Spawn of Hell

by William Schoell

  Then all three of them had been feeling so good, having such a good time—and how often did she, did any of them have good times, really?—that they’d had another and another and it was a wonder they had managed to get up from the table. Eleanor had wisely ordered two cups of strong, black coffee. She had a good distance to drive on the night-swept highway. Although the traffic was thin at this hour, there was no sense taking chances.

  Clair froze in her tracks. There were voices in the living room; someone was in there. More than one. She listened; She recognized her husband’s voice. And a woman’s. The nurse. The nurse he’d hired to take care of George. She felt ashamed, but she had to listen, had to find out of there were any foundation to her insane, hysterical suspicions. Although she could not quite make out what they were saying—only a word here and there, a phrase—she was relieved by the tone of their voices, still denoting an employee—employer relationship, his deep and authoritative, hers submissive and quieter. They must have been talking about George.

  Clair crept up carefully. From this new vantage point she could see their reflections in the living room window, although they themselves were still out of view, as she was out of theirs. The nurse had a drink in her hand! It was hard to tell, but it looked as if she had been crying. She seemed quite upset. Ted, always in control, was sitting in an easy chair, holding a scotch and soda, using his resonant voice as a mainstay to calm the woman down, to soothe her.

  “. . . never seen anything . . . like . . .” the nurse said. She was a pretty woman in her late twenties. Efficient, or so Bartley claimed. Good figure. Always neat and clean. She slept in a room adjacent to the one where George was kept. She was on hand most of the time, although she had her off-hours, loosely defined.

  “. . . will never give up hope . . .” Bartley said, holding his feelings in as usual. God, Clair wanted to scream, to bellow, anything to break his composure. He had brought all of this upon them, and she was the one who wept.

  “. . . I’m not sure how much longer . . . take . . .” the nurse said, rubbing her arm with her free hand.

  “. . . know it’s trying, but we must . . . we can do.”

  Clair wanted to know what had happened. She strode into the room and startled the both of them, nearly causing the nurse to spill her drink.

  “Clair. I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “Mrs. Bartley. You frightened me.”

  “A drink during working hours? Isn’t that risky?” Clair said testily, directing her question to her husband instead of the nurse.

  “Miss Hamilton has had quite a fright, Clair,” Bartley said slowly. “I thought a drink might do her some good. Besides, she’s entitled to some relaxation now and then. There’s usually no trouble at this time of night anyway. George is sleeping quite soundly.”

  Next he’ll have her in here in an evening gown and mascara, she thought. “Well, I can use a drink myself.” She hoped it was not apparent that she’d already had a few. She did not go near Ted or kiss him, not wanting to betray the alcohol on her breath. He got up and made her a gimlet, as she instructed. “What happened?” she asked Miss Hamilton.

  The nurse looked at Ted before answering. This annoyed Clair a great deal. Was she not the boy’s mother? Didn’t she have a right to know everything that went on? Did she need her husband’s permission for even this?

  Ted nodded, almost imperceptibly. Clair waited patiently, then said: “Well?”

  “George gave me a scare.” Miss Hamilton had bright yellow hair pulled up on top of her head, although a few strands hung down stylishly by her cheeks. She wore little makeup, and had a naturally creamy complexion. She was a tall woman, and a strong one, with muscular, but feminine, arms that played a great deal of tennis and were capable of lifting the heaviest private patients. Ted had told Clair that he had hired her from a very reputable agency. “At around nine o’clock, he just—stopped breathing. Oh, it was nothing serious. He started breathing again of his own accord a few moments later. No damage.”

  “Then why aren’t you with him now? It could happen again!”

  “Darling, please stay calm,” Bartley chastened. “It was just an initial reaction to his new medicine. He’s over the hurdle now. Jean sat with him for some time afterwards, and there were no repercussions. She’s carrying the beeper with her. If there is any change in his vital signs, the machine will beep and his room is just down the hall.” The specialized beeper had been expensive, but it was worth it. Unlike most doctors’ beepers, which alerted them to phone calls, this one—developed by the firm Ted worked for—notified a doctor or nurse any time the machines the patient was hooked up to registered the slightest change. “So you see, there’s nothing to worry about. Here, take your drink. It will help you.”

  She took it gratefully. “Where were you so late?” Ted asked.

  She decided to tell the truth; any lie could be easily uncovered. “I went with some of the ladies to Joey’s for a nightcap. I ran into David Hammond there—”

  ‘What did you say to him?”

  “I only had a chance to say hello and goodbye,” she lied. “His date for the evening turned out to be Anna Braddon. You know, the TV model.”

  “She’s beautiful,” Nurse Hamilton said.

  “And everyone was so eager at seeing her that I’m afraid I didn’t get a chance to say much to David. She’s staying with him at his father’s house. I didn’t get a chance to ask about Jonathan, either. I must call David tomorrow.”

  “Is that wise, Clair?” He looked at her pointedly.

  “Oh. All right then. I won’t.” She remembered that they’d told Mimi to tell David what amounted to a bold and outrageous lie when George had turned up at his apartment earlier that year. That was when his father had still been furious with George, unaware of how serious his condition had been. He’d sent down men to look for him in the city and they’d found him and brought him back—and he had gotten progressively worse ever since. She could hardly bear to look at him now. Still, he was her son. And she loved him. She did not understand what had happened to him or why, but she loved him.

  She put down her drink and moved towards the exit from the room. “Where are you going?” her husband demanded.

  “To see George. I want to see my son before I go to sleep.”

  “There’s no need for that. He’s fine.”

  “Ted. He’s my son.”

  “There’s no need to disturb him. Besides, you know how it always upsets you to see him the way he is.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Please, Mrs. Bartley.” Nurse Hamilton moved towards her, her hands both free now. She was tensing her body.

  “What’s the matter with you two? Why can’t I go in to see my own son? I’m going, and that’s all there is to it.” She moved again, starting for the corridor.

  “Miss Hamilton,” Bartley said. “Stop her.”

  Suddenly the nurse grabbed her from behind, pinioning her arms. “Damn you! Damn you!” Clair struggled and snarled at the nurse. “Leave me alone! You may have taken my husband from me but I won’t let you take my son!”

  Startled by the woman’s unfounded accusation, the nurse released her and stepped back, looking towards her employer for guidance. That was fatal. Clair slapped her savagely in the face and ran down the hall towards George’s room before she could be stopped again.

  “Clair! Don’t! Don’t go in there! Please listen to me!” Bartley ran down the hall after her, brushing the purse aside, desperately trying to reach his wife before she reached their son’s room. “For God’s sake—Don’t open that door!”

  But it was too late. She had it open already, and was looking inside. She was gasping for breath, her eyes widened in disbelief. Her fingers shook, then her arms, and her entire body. She lifted her hands to her mouth. And she screamed. She screamed so loud that it resounded through every room of the house.

  And then she plummeted to the ground in a dead faint.

  The moon was out tonight
, and though it was not full, its light nonetheless bathed the earth in a gray glow, casting deep dark shadows where creatures could hide and wait. Eleanor Morrison concentrated on the road ahead of her, too frightened to think about what might be watching and waiting in the woods on either side of the highway. She was a good way out of town now, so isolated and vulnerable. She had been hoping that the liquor would have affected her in such a way that everything would have had an air of unreality about it, like a movie or a play viewed from afar. Nothing would seem menacing then. How could it? She would be safe in a gentle, protective haze of booze.

  But the closer she got to her house, the more she realized that such peace and safety was not to be. The coffee she had drunk had sobered her up enough to enable her to drive. She had thought that she would not have cared whether she got home in one piece of not, that this terrible fear she lived with would have made her welcome death. But instinct had prevailed, and she found herself fighting her intoxication every inch of the way, sobering more each mile, so that she could traverse this lonely stretch of highway with the greatest of care. She didn’t know why she was being so cautious; there was nothing waiting for her at home but more unending terror until the dawn broke through; and even then, there was the loneliness. She would have stayed alone longer in Joey’s Bar and Grille had her sense of propriety not balked at the very idea. She’d stayed for almost two hours after Clair and Eleanor had left, pretending that she wanted to “catch her breath” before embarking. She’d watched the TV set over the bar, nursed the cups of coffee, and listened to the coarse, vulgar voices of the men drinking beer. A lady did not do such things. That was for drunks and teenagers.

  She saw the lights of her house—she always left a few on, not so much to scare off burglars, but to light up the way—as she turned onto the side road leading up the mountain. She thought for a moment that she’d seen something in the light of her car as the auto swerved around the corner; a person, a boy really. She hadn’t gotten a very good look. But no, what would a boy be doing out here at this time of night? It could have been a trick, thieves waiting to ambush her on the road. Or perhaps the ghost of the boy who died in the Harper home that horrible night. Only he had been much younger.

  She turned into her driveway, which was well-lit, and parked the car outside the garage. She could not bear the thought of driving it in there at this hour. Of leaving an entrance to her home wide open for the few minutes it would take for her to drive in, get out and pull down the heavy door. No, she would leave the car out here tonight. She disembarked and ran for the front door.

  The noise of the crickets seemed unnaturally loud. A warm breeze rustled the leaves of the trees, and a distant howl of an unseen animal sent a chill through her body.

  The house was a large, rectangularly shaped structure, the front higher than the back, constructed of brick and wood and glass. The living room was almost entirely enclosed by huge windows which looked out onto the forests stretching down into the valley. Although it was not really that high up on the mountain, the view was still quite breathtaking, particularly on clear, sunny days. A terrace ran around three sides of the house, hanging over the undergrowth below them. A stone fireplace was set in the middle of the wall, between glass doors leading out to the terrace.

  The house was closer to the Harpers’—now an empty, ugly death house—than anyone else’s in Hillsboro. It was just as isolated—the woods around it just as thick and as capable of masking the approach of a hundred careful and clever killers—as the Harpers had been.

  And there was no one—absolutely no one—nearby.

  Eleanor got the key in the lock in one swift stroke, turned it, and pushed the door open, shutting herself safely inside.

  She stood there for a moment, letting out her breath, trying to relax. Her small nose, large brown eyes, tiny mouth all turned as one as her head darted around the foyer, looking for something, someone, some sign. She could feel the effects of the liquor again, warm and tempting, but she kept little booze in the house and did not intend to have any more. It might put her to sleep, true, but she wanted to be in possession of all her faculties, in case . . . in case a sound in the night woke her up and she had to prepare herself for them, prepare herself for the intruders when they came up the stairs to kill her the way they had killed the Harper family. She was living on borrowed time, and she knew it. Everyone said their murderers were far away from town by now, but she knew that criminals always returned, they waited until everyone’s guard was down, and then they returned, to plunder once more, to get the same “easy pickings” that had led them to the neighborhood in the first place. It was only a matter of time.

  She walked into the living room, which was already well-lighted, and sat down on the couch. She wondered about retiring early, or about reading a book, or making herself a cup of hot tea. Or more coffee. She wanted to sleep tonight, but did not feel like sleeping. Perhaps it would be better if she slept through it all, if she never woke to hear them approaching, to see them enter her bedroom, to feel them as they butchered her. Better to sleep through it all, to never wake up, if she was doomed to die anyway. But what if there was a chance, a small chance of escape? She asked herself why she clung to the idea of life so doggedly—was it mere instinct—or did she still feel there was yet a chance for happiness, to get something further out of life? If only she could think, could see things clearly. Ever since the murders she had come unglued, caught in a depression that refused to yield or budge an inch, refused to allow her the luxury of rational, unemotional thought. She had not been this bad off since her husband’s death. This was worse. Fear for the future was bad enough even when one was well-provided for; but fear of losing life itself, coldly, brutally, was far, far worse. And in one’s own home, too. She just couldn’t deal with it.

  She was giving herself the creeps again. She felt naked and vulnerable there in the living room with the lights on and those huge windows reflecting herself and her surroundings, but not permitting a glimpse into whatever might be waiting out there for her to put out the light. It seemed as if images of herself were spying on her, invading her privacy, entreating her to come join them in their ghostly mirror land. How she hated this horrible room. What had possessed them to put in such huge windows?

  They were too big for blinds and they had never bought curtains or drapes. “There’s no one way out here to spy on us,” her husband had said. During the day they had that wonderful view, and at night the moonlight, or the pitch blackness, had contrasted nicely with the warm glow of the room. They had never considered ruining the effect by covering up the windows. Now Eleanor realized she should have done something long ago, certainly after the murders. Drapes, curtains, blinds—anything would have been better than this. Even so, she would still be aware of how easy it would be for someone to look in, even with the drapes up, and how much easier it would be for them to creep up next to the house unnoticed. Perhaps with the windows uncovered like this and the lights on, the criminals might be deterred? No, they would realize that the reflection prevented her from seeing outside.

  She had made up her mind to go to bed when she heard the first noise. It had come from outside, near the end of the driveway. Like something falling and hitting the ground. Then she did something remarkable, something she never thought she would have done.

  She turned out the living room lights.

  She had felt too exposed under their glare, and though being in darkness had always been one of her greatest fears, she now found it preferable to standing out in the surrounding blackness as if she’d been holding a beacon. Now she had the advantage. They could no longer see in. She went close to the window which formed the left wall and peered outside, trying to distinguish something moving or standing near the trees where the sound had come from. There!—What was that? She thought she’d seen something moving slowly through the grass towards the terrace. What could it have been—a man crawling on his hands and knees perhaps?

  Her hand went up to he
r mouth and she stifled a cry. It was happening, finally happening. Stay calm, try to stay calm. She must get something to protect herself with. She must call the police. Maybe they would get here in time. She must do something!

  There was a scratching sound at the front door. Whatever she had seen was not alone. Someone else was trying to get in. Had she locked the door? My God, had she locked it when she’d come in, or had she been too drunk, too damn drunk to remember? She wanted desperately to check, but the scratching had become more furious and she was afraid to go near there. Force yourself, force yourself; it will get in. Why wasn’t it trying the doorknob, testing the lock? Why was it scratching like that?

  She ran to the door and checked it, relieved to see that she had locked it and put the chain in place. Yet it seemed so flimsy. Then she heard something crack under her feet. She looked downwards. A jagged mark had appeared in the door frame, loose slivers of wood fell onto the floor by her shoes. Something protruded from a hole in the door. She screamed out loud, stepped back, then came to a halt. Now they would know someone was inside. The same tools they had used to enter could be employed to murder her. She turned and started for the kitchen, for the precious phone she would use to call for help.

  Before she had moved two feet there was a burst of activity behind her and she felt musty air on her back. She was covered with sharp splinters of wood. She turned and saw that the door had practically been torn from its hinges. Something was crawling into the foyer. She wondered if she would see the face of her killer before he destroyed her.

  It was then that she realized that whatever was coming into her house that moment was definitely not a man; there was nothing human about it. It pulled itself towards her, and though she tried to run, she was caught, held tightly by fear and fascination; death did □ot seem important. She had to see what this thing was! She had to see!