by Ed
It happened at different times and in different parts of the house, but no one else ever heard it. Stephen began to wonder if the voice was perhaps in his head; otherwise, why didn't anyone else hear it talking about the things it wanted to tell Stephen, about the things he needed to do?
Why was he the only one? He saw things, too...sort of. Sometimes, he would catch a glimpse of something moving quickly to his right or left, nothing more than a gray blur in his peripheral vision; when he turned toward it, there was nothing there. The first few times, it had happened so quickly that he thought he'd imagined it, or that perhaps it had been Willy darting through the room in that quick, wiggly way he had. Then he realized that, whatever it was, it was darting from behind one piece of furniture to another, as if to hide from him. Stephen told no one of what he'd seen—or at least thought he'd seen—not even Stephanie. It seemed too vague to talk about; he felt silly enough for what he'd said already.
But he also felt afraid. First the voice, which was becoming more ominous all the time, then the glimpses of something small and gray darting around him, hiding from him mockingly. What was next?
That was what frightened Stephen. He didn't know what was next, but somehow, deep in his gut, in his bones, he knew there would be more...and he wasn't looking forward to it.
With the summer winding down, it was time for Michael to come home and get ready to start another year of school. Around noon on Saturday, Al took the kids to the airport with him to get Michael while Carmen stayed home and prepared a big meal.
Carmen had been raised in a family that believed in celebrating things—big or small—with food. It was Labor Day weekend and she wanted to get it off to a good start, so she cooked up plenty of fried chicken and corn on the cob and hot rolls; she made a green salad, a potato salad, set out two kinds of chips and made plenty of iced tea. Then, when she knew they would be home anytime, she set all of it out buffet-style on the dining-room table.
She went to the kitchen, got a stack of plates from the cupboard and put it at the end of the table, then put the silverware beside it. She was about to set out some napkins when the telephone rang. Carmen went into the living room to answer it.
It was Wanda Jean.
"Has my boy got there yet?" Wanda Jean asked.
"Not yet, Mom. I expect them any minute.”
"How's Stephen?"
"Oh, the same. His treatments end in another week, unless the doctor says otherwise."
"What then?"
"Then we pray a lot."
Carmen explained she was in the middle of fixing a big lunch and promised to call back later. She hung up and headed toward the dining room, but froze halfway down the hall, her feet coming to a halt on the wood floor as she stared at the dining room table.
The stack of plates was gone and so was the silverware.
Carmen closed her eyes a moment, then opened them, half hoping to find that they had only been playing tricks on her and the plates and silverware were still there after all.
But they were not.
Taking slow, almost cautious steps, she crossed the dining room and went into the kitchen where she opened the cupboard.
All the plates were stacked in their regular place.
Her mouth opened as she frowned and made a noise as if she were about to speak, but she didn't. Instead, she closed the cupboard and pulled the silverware drawer open.
The silverware she'd removed—or thought she'd removed— had been replaced.
She closed her mouth, pressed her lips tightly together and could hear her breaths coming rapidly through her nose. Slamming the drawer closed, she spun around, leaned back on the edge of the counter and murmured half her thoughts aloud. That's all it was, I just— "—thought I set them out, that's all, I just—" —thought I did it, but I didn't, is all, because it's really— "—hot today, and with the cooking and— "—the stress, there's been a lot of stress around here, and—
"—yeah, yeah, that's all it was, just a little...mistake." There was suddenly a burst of sound and movement in the house and Carmen started, clutching her chest with one hand and letting out a little yelp.
"Hey, Mom!" Michael called, stomping through the hall and into the dining room, grinning into the kitchen at her.
The others came in behind him, talking, laughing. Carmen took a deep breath, held the tiny crucifix around her neck between thumb and forefinger and sent up a silent prayer.
6
Sleeping Downstairs
The air grew cooler as Stephen went down the stairs and it felt good against his skin. Carmen, Al, and Michael had been down there for a while and, on his way down, Stephen could hear an occasional exclamation from Michael: "Cool!" or "All right!" Obviously, he liked the basement in general and his room in particular.
Earlier, while the others were eating, Stephen had taken Mom aside and asked her to please not tell Michael about why he hadn't been sleeping downstairs.
"Okay, but why?" she'd asked. "He'll find out sooner or later anyway."
"Yeah, but I wanna tell him. Probably tonight. 'Cause I think I'd like to start sleeping down there. Tonight, I mean."
"Really?"
"Yeah, now that Michael's home. But...not alone."
"What do you mean, alone? He'll be—"
"I mean, not in my room."
"You want to share a room?" She'd frowned as she thought about that. "But you were each gonna have your own room."
"I know, Mom, but...please," he'd whispered. "I'll sleep down there. But not if I have to sleep in a room by myself."
"You're still that scared of the basement?" She'd cocked her head, as if she found it hard to believe.
He'd averted his eyes and just stood there without replying.
"Okay," she'd said. "I'll talk to Al about moving the bed. And he should probably ask Michael if he minds."
"He won't," Stephen had said.
And he'd been right. In fact, Michael liked the idea. They'd moved Stephen's bed into Michael's room and, although neither bed had been slept in yet, Carmen put fresh sheets on them.
Carmen and Al seemed pleased that Stephen had finally decided to sleep downstairs, even though he wanted to share a room with his brother. In fact, they seemed so pleased and relieved about it that Stephen was a little embarrassed.
"Well, what do you think?" Al asked as Stephen came down the stairs.
He looked around the room, at the beds, the dresser, the woodpanel shelf that ran along three walls. The room looked as if it had been made to be a bedroom for two boys from the beginning.
The problem was, of course, that Stephen knew that wasn't the case at all. It had been made to serve a much different, much darker, purpose.
"Looks great," he said, smiling as he entered the room.
"You two will have to fight over the beds," Carmen said. "And I figured I'd let you decide where you wanted to put all your stuff, so you'll have to bring it in from the other room."
"Thanks," Stephen said, nodding at Al.
"Sure, kiddo."
Carmen headed for the stairs. "Well, we're gonna leave you to it."
She and Al were halfway up the stairs when she called back, "Leftovers okay for dinner?"
"Yeah, Mom," Stephen said.
When they were gone, the room fell silent and the boys just stood there for a long moment.
"So how come you haven't been sleeping down here?" Michael asked.
Stephen licked his dry lips, jerked his head back toward the French doors that led into his old room and said, "I'll tell you while we're moving the stuff. But you've gotta promise," he added, holding up a rigid forefinger, "it's just between us, right?"
Michael shrugged. "Yeah, sure."
So, as they went into the next room and began moving Stephen's things, Stephen told his brother everything: that he'd been hearing some rather frightening voices since they'd moved in, that Stephanie said she'd seen a strange woman standing in her bedroom with arms open for an embrace, and, saving the most s
urprising fact for last, that the house used to be a funeral home.
"Really?" Michael said with a grin. "Cool!"
"I don't see what's so cool about it."
Michael's grin faltered a bit. "Well...I kinda think it is. Y'know?"
"That they used to bring dead people in here, you mean? You think it's cool that they used to embalm corpses in here? Maybe in this room, for all we know."
The grin disappeared entirely as Michael put down a box of things and faced Stephen. "I didn't think of that," he said quietly. "You think that's the reason for the voices you thought you heard?"
"I didn't think I heard them, Michael, I did hear them. Jeez." He turned and went back for another box of stuff, muttering, "Stephanie said you'd believe us, but I guess she was wrong."
"Oh, no, I didn't mean it that way," Michael insisted, hurrying after him. "I believe you. I just wondered if...well, you know, it's kind of...weird, is all, you know?"
They carried the last two boxes into the room, then sat on the floor and began to sort through the contents.
"You think this place is haunted? Is that what you mean?" Michael asked.
"All I meant was that I've been hearing this voice. And usually it's coming from down here. Calling up the stairs for me."
"What kind of voice is it? What does it say?"
"It's always a man's voice. Sometimes it sounds like Dad, but only when he's working in New York, Usually, it just calls my name." Stephen turned his attention from the box in front of him to the room around him. He looked around slowly, a frown growing darker and deeper on his face as he spoke in nervous spurts. "It keeps saying it wants me to come down here and ... I don't know, it says I have something to do and that we have to get to work, but it...well, it never says what."
Michael's smiles were gone; he didn't even look like he was enjoying the conversation now. He, too, had developed a frown as he listened to Stephen speak.
"Then...maybe we shouldn't live here," Michael said after a long silence, his voice hushed.
"Mom and Dad can't afford to move again. After all the medical bills I've made for them, they could probably barely afford to move in here."
"How is your...um, I mean, how're you feeling, anyway? You never said anything earlier."
Stephen shrugged. "I'm feelin' the same, I guess. And Mom told me it was cancer a long time ago, so you don't have to be afraid to say the word."
There was a silence between them then; it was such a curiously tense silence in which their eyes did not meet that Stephen wondered if he'd made a mistake in telling Michael about the voices, if his brother thought that he was crazy, that he'd been affected by his illness or by the treatments.
Then: "So what're we gonna do, Stephen? I mean about the house? About the voices, and the woman that Steph saw?"
Michael tried to appear no more than curious, but Stephen could see a spark of fear in his eyes.
"I don't know," Stephen said casually, not wanting to frighten his brother any more than he had already. "Just wait and see what happens, I guess."
Michael nodded slowly and said, "Wait. Yeah. Okay, we'll wait and see," smiling slightly, as if they'd been talking about what kind of turn the weather might or might not take, and not about strange voices calling out of the darkness.
As the evening grew darker outside, Stephen became more and more anxious. He found himself fidgeting, unable to concentrate even on the silliest television programs and unable to stop looking at the clock.
How late was it?
How much longer before everyone would begin making their way to bed?
Stephen decided he wouldn't go down until Michael was ready to go to bed. As stupid as it sounded, he didn't want to go down there to sleep alone, not yet; maybe later, after he'd been sleeping down there for a while, he'd be able to do it, but not yet.
After watching a couple hours of television, during which he told everyone about things he'd done at Grandma's, Michael stood from where he'd been sitting on the floor and said, "I'm gonna go to bed. I'm kinda tired."
For an instant, Stephen's mind raced: Would it look weird if I went down with him? Should I wait a while and then go down? But then he might be asleep and I just might as well be alone. I'm not even tired yet.
"Yeah, me too," Stephen said, standing from the sofa slowly, as if he were weary and ready to sleep.
After all the goodnights were exchanged, Stephen followed Michael downstairs.
"You never said which bed you wanted," Stephen said on the way down.
"Whichever one you don't want."
"Well, I want whichever one you don't want. I mean, it's your room."
Michael laughed and said, "Okay, I'll take the one by the wall."
At the bottom of the stairs, Stephen reached out to close the French doors without even giving it a thought. He wasn't quite successful, though, and they remained open just a few inches. He decided it was silly for him to feel that they needed to be closed, though, so he left them alone.
Stephen started to undress right away, looking forward to lying down in a bed again. It had been a while. Once he was down to his shorts, he pulled back the covers, sat on the edge of the bed and then saw Michael heading back up the stairs.
"Where you going?" Stephen asked, trying not to sound panicky.
"Brush my teeth. Be right back."
Stephen's fingers dug into the mattress until his knuckles turned a yellowish white as he watched Michael go up the stairs, disappearing a bit at a time: first his head and shoulders, then his arms, torso, legs, feet....
And Stephen was alone.
"You think he's gonna do okay?" Carmen asked. She was sitting at the end of the sofa. Al was in his recliner; he was watching television and didn't respond.
Peter was asleep on the floor and Stephanie was involved in the television program along with Al. They were watching an old Sinbad the Sailor movie.
Carmen tried again. "Al, do you think Stephen's gonna be okay about the house now?"
Still no response; he just took a few swallows of his beer.
"Al!"
He turned to her suddenly, startled. "What?" he said, quietly at first, then snapped, "What!"
"I've been talking to you over here."
"I'm watching the movie, okay? What did you say?"
"I asked you if you think Stephen's gonna be okay about the house now that he's moved downstairs with Michael."
He finished off the beer, then said, "He'd better be. It'd be nice not to hear anymore of that crap about voices."
"He hasn't said much about it lately."
"Not outright, but somehow he manages to make a remark now and then, something that just suggests there's weird things going on in the house. Well, it's time he gets okay about the house, I think." He yawned, then held out the empty beer bottle. "You wanna get me another one, hon?"
Stephen looked down at his hands, still clutching the mattress's edge, and relaxed them. It seemed silly to just sit there and wait for Michael to get back. He'd only gone to brush his teeth. How long could that take? Not long enough for anything to happen. Besides, the lights were still on, so what could happen? The only darkness was on the other side of the French doors, pressing against the square panes of glass.
He opened the drawer of the nightstand and got his Walkman, then lay back on the bed, pulling the sheet over him. After putting the small disks in his ears, he turned on his side and propped himself up on one elbow to browse through the radio stations and see what was playing. He watched the red needle move along the dial from station to station, until he caught some movement with his peripheral vision, just a shadowlike hint of it, but enough to make him raise his head and look across the room at the French doors.
The Walkman slipped from his hand and toppled off the edge of the bed to the floor where it broke with a crack of plastic, jerking the earphones from his ears.
He didn't move. For a while, Stephen couldn't move. He could only stare at the French doors—at the face that stared
at him through the small opening between them.
It was a young man's face, maybe in his early twenties, but pale, so pale it looked unreal, like the face of a white-painted mannequin. It was a long, gaunt face with deep, hollow cheeks and sunken, corpse-like eyes. It held no expression, just stared.
The young man's hair was black and stringy and fell past his shoulders. Pale arms hung from the short sleeves of his dark shirt and long bony fingers twitched against his blue jeans. His colorless lips began to move slightly, silently, as if he were murmuring to himself.
But worst of all, the thing that made Stephen feel as though he was losing his mind, was the fact that the young man shimmered now and then, became transparent and almost disappeared before taking shape again, like a mirage, a vapor.
Stephen stopped breathing for a long moment and felt his throat begin to close, as if it were swelling slowly, growing thicker and thicker, until he was sure he soon would be unable to breathe if he tried.
To get up the stairs, he would have to pass within inches of the sickly young man behind the French doors.
The white lips began to move a little faster, though the face remained expressionless, the eyes empty. One twitching, bony hand began to move upward, outward, to open one of the doors further. Stephen kicked at the sheet to get it off him but his feet became tangled in it and he struggled to get free, as long, skeletal fingers curled around the edge of one of the doors. Stephen broke free of the sheet, tumbled off the bed, clambered to his feet and shot for the stairs, hearing, for just a moment as he passed the young man, the dry, insectlike whispering sound coming from the thin lips. Then he ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time. When he reached the landing, he nearly collided with Michael, whose eyes widened with shock and concern as he watched Stephen run by.
Stephen thumped down the hall and stumbled into the living room.
"Stephen!" Carmen cried as he tripped and fell to his knees. She hurried to his side and put an arm around his shoulders. "What's wrong, what's the matter? Stephen?"
