The sheriff attributed the attack to a vagrant, but townsfolk knew otherwise. It was Jed Sloane arising from his muddy grave. The town locked up tight against this ghoulish invader. But only a month ago another corpse was found: the unidentified nude body of a girl. Her face was missing.
I stared hard into the sheriff’s eyes. “Do you think Jed is still alive?”
“Of course not. No one could live in the swamp—and he never made it out.”
“Are you satisfied that it was his remains you found?”
“The pathologist was ninety-five percent certain.”
“Why not one hundred percent?”
“Because his jaw was decomposed. It couldn’t be checked against X-rays.”
“Do you have a line on who’s responsible for the murders?”
“Nothing that would hold up in a court of law. But we’re keeping tabs on a few suspicious characters.”
“Local people?”
“I can’t go into it at this point.”
“Well, I guess I’ll mosey over to the lawyer’s office.”
“Your stepfather didn’t leave a will, but you’re the only heir. You can take possession of the house at any time.”
“I might sell it,” I said.
The sheriff rubbed his chin. “It will be difficult to find a buyer, all things considered.” He hesitated. I felt he wanted to add something, but held back.
As I was about to leave, he said, “Townspeople don’t blame you for your brother, Mark.”
I shook hands with him and went over to the lawyer’s. Transferring the deed to my name was a simple matter. Lawyer Murchison agreed that the property would be a “hard sell,” unless someone decided to build a new house on the foundation. But given local superstition, buyers would be scarce. I indicated that I was considering moving in myself. My stepfather had left three thousand dollars in the bank, which would go toward repairs.
As I headed back to the house, though, the prospect of spending even one night there oppressed me. From a purely rational point of view, it made sense to move in. I thought of all the rent money that had gone down the drain. First as a college student. Then as a teacher stretching a threadbare income. This was my one chance to live rent-free. It was the kind of break I’d been hoping for. I’d even heard of a vacant teaching post nearby. Yet ...
The house loomed up, gaunt, ungainly, wrapped in absolute stillness. When I was a child, it was the only house on the block, with weeds and stunted trees elbowing for space. Now there was a house on each corner, enclosed by high picket fences.
The sun was going down. No point in putting it off. I turned the key in the lock. A sudden gust threw the door open.
I have you now, kid brother. I have you just where I want you. Don’t be afraid. Enter. Step all the way in.
I walked inside and switched on the light. The house was unnaturally cold, in sharp contrast with the balmy outdoor temperature.
It’s been many years. You’ve grown, Mark. But you’re still not half the man I am. Not a quarter. Remember how I used to tie your hands and tear your hair till you ran crying to mother? Remember, Mark?
Nerves. Must be. I could swear I heard a voice—a faint dead voice from long ago, fleeing before me, just beyond reach or comprehension.
As I proceeded from room to room, memories drifted back with a sharp prickle of recollection. I could almost hear my mother calling from the kitchen: “Mark, dinner’s on the table.”
I slowly opened the kitchen door. Empty. I fought down a wave of disappointment. The dead stay dead. Still, I could almost see Mom puttering about the kitchen. I reached out and—
“Mom! Why did you have to leave?” The cry I’d repeated to myself thousands of times welled up inside me. The child, trapped within, still struggled with a reality he could not grasp or accept.
Crying for your Ma, Mark? I’ll give you something to cry about. Just wait.
I stepped into the living room. It was much as I remembered it. Heavy mahogany furniture, vintage 1940. A worn Oriental rug. Even the old Victrola; my stepfather had never replaced it.
The Victrola! The tone arm was rising, positioning itself over the turntable. As I watched in disbelief, the turntable started to spin. The stylus fell, scratching, clicking, revolving in its preordained orbit.
“I’d like to get you
On a slow boat to China,
All by ourselves,
All alone.”
Bing Crosby.
“All alone
All alone
All alone.”
The needle was stuck.
“All alone
All alone
All—”
I yanked the tone arm—it flew out of my hand. Another platter plopped into place. The stylus descended.
“All alone
All alone
All alone ...”
I cupped my hands to my ears
“All alone
All alone ...”
The room was turning—
“All ...”
Swaying—
“alone ...”
My head swimming—
“... alone.”
I swung my fist and sent it crashing down on the turntable.
The needle skated across the grooves—zzzzzzzzzzt—and began its slow circuit back again. I grabbed the arm and held it, suspended in midair. Something living. Fighting me. My palm was sweaty. It slipped from my grasp, dropped on the record.
“a slow boat—click—China—click—
Alone—click—
Alone
All alone—”
I dropped to my knees and yanked the power cord from the socket.
“Allllonnne.”
Bing’s voice dropped an octave, held the note, and died, reluctantly.
The room stopped spinning. I lay on the floor, breathing hard. How had the record player started? There had to be an explanation. The stylus must have rested on the rim of the record. It took only a slight jar—my footsteps, for example—to actuate the mechanism. I wasn’t completely convinced, but at least it was a reasonable explanation. Gradually my sense of control seeped back; I was no longer overcome by a feeling of helplessness.
As I stood up and walked into the hallway, my eye fell upon the cellar door. As kids, Jed and I used to play down there. Jed was six years older, but acted much younger than his age, despite his tall and hulking appearance. When he got angry, his fury was unbounded, like the tantrum of a gargantuan infant. At thirteen he’d snapped the arm of a gym teacher for refusing to let him have a basketball.
I might as well inspect the cellar. I opened the door and found the light switch. The dim overhead bulb cast a beam of pale, dusty light. A damp and musty odor hung heavily in the air. As I reached the foot of the stairs, I noticed that one of the windows was partway open. I closed it and fastened the latch. Below the window, the remains of rotting spider webs hung down like strands of ancient tapestry.
In a corner stood an old cardboard box overflowing with toys. I began rummaging through the contents, lost in the archaeology of my childhood. A Tom Thumb typewriter, an Official Hockey game, a chemistry lab, an erector set ... I pulled out a Ouija board, recalling the hours Jed and I had watched it spin its mystic messages. Without thinking, I placed my hand upon the planchette—a miniature tripod mounted on casters that rolled across the board, tracing out letters. Something stirred inside me, a heightened sense of uneasiness, and I turned with a start. For it seemed as if someone had crept up close behind me and was staring over my shoulder. A shiver raced down my back. And then, for a moment, I felt the distinct pressure of an invisible hand resting on the opposite side of the planchette! Just as suddenly it lifted and, as if released, the planchette spun across the board, stopping at the letter D.
My hand was trembling as the planchette rolled back to the center of the board. It began to move again, by slow degrees. My hand seemed glued to it, unable to resist its movement, even by a concentrated act of will. I watc
hed, fascinated, as it stopped at the letter A and proceeded across the board, spelling out the word DANGER.
My subconscious mind was guiding my hand. It was delivering a warning to me. That was the only explanation. Unless—
“Is someone in this room with me?” I asked out loud.
The planchette spun across to the word YES.
“Are you my stepfather?”
The indicator rotated, pointing to NO.
“Mother?”
The planchette reversed itself. YES.
I’d really gone off the deep end, I thought to myself—conversing with spirits! I regarded myself as a skeptic in psychical matters. I didn’t believe in an afterlife. But there was a part of me, usually suppressed, that yearned to believe, and I was letting it run away with me. I grasped desperately at the possibility of communicating with my mother, while deriding my suggestibility.
The planchette began to move again. Swiftly it spelled out G-E-T, paused, then rolled on to the letters O-U-T.
“Get out of the cellar?”
H-O-U-S-E.
“Get out of the house?”
YES.
“There’s danger in the house?”
The planchette spelled out J-E-D.
Jed! I felt an aching constriction in my throat. Jed in the house with me.
Panicky, I fled up the stairs, seized the doorknob and—The door was stuck! God, no! I reared back and threw my weight against it. Repeatedly. Until the frame splintered and the door rocked open.
D-r-r-r-ring. The phone. On the hallway table. I snatched it up, out of breath.
“Hello?”
“I’d like to get you ... All by ourselves ... All alone. All alone—”
“Who is it?” I screamed.
“All by ourselves ... All alone—”
The receiver fell from my hand, clattering to the floor.
“All alone. All alone ...”
The insane refrain continued until I dived for the receiver and slammed it back in place.
“Jed, are you here, in the house with me?” I yelled, my voice breaking.
Silence.
“Come out and show yourself!”
Silence.
“If you’re a ghost, materialize! Do your stuff!”
Do you really expect an answer? I berated myself. You’re an hysterical fool. The house is empty.
But the phone. How do you explain the phone?
I can’t explain it. Maybe it’s a prank. A neighbor’s kid. Heard me playing the record—so now he’s playing it over the phone for kicks.
That’s pretty thin. Who you kidding? Explain the Ouija board.
My own hand was moving the planchette, directed by my subconscious. Psychoanalysts could explain it quite easily. Unconscious fears, guilt, surfacing in fantasy. The child is father of the man.
Crap!
I stood vibrating with tension, propped against the wall. All nerves. I wasn’t going to let nerves defeat me. In college I dreaded public speaking. So I forced myself to attend speech classes. Afterwards, I still got stage fright, but I learned to live with it.
And now—I wanted to leave so badly I could almost feel my legs propelling me toward the door.
GET OUT OF THE HOUSE.
Leave. Put the house up for sale. Maybe someone—But I’d always hate myself for a coward.
Reluctantly, I started up the stairs, my legs as rigid as stilts.
Yes, come upstairs, young master. Lord and master of the house. I’m waiting for you. I’ve been waiting a long time.
Again a voice seemed to fly before me in a flurry of near-inaudible echoes. Echoes that hinted of the past but hovered just beyond the reach of understanding. I couldn’t identify words; yet there was a voice. A cold wave swept over me, an icy premonition of misfortune.
GET OUT OF THE HOUSE.
I halted at the top of the stairs, then turned toward my old bedroom. The door was closed. I pushed it open and snapped on the light.
My stepfather! I flinched back in shock. His eyes were riveted on me, unblinking, glaring straight through me. His craggy, rockbound face was fixed in a grudging smile. Or was it a scowl?
It gave me a jar, seeing the old boy again, even framed in a portrait above my bed. He must have taken my room after I left home. The smell of stale pipe tobacco still clung to the faded yellow wallpaper. I turned the portrait to the wall and let in some air.
The bed was made. He was always neat as a pin, and quick to find fault with others less scrupulous. I took the blanket and threw it in a heap on the floor. Then I fell into bed exhausted.
I woke with a start. The room was pitch-black. Someone was calling. Or was I dreaming? I sat up on one elbow. A volley of loud, raucous voices swept across the hallway. For a moment I wanted to duck under the sheet, as I did when a child in the same bed. Instead I shouted, “Who is it?”
The voices continued without pause, a jumble of indistinguishable sounds. I hauled myself out of bed, crossed to the door, and peeked out. The corridor was empty! Yet the clamor continued. It must be coming from upstairs. The attic.
Tiptoeing down the hall, I mounted the ladder to the attic. There was a shrill outcry as I pushed the trapdoor open and glanced inside. A pale stream of light radiated across the room. It emanated from a television set. Our old Dumont 16-inch TV with a circular screen, purchased in 1950. It had broken down years ago, to be replaced by an RCA console. Yet it was playing at full volume!
Howdy Doody pointed to a calendar. November, 1955! “Do you know what holiday comes next week, boys and girls?”
“Thanksgiving Day!” the Peanut Gallery chorused.
Buffalo Bob Smith told the children that old Phineas T. Bluster was opposed to children celebrating Thanksgiving Day.
“Boo!” cried Double Doody, Howdy’s twin brother.
Clarabell the clown honked his horn in disapproval.
“Don’t you want to celebrate Thanksgiving, kids?” Buffalo Bob asked.
“Yes,” the Peanut Gallery cried.
The Flubadub pranced out on the stage: a creature with a dog’s ears, a duck’s head, cat’s whiskers, a giraffe’s neck, a raccoon’s tale, and a feather-covered body. He gave Phineas T. Bluster a nip on the backside.
The children roared with laughter.
Uncannily, I seemed to remember that episode. November, 1955. But how—?
I turned the channel selector to 2. Arthur Godfrey and all “the little Godfreys” appeared on the screen. On channel 5 Art Linkletter rummaged through a woman’s handbag. Channel 7: The Mouseketeers. Channel 9: Superman.
I watched with a feeling of unreality, of being out of sync with time as I knew it. Images of the past flickered past in kaleidoscopic succession until, suddenly, the picture scrambled. This lasted for a few moments. Then Ralph Edwards came on the screen.
“This is your life, Mark Sloane!” He held a large photograph album with my name engraved on it.
I reeled back, feeling shaky and dazed.
“Do you remember this voice, Mark?”
“Hello, Mark, I’m the girl with blond pigtails you loved to dip in the inkwell.”
“Marge Gillespie!” I cried. “Oh my God!” My face turned red with embarrassment.
“Yes, Marge Gillespie, Mark.”
A dumpy-looking girl of nine marched out on the stage.
Then another offstage voice called out. “Remember me, Mark? We used to pinch apples from Mr. Myers’ orchard.”
Willie Nelson!
Willie bounded out, waving his hands. He didn’t look a day older. “Hi, Mark, how you been?”
My head swam with confusion. And then—
“Have you done your homework?”
Mom was standing in the kitchen next to a young boy. He turned and faced me for an instant. I gave a gasp. It was me at age ten.
“I was just going upstairs, Mom,” I answered, making for the door. I heard my footsteps on the staircase.
My mother bent over the stove, her back to me.
“Mom!” I screamed. “Watch out! Jed has a knife!”
She couldn’t hear me. They were enacting a scene from the past.
“Mom!” I fell to my knees, pounding my fists on the television screen.
The knife plunged through the small of her back. She gave a shriek, fell forward on the stove, and slumped to the floor.
I sobbed with an anguish I had not known since I was ten. That was how my mother had died—at the hands of my stepbrother. My family had concealed the facts from me. I may have suspected it, but pushed the thought away. My aunt came for me that day and whisked me off to her home, where I remained for ten years.
My attention turned to the screen again. Jed was standing over Mom. Abruptly he darted out the back door and returned a minute later, holding an axe. He entered the hall and started up the stairs.
He’s coming upstairs!
GET OUT OF THE HOUSE.
As he neared the top of the stairs, the picture wavered and Jed’s features began to dissolve. Lines appeared in his forehead; fissures formed at the corners of his mouth. He was aging before my eyes. The Jed that crossed the landing was a fully grown man, wielding an axe. He made for the attic. I saw him mount the ladder.
“I’d like to get you ... All by ourselves. All alone—”
His footsteps grew closer. With one agile bound, Jed heaved himself up into the attic, an empty grin bisecting his face. He brandished the axe.
“NOOOOOO!”
My legs collapsed. He towered above me, shoulders bulky, features coarse and heavy.
Now to finish you off.
“Jed, don’t!” I scrambled to my feet.
You took everything from me—my father, my father’s love. You stole him. You and your mother. Now you have the house, rightfully mine.
The Year's Best Horror Stories 10 Page 12
