The Collective

by The Collective [lit]

  clearly the product of an unformed story-teller's mind - but the last

  bit pays off better than I remembered; there is a genuine frisson in

  what Mr. Wharton finds waiting for him in the East Room. I

  suppose that's at least part of the reason I agreed to allow this

  mostly unremarkable work to be reprinted after all these years.

  And there is at least a token effort to create characters which are

  more than paper-doll cutouts; Wharton and Reynard are

  antagonists, but neither is "the good guy" or "the bad guy." The

  real villain is behind that plastered-over door. And I also see an

  odd echo of "The Glass Floor" in a very recent work called "The

  Library Policeman." That work, a short novel, will be published as

  part of a collection of short novels called Four Past Midnight this

  fall, and if you read it, I think you'll see what I mean. It was

  fascinating to see the same image coming around again after all

  this time.

  Mostly I'm allowing the story to be republished to send a message

  to young writers who are out there right now, trying to be

  published, and collecting rejection slips from such magazines as

  F&SF Midnight Graffiti, and, of course, Weird Tales, which is the

  granddaddy of them all. The message is simple: you can learn, you

  can get better, and you can get published.

  If that Little spark is there, someone will probably see it sooner

  orlater, gleaming faintly in the dark. And, if you tend the spark

  nestled in the kindling, it really can grow into a large, blazing fire.

  It happened to me, and it started here.

  I remember getting the idea for the story, and it just came as the

  ideas come now - casually, with no flourish of trumpets. I was

  walking down a dirt road to see a friend, and for no reason at all I

  began to wonder what it would be like to stand in a room whose

  floor was a mirror. The image was so intriguing that writing the

  story became a necessity. It wasn't written for money; it was

  written so I could see better. Of course I did not see it as well as I

  had hoped; there is still that shortfall between what I hope I will

  accomplish and what I actually manage. Still, I came away from it

  with two valuable things: a salable story after five years of

  rejection slips, and a bit of experience. So here it is, and as that

  fellow Griner says in Dickey's novel, it ain't really as bad as I

  thought.

  - Stephen King

  Wharton moved slowly up the wide steps, hat in hand, craning his

  neck to get a better look at the Victorian monstrosity that his sister

  had died in. It wasn't a house at all, he reflected, but a mausoleum -

  a huge, sprawling mausoleum. It seemed to grow out of the top of

  the hill like an outsized, perverted toadstool, all gambrels and

  gables and jutting, blank-windowed cupolas. A brass weather-vane

  surmounted the eighty degree slant of shake-shingled roof, the

  tarnished effigy of a leering little boy with one hand shading eyes

  Wharton was just as glad he could not see.

  Then he was on the porch, and the house as a whole was cut off

  from him. He twisted the old-fashioned bell, and listened to it echo

  hollowly through the dim recesses within. There was a rose-tinted

  fanlight over the door, and Wharton could barely make out the date

  1770 chiseled into the glass. Tomb is right, he thought.

  The door suddenly swung open. "Yes, sir?" The housekeeper

  stared out at him. She was old, hideously old. Her face hung like

  limp dough on her skull, and the hand on the door above the chain

  was grotesquely twisted by arthritis.

  "I've come to see Anthony Reynard," Wharton said. He fancied he

  could even smell the sweetish odor of decay emanating from the

  rumpled silk of the shapeless black dress she wore.

  "Mr Reynard isn't seein' anyone. He's mournin'."

  "He'll see me," Wharton said. "I'm Charles Wharton. Janine's

  brother."

  "Oh." Her eyes widened a little, and the loose bow of her mouth

  worked around the empty ridges of her gums. "Just a minute." She

  disappeared, leaving the door ajar.

  Wharton stared into the dim mahogany shadows, making out high-

  backed easy chairs, horse-hair upholstered divans, tall narrow-

  shelved bookcases, curlicued, floridly carven wainscoting.

  Janine, he thought. Janine, Janine, Janine. How could you live

  here? How in hell could you stand it?

  A tall figure materialized suddenly out of the gloom, slope-

  shouldered, head thrust forward, eyes deeply sunken and downcast.

  Anthony Reynard reached out and unhooked the door-chain.

  "Come in, Mr. Wharton, " he said heavily.

  Wharton stepped into the vague dimness of the house, looking up

  curiously at the man who had married his sister. There were rings

  beneath the hollows of his eyes, blue and bruised-looking. The suit

  he wore was wrinkled and hung limp on him, as if he had lost a

  great deal of weight. He looks tired, Wharton thought. Tired and

  old.

  "My sister has already been buried?" Wharton asked.

  "Yes." He shut the door slowly, imprisoning Wharton in the

  decaying gloom of the house. "My deepest sorrow, sir. Wharton. I

  loved your sister dearly." He made a vague gesture. "I'm sorry."

  He seemed about to add more, then shut his mouth with an abrupt

  snap. When he spoke again, it was obvious he had bypassed

  whatever had been on his lips. "Would you care to sit down? I'm

  sure you have questions.

  "I do. Somehow it came out more curtly than he had intended.

  Reynard sighed and nodded slowly. He led the Way deeper into the

  living room and gestured at a chair. Wharton sank deeply into it,

  and it seemed to gobble him up rather than give beneath him.

  Reynard sat next to the fireplace and dug for cigarettes. He offered

  them wordlessly to Wharton, and he shook his head.

  He waited until Reynard lit his cigarette, then asked, "Just how did

  she die? Your letter didn't say much.

  Reynard blew out the match and threw it into the fireplace. It

  landed on one of the ebony iron fire-dogs, a carven gargoyle that

  stared at Wharton with toad's eyes.

  "She fell," he said. "She was dusting in one of the other rooms, up

  along the eaves. We were planning to paint, and she said it would

  have to be well-dusted before we could begin. She had the ladder.

  It slipped. Her neck was broken." There was a clicking sound in

  his throat as he swallowed.

  "She died - instantly?"

  "Yes." He lowered his head and placed a hand against his brow. "I

  was heartbroken.

  The gargoyle leered at him, squat torso and flattened, sooty head.

  Its mouth was twisted upward in a weird, gleeful grin, and its eyes

  seemed turned inward at some private joke. Wharton looked away

  from it with an effort. "I want to see where it happened.

  Reynard stubbed out his cigarette half-smoked. "You can't.

  "I'm afraid I must," Wharton said coldly. "After all, she was my .. .

  "It's not that," Reynard said. "The room has been partitioned off.

  That should have been done a long time ago.

  "If
it's just a matter of prising a few boards off a door...

  "You don't understand. The room has been plastered off

  completely There's nothing but a wall there.

  Wharton felt his gaze being pulled inexorably back to the fire-dog.

  Damn the thing, what did it have to grin about?

  "I can't help it. I want to see the room."

  Reynard stood suddenly, towering over him. "Impossible."

  Wharton also stood. "I'm beginning to wonder if you don't have

  something to hide in there," he said quietly.

  "Just what are you implying?"

  Wharton shook his head a little dazedly. What was he implying?

  That perhaps Anthony Reynard had murdered his Sister in this

  Revolutionary War-vintage crypt? That there might be Something

  more sinister here than shadowy corners and hideous iron fire-

  dogs?

  "I don't know what I'm implying, " he said slowly, "except that

  Janine was shoveled under in a hell of a hurry, and that you're

  acting damn strange now."

  For moment the anger blazed brighter, and then it died away,

  leaving only hopelessness and dumb sorrow. "Leave me alone," he

  mumbled. "Please leave me alone, Mr. Wharton."

  "I can't. I've got to know .. ."

  The aged housekeeper appeared, her face thrusting from the

  shadowy cavern of the hall. "Supper's ready, Mr. Reynard."

  "Thank you, Louise, but I'm not hungry. Perhaps Mr. Wharton ...

  ?" Wharton shook his head.

  "Very well, then. Perhaps we'll have a bite later."

  "As you say, sir." She turned to go. "Louise?" "Yes, sir?"

  "Come here a moment.

  Louise shuffled slowly back into the room, her loose tongue

  slopping wetly over her lips for a moment and then disappearing.

  "Sir?"

  "Mr. Wharton seems to have some questions about his sister's

  death. Would you tell him all you know about it?"

  "Yes, sir." Her eyes glittered with alacrity. "She was dustin', she

  was. Dustin' the East Room. Hot on paintin' it, she was. Mr.

  Reynard here, I guess he wasn't much interested, because ...

  "Just get to the point, Louise," Reynard said impatiently.

  "No," Wharton said. "Why wasn't he much interested?"

  Louise looked doubtfully from one to the other.

  "Go ahead," Reynard said tiredly. "He'll find out in the village if he

  doesn't up here.

  "Yes, sir." Again he saw the glitter, caught the greedy purse of the

  loose flesh of her mouth as she prepared to impart the precious

  story. "Mr. Reynard didn't like no one goin' in the East Room. Said

  it was dangerous."

  "Dangerous?"

  "The floor," she said. "The floor's glass. It's a mirror. The whole

  floor's a mirror. "

  Wharton turned to Reynard, feeling dark blood suffuse his face.

  "You mean to tell me you let her go up on a ladder in a room with

  a glass floor?"

  "The ladder had rubber grips," Reynard began. "That wasn't why ...

  "You damned fool," Wharton whispered. "You damned, bloody

  fool.

  "I tell you that wasn't the reason!" Reynard shouted suddenly. "I

  loved your sister! No one is sorrier than I that she is dead! But I

  warned her! God knows I warned her about that floor!"

  Wharton was dimly aware of Louise staring greedily at them,

  storing up gossip like a squirrel stores up nuts. "Get her out of

  here," he said thickly.

  "Yes," Reynard said. "Go see to supper. "

  "Yes, sir." Louise moved reluctantly toward the hall, and the

  shadows swallowed her.

  "Now," Wharton said quietly. "It seems to me that you have some

  explaining to do, Reynard. This whole thing sounds funny to me.

  Wasn't there even an inquest?"

  "No," Reynard said. He slumped back into his chair suddenly, and

  he looked blindly into the darkness of the vaulted overhead ceiling.

  "They know around here about the - East Room."

  "And just what is there to know?" Wharton asked tightly

  "The East Room is bad luck," Reynard said. "Some people might

  even say it's cursed.

  "Now listen," Wharton said, his ill temper and unlaid grief building

  up like steam in a teakettle, "I'm not going to be put off, Reynard.

  Every word that comes out of your mouth makes me more

  determined to see that room. Now are you going to agree to it or do

  I have to go down to that village and ... ?"

  "Please." Something in the quiet hopelessness of the word made

  Wharton look up. Reynard looked directly into his eyes for the first

  time and they were haunted, haggard eyes. "Please, Mr. Wharton.

  Take my word that your sister died naturally and go away. I don't

  want to see you die!" His voice rose to a wail. "I didn't want to see

  anybody die!"

  Wharton felt a quiet chill steal over him. His gaze skipped from the

  grinning fireplace gargoyle to the dusty, empty-eyed bust of Cicero

  in the corner to the strange wainscoting carvings. And a voice

  came from within him: Go away from here. A thousand living yet

  insentient eyes seemed to stare at him from the darkness, and again

  the voice spoke... "Go away from here."

  Only this time it was Reynard.

  "Go away from here," he repeated. "Your sister is beyond caring

  and beyond revenge. I give you my word...

  "Damn your word!" Wharton said harshly. "I'm going down to the

  sheriff, Reynard. And if the sheriff won't help me, I'll go to the

  county commissioner. And if the county commissioner won't help

  me ...

  "Very well." The words were like the faraway tolling of a

  churchyard bell.

  "Come."

  Reynard led the way into the hall, down past the kitchen, the empty

  dining room with the chandelier catching and reflecting the last

  light of day, past the pantry, toward the blind plaster of the

  corridor's end.

  This is it, he thought, and suddenly there was a strange crawling in

  the pit of his stomach.

  "I..." he began involuntarily.

  "What?" Reynard asked, hope glittering in his eyes.

  "Nothing. "

  They stopped at the end of the hall, stopped in the twilight gloom.

  There seemed to be no electric light. On the floor Wharton could

  see the still-damp plasterer's trowel Reynard had used to wall up

  the doorway, and a straggling remnant of Poe's "Black Cat"

  clanged through his mind:

  "I had walled the monster up within the tomb...

  Reynard handed the trowel to him blindly. "Do whatever you have

  to do, Wharton. I won't be party to it. I wash my hands of it.

  Wharton watched him move off down the hall with misgivings, his

  hand opening and closing on the handle of the trowel. The faces of

  the Little-boy weathervane, the fire-dog gargoyle, the wizened

  housemaid all seemed to mix and mingle before him, all grinning

  at something he could not understand. Go away from here ...

  With a sudden bitter curse he attacked the wall, hacking into the

  soft, new plaster until the trowel scraped across the door of the

  East Room. He dug away plaster until he could reach the

  doorknob. He twisted, then yanked on it until the veins stood out in

  his temples .

  The p
laster cracked, schismed, and finally split. The door swung

  ponderously open, shedding plaster like a dead skin.

  Wharton stared into the shimmering quicksilver pool.

  It seemed to glow with a light of its own in the darkness, ethereal

  and fairy-like. Wharton stepped in, half-expecting to sink into

  warm, pliant fluid.

  But the floor was solid.

  His own reflection hung suspended below him, attached only by

  the feet, seeming to stand on its head in thin air. It made him dizzy

  just to look at it.

  Slowly his gaze shifted around the room. The ladder was still

  there, stretching up into the glimmering depths of the mirror. The

  room was high, he saw. High enough for a fall to he winced - to

  kill.

  It was ringed with empty bookcases, all seeming to lean over him

  on the very threshold of imbalance. They added to the room's

  strange, distorting effect.

  He went over to the ladder and stared down at the feet. They were

  rubbershod, as Reynard had said, and seemed solid enough. But if

  the ladder had not slid, how had Janine fallen?

  Somehow he found himself staring through the floor again. No, he

  corrected himself. Not through the floor. At the mirror; into the

  mirror . . .

  He wasn't standing on the floor at all he fancied. He Was poised in

  thin air halfway between the identical ceiling and floor, held up

  only by the stupid idea that he was on the floor. That was silly, as

  anyone could see, for there was the floor, way down there.. . .

  Snap out of it!' he yelled at himself suddenly. He was on the floor,

  and that was nothing but a harmless reflection of the ceiling. It

  would only be the floor if I was standing on my head, and I'm not;

  the other me is the one standing on his head... .

  He began to feel vertigo, and a sudden lump of nausea rose in his

  throat. He tried to look away from the glittering quicksilver depths

  of the mirror, but he couldn't.

  The door.. where was the door? He suddenly wanted out very

  badly.

  Wharton turned around clumsily, but there were only crazily-tilted

  bookcases and the jutting ladder and the horrible chasm beneath

  his feet.

  "Reynard!" He screamed. "I'm falling! "

  Reynard came running, the sickness already a gray lesion on his

  heart. It was done; it had happened again.

  He stopped at the door's threshold, Staring in at the Siamese twins