He hired a housekeeper and a cook, but they refused to stay in the place at night, saying that there was too much light. But Harlow suspected there was more to it than that, for often he saw the two women whispering together, and the cook, a Hispanic lady, repeatedly crossed herself.
Employing electricians and cabinetmakers and a decorator full-time, it took nearly three months for Harlow to turn the house into a normal one: the light panels were eliminated, walls and ceilings repaired and painted, normal switches and wall sockets installed, the harsh light replaced by elegant soft-glowing lamps; glass cabinetry was replaced by oak; the dreadful clear plastic furniture and utensils and dishes and other such, Harlow gave to Goodwill, items of good taste and comfort taking their place; too, he had the car restored to a normal vehicle: the glaring interior lights were removed, and the batteries and their charger were taken from the trunk. The only holdover Harlow kept was the Honda generator, for one never knew when the power might fail.
It was during this remodeling that Henry, one of the electricians, said as he reconfigured the relay control panel, “You know, this is the old x-thirty model. Had a bug.”
“Bug?”
“A flaw. A design flaw.”
“How so?”
“Well, y’see, during a brownout—a dip in the power—the relays could all release. The lights would go off, but the emergency backups would not come on, ‘cause the x-thirty was still sensing voltage, low-level though it was.”
“Oh?”
“Yar. But it was no big deal: all y’hadda do was hit the override button on the remote. Then the emergency lights’d come on, stay on, until the brownout was over.” Henry clipped another wire. “The replacement x-forty took care of the bug.”
“I wonder if it ever happened to my uncle. A brownout, I mean.”
Henry shrugged and kept working.
At that moment Harlow was called away to pick out a china partem.
And the work went on.
And on.
Until at last it was done.
As the final worker, a plumber, pitched his toolbox into his van and drove away, Harlow turned and stepped back into his now gracefully livable home.
* * *
Shouting to the world that his creature was alive, an ecstatic Colin Clive clutched the edge of the laboratory table and stared upward in awe and triumph and disbelief.
God, but I love these old classics.
Harlow lounged in his customized Eames recliner, the remastered black-and-white gleaming on the digital screen before him. But then—What th—?
A shift of darkness in the dimly lit room caught the corner of Harlow’s eye, yet when he turned to look, nothing was there, nothing but a cluster of shadow by the couch.
Hmm. TV flicker.
Still, the back of his neck crawled with ill-defined apprehension. In the wavering light, as Frankenstein played on, Harlow stood and looked about the darkened room. Nothing. No one. Empty of all but glimmer and shade.
Shaking off the vague sense of unease, Harlow stepped to the kitchen and got a Sam Adams and took a long, steady pull. Carrying the beer, he returned to the movie, reversing the DVD back to the loosing of kites into storm-filled, lightning-streaked skies.
A week went by with nothing untoward, and then another. But now and then in nights of the third week after, off to the side a flicker of movement would catch his eye; yet when he looked directly on, he found only shadows lying there.
His unease returned.
And Harlow began approaching unlighted rooms in mild trepidation.
Come on, you idiot. There’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s just a primitive reaction. Coded in the genes. A holdover from cavemen days. Or perhaps from before we descended from the trees. It isn’t fear of the dark, but fear of the unknown instead.
Even so, he began to feel that something stood in the shadows behind, or waited in the shadows ahead.
God, my imagination is running wild.
There came a night when in that paralyzed in-between state of someone who is neither awake nor asleep, Harlow groaned in dread, for something dark stood in the gloom at the foot of his bed, black on black, something sinister, something silent, something watching him.
His heart pounding, sweat pouring, his moans turning to whines, Harlow managed to wrench himself fully awake, and gasping, he fumbled at the bedside lamp, finally finding the switch, snapping it on, and no one, nothing, no thing, stood at the foot of his bed.
Lord, I’m jumping at shadows.
Feeling drained, still it was a long time before Harlow fell back to sleep.
The next day Harlow got a dog, a rottweiler. Yet it seemed cowed by the unfamiliar surroundings, or so Harlow thought, and he literally had to drag it into the house. At the first chance it got it bolted out the door. Harlow never saw it again.
Son of a bitch.
Harlow had a monitored burglar alarm installed: all the doors and windows were armed, and in several of the downstairs rooms he had motion detectors positioned, tripped by heat plus movement. He accidentally triggered the alarm himself several times before learning all the codes and remembering when to disarm the system—the damn whoop, whoop, whoop of the electronic klaxon nearly causing him to jump out of his skin. But he was the only one, the only thing, to set off the alarm; nothing else tripped the siren and sent a call to the monitoring company, nor from them to the police.
One evening after a walk, Harlow returned to the house and opened the door to a closet—“Christ!” he shouted, and leaped back as something black in the darkness twisted up and away. His heart thudding, Harlow snapped on the closet light. Nothing was there but two jackets hanging on the coat rod. Harlow snapped off the light and swung the door to and fro, watching its shadow move. It didn’t look the same.
Days went by, and still flickers of movement in the darkness caught Harlow’s eye, while now and again someone or some thing stood in the black at the foot of his bed.
God, no wonder my granduncle had lights all over this pl— Oh my, but wait!
Harlow stepped to the phone and punched in a number.
“This is Harlow Winton. Ask him to give me a call. Yes: w-i-n-t-o-n. He has my number.”
That night the phone rang. “Winton here. … Oh, Arthur, thanks for returning my—… Yes, yes, I’m fine. … What? … Right. … Tell me … my uncle, how did they find him? I mean, you said he was … Yes, that’s right. Watching TV. How do you—? … I see. The remote was in his hand. The TV remote? Oh, my. … No, no. No reason, just curious.” Harlow sighed and looked about. “Thank you, Arthur. Yes, yes, thank you.”
Harlow pushed the handset off button.
Damn! He grabbed the TV remote instead of the one for the lights.
Replacing the handset in the cradle, Harlow stepped away from the escritoire, noting for the first time just how dark were the shadows beneath.
After that return call from Maxon, things seemed to get worse. The feeling that something loomed behind him in the dark, or waited in the shadows in the next room, became overwhelming. And Harlow began reaching around door frames to flip on the lights before entering a darkened room, as well as reaching back around to flip off the lights behind. And now and again in the corner of his eye he thought he saw shadows following after, slithering down the hallways behind.
And at times he thought he heard slow breathing. But when he listened … nothing.
Oh God. Am I going mad or is something really here? And if something is here—if some thing is here—then I’ve got to get out. But wait. No. I can’t leave. I’d lose everything. I have to live here, in this house, in this house where my uncle died in the dark … of fright, I think. Or maybe the thing killed him.
Days passed. Nights passed. And Harlow’s dread worsened. And as his fear of darkness grew, so did his desire to be quit of this thing.
It’s the thing I need to get rid of. But how? Bring back all those lights, all that glare? All that hideous transparent furniture? No sir. I got rid of
those goddamned things, and I’ll never bring them back. Besides, that was my uncle’s solution, and you see what it got him: dead, that’s what, killed by terror. Instead, I want this thing gone forever, not merely hiding from light.
An unremitting grinding knot settled deep in the pit of his stomach, and every day, every night, it seemed to grow worse and worse. His appetite waned and he lost weight; his hands trembled all the time.
And he began whispering to himself.
And he was weary, for although he had tried sleeping in the day, he simply couldn’t; in the orphanage it had been taps at ten and reveille at six: it was ingrained in his life. But although he went to bed at night, he couldn’t bring himself to turn out the light, and so he slept with it on—if it could be called sleeping—the closet door open, its light on as well.
And then one night as he got into bed, Harlow leapt the last yard or so to keep his feet from coming too close to the darkness beneath.
God, what am I doing? Am I a child?
But from that point on, he continued to leap to reach the bed, and upon wakening, he leapt out as well, even in the light of day.
And he acquired a stammer.
And at night, now and again, he was certain he heard what must be the thing moving through the house, in the halls and along the stairway; oh, not that he listened to the scrape of footsteps creeping through the dark, but rather he perceived a faint sibilant rustle, like dead leaves stirring in a chill wind.
And Harlow grew gaunt and wasted as the days and nights passed, while blackness shifted and slithered in shadow and a thing haunted the dark.
And still neither his housekeeper nor his cook would stay in the place at night, now saying that it was too dark. And they would leave before the sun went down and arrive again after it rose.
It was a blustery March night when the doorbell rang, and turning on the lights as he went, Harlow found Maxon standing at the door.
“Hob’s nails, Harlow,” said the silver-haired lawyer, “you look rather haggard, drained. Aren’t you sleeping well?”
“Quick, quick, A-Arthur, come in. It’s d-dark out there; come in.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t do that, Harlow. A bodyguard to protect you from shadows?”
Harlow giggled. Startled by the sound, he slapped his hand across his mouth. Then through his fingers he whispered, “P-pretty insane, hey?” It was uncertain as to whether Harlow was speaking to himself or to Arthur Maxon.
“Have you seen a doctor?”
“A-a shrink, don’t you m-mean?”
“No. A family practitioner. You look twenty years older, my boy.”
Again Harlow giggled.
“I’m worried about you, lad. You need to keep up your energy.”
“I-I’m thinking of Weaving this p-place. There’s something here. Something dreadful.”
“Oh, Harlow, don’t say that. You’d lose a fortune. Besides, I’ve served this estate for many long years and will certainly see to its needs for many more long years to come. And so, my boy, I want you to stay and see to your health; it’s in the best interests of all.”
With Arthur urging Harlow to stick it out and to take care of himself, and Harlow clamping his hand over his own mouth to keep from giggling, the conversation dwindled to nought.
The evening ended with Harlow standing well back in the lighted foyer and watching while Arthur strode away from the house to fade into the darkness of night.
Weeks passed, while shadows shifted, and blackness breathed, and something stood in the darkness beyond. And during those same weeks, Harlow continued to decline, his vigor slipping away on tides of fear. And he was prone to fits of babbling, and spasms of giggling whispers. Even so, he held on to one rational thought, or so it seemed to him:
I want this thing, whatever it is, not only gone but dead.
Harlow began thinking of weapons—pistols, shotguns, rifles—something certain to kill, and then he remembered what Harry Callahan had said about a 44 magnum being the most powerful handgun in the world, able to blow heads clean off. That’s what I need: something to blow this thing’s head clean off!
But still Harlow had a major problem: how do you kill a thing that you can’t see, a thing which flees from the light?
How can I get a good shot at it? I need to know where it is. I need to clearly see it, that’s what. But how can I see something in the dar—?
Wait! That’s it! Night-vision goggles! Or do they call them scopes? No matter, it’s those things they use in the army to see in the dark. You wear them on your head, like that guy in Silence of the Lambs—Buffalo Bill; yeah, Buffalo Bill—they multiply even the faintest of light and …
His mind abuzz with possibilities, with plans, Harlow hardly slept at all. And he sat in bed, his blankets clutched to his chin, and giggled at the cleverness of his secret plan and now and then slapped his hand over his mouth to keep the secret from popping out … and watched as silent shadows slid up the stairs and along the walls in the hallway just outside the bedroom door, just at the limit of light.
The next day he bought a .44 magnum. A Dirty Harry gun. The dealer had said the fifty-caliber Desert Eagle was even more powerful, but Harlow insisted upon the Smith and Wesson .44, and he wanted it now. Upon seeing the haggard man’s Beemer and the wad of money he offered, the proprietor temporarily closed shop and pulled the shades and turned on all the lights—as the hollow-eyed wretch had insisted, standing away from even the faintest of shadows. The dealer then said that this one time he would make an exception and sell the gun right away. No waiting period. No need for a license. And also just happened to have the night-vision goggles, too, for an appropriate price. Harlow turned down a laser sight, for even though the red beam was narrow, still it was light, and the thing might flee.
Hands shaking, Harlow drove home, careful to not speed or make a turn without signaling, obeying all traffic laws. He didn’t want to get stopped now. No, no. They might take the gun away.
Impatiently he dithered about until the cook and the housekeeper were gone, and then, his heart thudding, he sat at the kitchen table and loaded the Smith and Wesson, sliding the 240-grain hollow-points into the waiting chambers.
It seems only fitting that I kill this thing in the rec room. I mean, that’s where it took advantage of a brownout and killed my uncle when the relays released and the lights went out. Killed him in the night in darkness, just as I’m going to kill it.
Harlow picked up the night-vision goggles and slipped them on and adjusted them for fit, taking care not to accidentally flip on the amplifier switch.
It won’t do to drive the goggles into overload here in the light of day. Better to wait till the depths of the night. Yes, the depths of the night. That’s when I’ll do it. When darkness fills every nook and cranny of the house. Turnabout, fair play, and all of that.
Harlow tittered, his voice tight with fear, but then he clamped his lips tight shut to keep the secret within.
It was nearly mid of night when—gun in hand, night goggles riding on his forehead—Harlow walked away from the kitchen, turning on lights ahead, turning them off behind.
Don’t want lights on anywhere when I click that last switch and plunge everything into darkness.
His heart was hammering in dread.
But a loaded .44 magnum was gripped in his sweaty fist.
Finally he reached the recreation room.
Gasping for breath, he stepped about, turning off every light but one, as shadows crept inward and mustered all ‘round.
Slick with sweat, his mouth dry, Harlow wiped his palms on his denims, then cocked the .44.
With a trembling hand he reached for the last lamp … and hesitated.
Come on, Harlow. It’s you with the gun and the goggles. You can get this punk.
His lungs heaving, Harlow clicked off the last lamp.
Blackness pitched into the room.
Jesus Jesus, I can’t— The thing—
Biting back a cry, Harlow jerked the
goggles down over his eyes and slapped on the night-vision power. The light amplifier bloomed on, and Harlow could see—
God I can see!
—in a limited cone of vision, the greenish images ghostly. But he could see.
With the cocked .44 thrust out before him, Harlow jerked his head this way and that, looking for, seeking … what? He did not know. Whatever it was. The thing.
“C-come on, asshole!” he cried, his voice high, strained. “M-motherfucker!”
Left, right, he swept his tunnel vision.
And then he knew—
My God, it’s behind me!
—and he jerked about to see—
Harlow reeled back, his bowels and bladder loosing, the gun falling from his hand to strike the floor, the thunderous explosion lost under terrified screams as he shrieked and shrieked and shrieked. …
When the taxi pulled away in the crisp October night, Gloria, twenty-two, picked up her cheap suitcase and followed the silver-haired man into the elegant manse. With a faint clicking throughout, light flooded the foyer and the rooms beyond, both upstairs and down. Maxon turned to the healthy young lady, a predatory grin on his cadaverous face, and he said, “Your great-uncle was a most peculiar man, Miss Willoughby, and you are the last in his line.”
William Peter Blatty
ELSEWHERE
Is there anyone out there who hasn’t heard of The Exorcist? Though an Oscar sits on Bill Blatty’s mantel for the screenplay to the movie version, it will always he the hook that stands out in my mind: without benefit of a screen, William Peter Blatty flat out scared the crap out of me—and millions of others. In the process, he also, along with Ira Levin, cracked open the commercial fiction door to allow horror fiction in. This is the same door that Stephen King would kick in a few years later.
What many readers may not know is that Blatty (who received the Stoker Award for Lifetime Achievement in 1998) had a distinguished career in the movies before The Exorcist, producing screenplays for such films as What Did You Do in the War, Daddy? and A Shot in the Dark.
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