wickstrom and walked all the way to the southern end of the building. Then he turned and spoke. "Can you hear me?"

  It was only a whisper, but Wickstrom heard it as clearly as if McNeely were a foot away. "Yes," Wickstrom whispered back. "Perfectly."

  McNeely nodded, and Wickstrom could see that he was smiling as he rejoined him. "A whispering gallery. I can see this place is going to be full of surprises."

  "How does it work?"

  McNeely shrugged. "Beats me. But with this kind of acoustics it's no wonder that whatever it was was so loud this morning."

  "Is it still morning?" Wickstrom asked.

  "You've got me. I've heard of those internal clocks some people have, but it's something I've envied rather than possessed. I suspect it's around eleven or so, though I wouldn't wager any money on it."

  "Why not? We're millionaires."

  "We're millionaires the day we get out of here and not before." He gestured toward the third floor wings. "Let's get back on terra firma, eh?" The suggestion suited Wickstrom, and together they left the balcony. "As I said before," said McNeely, "exploring a bit?"

  Wickstrom nodded. "The gym looks good. I was just going to check the lounge."

  "Want some company?"

  "Love some. This place gives me the creeps."

  "I know what you mean," McNeely said. "When I was putting my things away, I had the craziest notion that I was being watched."

  "You probably were. I'd expect Neville to have hidden cameras in each room."

  "He doesn't."

  "He . . ."

  "I looked. In my room at least."

  "Oh." Wickstrom nodded admiringly.

  "You were a policeman. Ever get into electronic surveillance?"

  "Had a class in it, but I was never involved firsthand."

  "Here we are," said McNeely, opening the door of the lounge. "At least the lights work. Now, just give me a second." Wickstrom watched while McNeely circled the room, lifting, peering, tapping in a series of fluid motions. After two minutes he stopped and smiled. "If there's a bug in here, it's a damned small one. Well, what'll you have? The bar's well stocked, as promised."

  "Any beer?"

  "Let's see." McNeely opened the small refrigerator. "Bass ale?"

  "Fine."

  "Me too,” He opened the bottles and passed one to Wickstrom. "Here's to an interesting month … what's your first name?"

  "Kelly."

  "Kelly. Mine's George. To you, Kelly." He took a large sip while Wickstrom drained half his bottle. "What, uh, what line of work are you in, George?"

  "I was a soldier. Now I'm in the line of work you're in." They both grinned.

  "Army?" Wickstrom asked. "Marines?"

  McNeely held up a hand. "Stop right there. Marines," he nodded.

  "In 'Nam?"

  "Yes. You there?"

  Wickstrom nodded. "Just a grunt. Sixty-six to eight, right out of school."

  "See much action?"

  "Some."

  ~*~

  Wickstrom's face told McNeely he didn't want to elaborate, so he let it go. "It was a hell of a war," he said. "I was there on and off the whole time. Saw a lot of good people die."

  They were both silent for a moment, and McNeely wondered if he should tell Wickstrom what he did for a living after the war had ended. He was surprised to discover that he liked the younger man a great deal. Wickstrom reminded him of Jeff in a way, and as McNeely realized that, he drew back emotionally. Things were going to be hairy enough without something like that to complicate matters. He wondered how Jeff was going to deal with this absence. After south, he'd promised that it would be the last. No more long trips, no four- and five-month sojourns to countries Jeff had never heard of. But he knew he couldn't have kept the promise. He loved Jeff, but he loved war more.

  Or was love the proper word? At times he thought the motives for war were absurd, insane. But placing that aside, forgetting that there was (and was there ever?) a right side and a wrong side, war was the only thing that made him feel alive and useful. That gut-grabbing tension of not knowing if you were going to finish the day alive was like a drug to McNeely. He needed it, and needed it enough to go after it over and over and over again, long after "noble" wars only existed in veterans' feeble minds.

  "So what did you do afterward?"

  McNeely looked into the open honest face and told the truth. "I became a merc. A mercenary soldier.”

  “Jesus. I bet you have stories."

  McNeely smiled. "Hardly. There's a lot more bullshit to wade through is about the only difference."

  "Where've you been?"

  "Pardon? Oh, I get you. Mostly south. South America, Central America. Africa, of course. Another beer?"

  Wickstrom drained the bottle and nodded.

  "You shoot pool?" McNeely asked.

  "As long as it's not for money."

  "Let's have our next beers in the billiard room. Maybe we'll put a couple of bottle rings on Neville's table, eh?"

  Wickstrom laughed. "Sounds good, George." And together they walked downstairs.

  ~*~

  Wickstrom felt better, a hell of a lot better. He'd been afraid that the month in The Pines was going to be unpleasant at best. The Nevilles certainly weren't his type, though he thought that perhaps the wife had smiled at him a bit too warmly; Cummings was a shit he'd found that out almost immediately; and at first McNeely had seemed very cold and distant, so he'd had little hope of forming a friendship to see him through the stay.

  But now it seemed he'd found, if not a friend, at least a very congenial acquaintance who, as it turned out, could teach him a considerable amount about pool.

  "Do you play much?" asked McNeely after winning the third straight game of eight ball.

  Wickstrom shook his head. "I did when I was a kid. Being a cop didn't give me much time for it. Pretty rusty, I'm afraid.”

  "A month of practice should pick you up." McNeely swung his head back and forth as if trying to get his bearings. "Do you remember which way the rest rooms were on this floor? The ale seems to have gotten to me."

  "Either end, I think."

  "I'll find it. You can rack them for another game if you want."

  "Okay, I'd like that." Left alone, Wickstrom racked the balls and took his cue to the cue rack, thinking that a shorter one might help his aim. Finding one, he sat in a Morris chair in a corner away from the lamp over the pool table and relaxed for a moment. He wondered idly what time it was and closed his eyes.

  He hadn't realized he was so tired. Hovering between wakef
ulness and sleep, the silence seemed to embrace him, drawing him into a vast warmth that caressed his body luxuriously, until he surrendered to it and let himself drift into the comforting restful darkness.

  Suddenly he was poleaxed by whiteness.

  It came upon his consciousness with the force of a thousand photo-floodlights jabbing into his eyes, and his whole body lurched with the impact. He blinked wildly, trying to make his fire-bleached pupils create form out of the landscape of white that held him in thrall, but the effort was useless. There was only whiteness.

  Then the cold came. it was as though the heavy sweater and wool slacks he wore had vanished, as though a chill beyond imagining ate through his flesh and muscle to freeze the bones beneath. Any second they would splinter like icicles. He was lost in a frozen waste, he who had lived surrounded by people all his life in the honeycomb of New York. There was no one around him now, nothing but coldness and whiteness stretching away forever and ever and…

  He screamed. And a buffeting wind hit his face with breathtaking fury. It seemed to be calling something that sounded like his name. Through the rush and blast of terror that battered his mind, he could hear it, far away and faint.

  Tekeli-li . . . Tekeli-li …

  Clearer now…

  Tekeli-li! TEKELI-LI!

  KELLY! KELLY!

  Wickstrom's eyes jerked open.

  "Kelly!" McNeely called again, driving short sharp slaps onto his pale cheeks. Wickstrom's hand sprang up and grabbed McNeely's wrist. McNeely tensed as if about to pull away, but instead, he smiled and ignored the pressure of Wickstrom's iron grip. "You've been dreaming."

  Wickstrom looked at him, not recognizing McNeely at first. When he did, he let his grip relax and wiped beads of sweat from his forehead and beneath his eyes.

  "It must have been a beauty," said McNeely.

  Wickstrom shook his head dully. "It . . ." The words locked in his throat and he cleared it roughly. "It was horrible."