The Hour of the Oxrun Dead (Necon Classic Horror)

by Charles L. Grant

  “I don’t believe it,” she said, stepped back and stumbled into a hedge. “I don’t believe it.”

  She trembled and, heedless of the pricks the shrub inflicted on her palms, grabbed at the hedge to steady herself. The single light between the corner and her house winked once, and she pushed away, afraid to run and too shaken to walk at a normal pace.

  “He had to be drunk,” she said aloud, needing the sound to smother the sharp crack of her heels on the sidewalk. “Nobody runs that fast on a night like this. Nobody! Stupid drunk ought to be locked up.” She laughed when she remembered her demand that the police leave her alone; where were they when she needed them? “What an idiot!” and she wasn’t sure whether she was talking about herself or the driver.

  By the time she reached the house, her teeth had stopped their chattering, her stomach finally suppressed the lurching that carried a hint of acid to her mouth. With one hand tight to her chest she climbed the porch steps and pulled her purse in front of her to hunt for her keys.

  “How do I get so much junk … “

  Her fingers touched metal, lost it, and she cursed loudly and turned to glare at the invisible street. The street light winked again, and went out. There was nothing left: the fog covered it all from the Pike to the fence, and for the first time in months she felt herself wishing for neighbors, anyone to have a light on in one of the other five houses on the block.

  She shifted her weight as her hands dipped into the purse again, and the floorboard beneath her creaked loudly, seemed to echo. She sighed in relief when the key ring slipped over her finger, smiled to herself as she tested each key, hoping to find by feel alone the one she needed so she wouldn’t have to run through them all before escaping inside.

  “Come on,” she muttered impatiently.

  “Come on, you stupid little ... “ She scraped one key after another over the lock, trying to remember where she’d accumulated so many, and why. “Come on!”

  Her face was doubly moist now, perspiration adding its stickiness to the fog’s residue. She wiped a sleeve roughly over her lips, her brow, and bent to try one more time.

  Then she hesitated, and looked back over her shoulder.

  There was something moving in the grass. Lightly, too light for a footfall. An animal. Without knowing why, she covered the key with her fingers, easing it slowly into place, feeling each serration slide into its position. The animal — cat? dog? Her imagination refused to speculate further — brushed by the forsythia at the base of the porch. Moving cautiously, not merely wandering.

  For no reason at all, Natalie knew it was stalking.

  When she heard the padding reach the bottom step, she jammed the key home, wrenching it over and shoved open the door, throwing herself inside and slamming it closed behind her. She cried out, then, when a heavy weight thumped against the outside, as though something had been thrown after her.

  The house was cold.

  She felt the flagstones’ dampness seep through her shoes as she backed slowly away from the door. With lights neither inside nor out, she could see no shadows through the frosted glass, but whatever had leaped after her was large enough to cause the porch to protest under its back and forth pacing. It made no attempts to be silent. As though it sensed she was alone. Another thump against the thick wood, and she backed another step toward the stairwell. Her purse dropped to the floor, and the jarring clatter of keys seemed to alert the thing on the porch. It threw itself a third time against the house, followed with a frenzied scratching at the base of the door.

  And as suddenly as it arrived, it was gone.

  Natalie listened, heard nothing but the sound of her own breath’s rasping. Slowly, she moved forward and pressed against the door, tried to wipe some clarity into the glass, but could see nothing but black.

  A conflict, then: her eyes demanded light, and her nerves as well, but her hands refused to move toward a switch. A light would admit to whatever had chased her that she was still inside. A light would throw shadows.

  But it was cold, and she needed some warmth.

  Scratching. She whirled around. The back door — surely it was locked. It was always locked.

  The French doors at the head of the stairs. The scratching thundered around the stairwell, converged and deafened her. She stumbled forward, shedding her coat unconsciously, crawling on hands and knees to the second floor. And as she tested the lock and found it engaged, she heard a scrabbling on the deck and muffled a scream with her hands. Beyond the white curtains, through the clear glass, there was night. And a darker shape. She knew it was impossible for her to be seeing it. There was no moon, no stars, and the fog had blanketed the street lights. Yet it was there, unmistakably: a shadow cast against the air. The texture of the curtains prevented her from distinguishing size and shape accurately; sensations, only, of a feline creature whose eyes would have reflected crimson if there’d been any light.

  It did nothing. Waited. Crouched.

  Still braced on knees and palms, Natalie felt her elbows begin to tremble. She wanted to ease back onto her heels, but a move would betray her and the doors were glass.

  Wait, she ordered, and stared at the darkness until lights began to swirl across her vision in brilliant gold nebulae. She lowered her lids, held them tight to a count of ten. The spinning vanished, but in its place a throbbing that worked like a tide from the base of her neck to the top of her skull. Her hair became weighted, and a draft from the storage room to her right wafted vagrant strands against her cheeks, her nose, tickled at her lips. She locked her elbows to still the quivering and felt the perspiration on her palms, the sudden stiffness of the carpeting stinging her skin.

  Crouched. Waiting. A jungle cat, she thought, deciding if it was hungry.

  * * *

  Hold it, Sam! I think I saw something ... I just got a glimpse ... it ... cat ... big thing ... it looks ...

  * * *

  The house became vocal, the night noises she’d taken for granted billowing until they screamed.

  The furnace clicking on in the basement, a muffled roaring that vibrated through the floors; the refrigerator whining shrilly to drown the maddeningly steady buzzing of the kitchen clock; the notch by notch clicking of the bedroom’s clock radio; the age of the house itself groaning under the weight of the fog — the roof shifting, porches pulling into themselves, the crinoline rustling of curtains, paper crackling of shades.

  And through it all, all of it making her duck her head into her chest, a ringing.

  My God, she thought suddenly, I’ve moved!

  She raised her head and looked toward the doors. The creature, the presence, had vanished, and there was nothing now but unrelieved blackness.

  And the ringing of the telephone.

  Her first inclination was to collapse, to draw knees and elbows into her chest and huddle against the malevolence that continued to infect the atmosphere. But the telephone was strident, unrelenting; whoever it was wouldn’t surrender until she answered.

  Cramps threatened to tear at her legs as she pushed herself to her feet and stumbled blindly around the banister into the bedroom, snatching at the air until her hands met the receiver on her night table. The instrument fell, bounced on the floor, and she could hear the tinny sound of a voice querulously demanding. Slumping to her knees, she pressed the cold plastic to her ear.

  “Nattie, is that you? Nattie, do you hear me? Are you all right, Nattie? Nattie, can you hear me?”

  Elaine’s voice was curiously flat, the questions almost perfunctory.

  “My God, Elaine, thank God it’s you.”

  There was a silence, prolonged until Natalie wondered if she’d been hearing things. But there was no dial tone.

  “Elaine? Elaine, that is you, isn’t it?”

  “Nattie, Nattie, why didn’t you answer the telephone? Were you in the shower or something? Are you all right?”

  Natalie hesitated only a moment. ‘‘I’m fine, Elaine. I’m sorry, but yes, I was in the show
er.”

  “But why were you ... I mean, it sounds like you’re crying or something. Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Yes,” she said firmly. ‘‘I’m fine. I was daydreaming and the phone startled me. I think,” and she laughed weakly, “I scared myself. It’s that kind of night.”

  Another silence, and she couldn’t understand why the woman was behaving so oddly. And she’s not, she told herself instantly; it’s you, idiot. You’re not hearing straight after ... after ...

  “It is that kind of night,” Elaine said finally. “That’s why I called. I thought maybe you’d like some company. Sam said there isn’t anything moving anywhere, and he was worried about you. He thought maybe you’d like to come over to see us for a while. Watch some television or something, okay?”

  It was too much. After all that happened already, what she definitely did not need now was Elaine’s mockery of pity spilling into her house. She was right to lie; if she’d explained what had happened, they’d begin again the nonsense about the psychiatrist.

  “No,” she said when the offer was repeated. “No, it’s okay, Elaine. I was reading some book in the library today, one of those Gothic things, and the fog just touched on my overdrive imagination.”

  “Well, if you’re sure ... “

  “I’m sure, but thanks for calling. It’s nice to know someone’s out there, if you know what I mean.”

  “Oh, I do, Nattie, I do. Well ... if you’re sure, dear, then I’d better ring off. Sam will be home soon, and you know how he is if there isn’t a snack waiting for him as soon as he walks in the door.” She laughed shrilly, in staccato bursts. “Biggest eater in the country, I swear to heaven.”

  Natalie agreed, but was reluctant to let Elaine hang up. She asked, then, about her day and immediately tuned out the response while she eased onto the bed and switched on the light. The room grew, the bulb under the white shade seemed more fire than filament, and for the first time since she’d left the luncheonette, she felt her lungs working normally.

  “Where is Sam?” she asked suddenly, unaware that she was interrupting.

  “Oh, out,” Elaine said. “You know how men are, dear. They decide to meet with the boys and run a few hands of poker or whatever it is they play when we girls aren’t around.” She laughed again, and Natalie held the receiver away from her ear until it died down. “Ben, the poor dear, he never won anything according to Sam. Could never concentrate, Sam says.”

  “Sam does a lot of talking.”

  “What was that?”

  “Just a joke, Elaine. Well, look, I don’t want you to get into trouble on my account. You get Sam’s snacks together and maybe I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “All right, Nattie. Are you sure you’re all right, now?”

  “Sure. Right as rain. Thanks for calling, Elaine.”

  When the voice clicked into a dial tone, she replaced the receiver and hugged herself. The menace, she was positive, was gone, but she sat on the bed for nearly an hour before fetching a cardigan from the closet and returning downstairs. She picked up her coat, dusted it off and folded it over a chair in the living room. Then, methodically, she turned on all the lights in the house.

  It was gone, she reminded herself, but the glow would keep out the fog while she gave herself a chance to think. And in thinking, wandered, touching furniture, paneling, pictures on the walls until she found herself standing in the silence of the den. The shoe box was still on the table where she and Marc had left it.

  Staring. Doubts that resolved themselves into a belief of a definite connection among the men wearing Ben’s ring. Carefully, she lifted the lid, pushed aside the mementos most of which she could no longer place, and extracted the gold band.

  How extraordinarily ordinary, she thought as she held it under the desk lamp. No inscriptions, no markings of any kind except for the gems and the silver. It wasn’t even handsome. Not handsome, or smart, or even fashionable, especially for a small-town policeman. Was it really possible that he and Sam and banker Bains were members of some secret men’s club? She grinned absently; who the hell knows? She’d never found it easy to understand the complexity that made men as labyrinthine as they claimed women to be.

  She sat in the armchair and placed the ring on her fingers, smiled at the size, even bigger than her thumb. She tossed it into the air, caught it and tossed again. She stared at the empty bookcases, narrowing her eyes in an attempt to bring into focus something that nagged at the fringes of her vision.

  Then she shook her head and closed a fist over the ring. Out of sight and all that, she thought, and shifted her puzzlement to the stalking creature.

  A combination of fog and reaction to the drunken driver had in all probability sensitized her imagination until she’d created an actual menace.

  She held that thought as she replaced the ring, closed up the den and went into the kitchen for a cup of tea.

  A glance at the clock. It was already past nine.

  “Confound it, Natalie, you’ve wasted the whole evening being chased by ghosts.”

  The next day Marc would be back from the city. She would tell him everything and feel like a small girl frightened by a grandmother’s Halloween story as he carefully, thoughtfully, explained to her what she’d already known.

  The next day.

  Marc.

  The telephone rang.

  And when she answered it, heard the voice, heard the message, she slumped to the floor in a whirlpool of black.

  * * *

  Chapter 7

  The bed was her own. The quilt was tucked lightly against her sides, the pillow stiffly cool with a fresh sheath of linen. Without opening her eyes, she sensed company in the room, but kept her head still until it stopped playing at carousel. And when it did, seconds later, she gasped at the memory of the call.

  “Natalie ?”

  Quietly, as in a hospital, overlaid with fear and a concern rooted deeper than worry. Hands pressed her shoulders, and she felt the bed give beneath her. A kiss fluttered against her cheek.

  And still, her eyes remained closed.

  * * *

  Natalie?

  Yes, is that you Sam? I was just talking to Elaine.

  Natalie, I thought you were working tonight. I was going to, but Adriana gave me a pain in the neck, as well as in other portions of my undernourished anatomy. I begged off the late hours and Miriam Burke volunteered to take my place. She said she had some studying. She’s taking a college course, you know.

  I thought you were working late.

  I just told you, Sam.

  Well, you’re damned lucky, Natalie.

  Sam, such language! I thought — what do you mean, I’m lucky? What’s wrong, Sam? What’s happened?

  There was a light on in the library after hours. One of my men stopped by, thinking maybe it was you spending our money again. The door was smashed open.

  Oh, God, Sam!

  There was glass all over the place. He found Miriam behind the front desk.

  Oh, my God.

  All cut up, she was.

  Oh, Sam, the poor little —

  It could have been you, Natalie. You were supposed to be there tonight, not her.

  * * *

  The voice was loud, clear, as though she were listening to a tape recorder.

  * * *

  It could have been you, Natalie. You were supposed to be there tonight, not her.

  * * *

  “Nat, are you okay?

  She opened her eyes and turned her head. A chair from the other bedroom had been placed by her side. A figure made dark by the position of the lamp leaned toward her and she cringed until she saw the hand on her shoulder. Then she sat up and reached out her arms.

  Marc held her, then, and rocked slowly, crooning wordlessly into her ear, stroking her hair and pulling it back from her face. He stroked her cheek, her neck, drew the hand back and it brushed over the tip of her breast. She shuddered and sought a resting place on his chest. She licke
d her lips and tasted encrusted salt. Unconscious but crying, and the skin was stiff between eyes and chin.

  “Nat?”

  He eased her away but didn’t release her arms.

  “Miriam,” she said, and he dropped a finger to her lips, sealing them. Then he looked over the bed, and she turned to see Elaine hovering by the bureau, fussing with the toiletries scattered haphazardly on the top. When she saw Natalie staring at her, she drew her hands primly to her stomach and the look of disapproval was too plain to be ignored, too comical to let pass without a laugh.

  “Hysterical,” Elaine said. “I told you we should have gotten a doctor.”

  “Nonsense,” Marc said, equally annoyed. “All she needs is some rest. After what you told me about tonight, it’s small wonder she fainted. News like that isn’t the easiest in the world to take without some warning, you know.”

  They spoke in whispers, arguing, and Natalie realized they were maneuvering for territorial rights; and it was pleasant for a while listening to Marc establishing his claim without asking for her support. But the sniping and whining became tedious, and she stopped it with a fresh outburst of crying that ceased only when Elaine left to fetch her a glass of water.

  Marc sat back, then, leaving one hand to grip both of hers. He looked tired, blue-black pouches under his eyes complemented unkindly the sag of his shoulders, the unkempt thatch of his hair.

  “You gave me a start, librarian,” he said.