There was no response. JC wasn’t exactly surprised. There wasn’t anyone in the clothes to answer. But the more he looked at the various costumes, the spookier they seemed. The lack of heads, of faces, was particularly disturbing. How can you hope to negotiate with, or even threaten, something that has no head to listen with? The more he looked, the more he found to unsettle him. The clothes had no eyes; but they could still see him. Still know exactly where he was. Every single outfit was orientated on him. And none of them had any of the bulges, or fullness, that you’d expect from the bodies that should be inhabiting them. The sleeves were flat, and the legs didn’t bend. These weren’t clothes worn by invisible men; they were clothes, moving under their own impulses. Animated, not inhabited. He couldn’t decide whether that was worse, or not.
He said as much to Lissa, who nodded stiffly. “It’s worse. We’re definitely not alone in this theatre. Someone else is in here with us, doing this.”
She broke off abruptly, as the costumes lurched forward. Row upon row of the things, advancing on JC and Lissa. There was a horrid sense of purpose, of open menace, in their jerky, deliberate movements. Materials rubbed together in a rough susurrus, as though the clothes were whispering to each other. They bustled against each other in their eagerness; but there wasn’t the sound of a single footstep.
“Definitely time to get the hell out of Dodge,” said JC.
He turned his back on the slowly advancing clothes as an act of defiance and hurried over to join Lissa at the door. She was looking blankly at the moving costumes as though hypnotised, as though she couldn’t believe it was happening. JC grabbed the door handle and rattled it hard; but it wouldn’t turn. He stepped back and charged forward, putting his shoulder to the door; but while the heavy wood jumped and rattled loudly in its frame, it wouldn’t open.
“That isn’t going to work!” Lissa said angrily, snapped out of her daze. “The door opened inwards; remember?”
“Now you tell me,” muttered JC, rubbing at his bruised shoulder. “Do you see anything in here we can use to break down the door?”
“No. Nothing. You think maybe that’s deliberate? Because I sure as hell do. I told you this was a trap!”
“Try not to lose it just yet, Lissa,” said JC. “There are still options.” He moved to stand between her and the advancing costumes. “You can’t let this get to you. A lot’s happened since we entered this theatre, but even though some of it was seriously spooky, and even downright disturbing on occasion…there was never a time when we were in any real danger. I’m trained to notice things like that. Somebody has been doing their level best to scare us, but not once in any way that put our lives at risk.”
“I don’t think that’s true any more,” said Lissa. “Things have changed. This feels different. Dangerous.”
“Come on!” said JC. “What can a bunch of old clothes do? Pelt us with mothballs? Beat us to death with their embroidered cuffs?”
He stepped forward again, closing with the clothes, and raised one hand to whip off his sunglasses, to see if he could stop them with the glare from his altered eyes. The costumes rushed forward and threw themselves on JC, ignoring Lissa completely. As though she wasn’t important, as though she wasn’t even there. The clothes hit JC hard, driving him backwards and wrapping themselves around him in layer upon layer, squeezing tight. JC tried to fight them, but there was nothing there to fight. The clothes simply gave when he tried to hit them and stretched when he tried to rip and tear them. They dropped upon him in wave after wave, closing tighter and tighter around him, pinning his arms to his sides with inhuman strength, like so many constricting snakes.
The clothes whipped JC’s feet out from under him, and he fell backwards. He hit the floor hard, driving all the breath from his body. And once he was down, he couldn’t get up again. The clothes wrapped him up like a mummy, his legs strapped together, his arms helpless at his sides…He fought and struggled, threw all his strength against the enveloping costumes; but they were stronger than he was. Lissa fought desperately to tear the clothes off him, but even though clothing ripped and tore under her hands, she couldn’t do enough damage to tear even one piece of clothing away. The costumes ignored her, piling onto JC in layer after layer, burying him underneath them.
He thrashed around on the floor, throwing his weight this way and that, but it was becoming harder and harder to get his breath as the clothes compressed his chest. And then a single silk shirt dropped down across his face, slapping into place, moulding itself tightly across his features, filling his mouth and nostrils so he couldn’t get any air at all. One last breath was forced out of him; and he couldn’t draw another one in.
* * *
The door smashed in as Old Tom, the caretaker, came crashing into the room. Lissa yelled for him to help her, and the two of them ripped the silk shirt away from JC’s face and tore it into ribbons. JC dragged in a great breath of air, struggling against the clothes again with renewed strength. Lissa and Old Tom attacked the enveloping costumes with their bare hands, ripping and tearing at them; and the clothes collapsed and went limp. Lissa and Old Tom rocked JC back and forth as they pulled the no-longer-resisting costumes away from him, pulling them off him, layer by layer, until JC could finally find the strength and leverage to break free.
He struggled back up onto his feet, tearing at the last few clothes with an almost hysterical strength, desperate to get them off him. When they finally fell away from him and sprawled unmoving on the floor, he kicked at them viciously, breathing hard. And then he was back in control again, himself again, standing still and forcing his breathing back under control. He smiled easily at Lissa and Old Tom as they stood uncertainly before him.
“Well!” JC said brightly. “That was different. Hello again, Old Tom. Where have you been? We couldn’t find you anywhere.”
“Oh, here and there, sir,” said Old Tom, as vaguely diffident as ever. “I was talking to that scientific young lady of yours, in the lobby.”
JC waited, until it was clear he wasn’t going to get any more, then he looked thoughtfully at the distressed clothes lying on the floor. He prodded a few with the tip of his shoe, to be sure; but there was no response.
“You don’t want to go playing with the costumes, sir,” said Old Tom, reproachfully. “You’ll damage them. Clothes like that are expensive.”
“Do you know how they got here?” said JC.
“No, sir,” said Old Tom. “I’m the caretaker; I don’t do costumes. That’s a whole other department. More than my job’s worth to mess with things that are none of my concern.”
JC had already stopped listening, half-way through the old caretaker’s response. He was thinking. Why would Kim have brought him here, into a trap, to be attacked? This had to be deliberate. Wait until he was separated from Happy and Melody, then bring him to a room with no escape, where his death would be waiting.
“Why would Kim bring me here?” he said, and only realised he’d said it aloud when Lissa snorted loudly.
“What did she say to bring you here?”
“She didn’t say anything,” said JC.
“Then there’s your answer. How do you know it was really your Kim?” said Lissa. “We’ve all seen all kinds of illusions in the theatre, things and people that weren’t what they appeared to be.”
“But like you said, this was different,” said JC. “This wasn’t just scary; someone meant for me to die here.”
“Someone else is here in the theatre with us,” said Lissa. “Someone who isn’t supposed to be here.”
JC nodded brusquely to Old Tom. “Thanks for your help. Have you seen anyone else? Anyone who isn’t authorised to be here?”
“No, sir.”
JC looked at him thoughtfully. “How did you know Lissa and I were in trouble?”
“I didn’t, sir,” said Old Tom. “I was checking out the corridors, looking for you, to pass on a message. And then I heard you two crashing about in here, where no-one had any busines
s being, and I thought I’d better take a look.”
“A message?” said Lissa. “Who from, exactly?”
“From Mr. Happy, Mr. Benjamin, and Miss Elizabeth,” said the old caretaker, a bit importantly. “They want you, and Miss Melody, to rejoin them on the old stage, as soon as possible.”
“Go back to the main stage?” said JC. “What on earth for?”
Old Tom shrugged. “They didn’t say, sir, and it wasn’t my business to ask. Will there be anything else, sir? Then I’ll be off. Lots of work still to do.”
He smiled about him vaguely and went back out into the corridor. Lissa looked at JC, who stayed where he was, frowning hard, thinking.
“Something’s not quite right,” said JC.
“Oh, I couldn’t agree more,” said Lissa. “That moustache really doesn’t suit him.”
“Why didn’t Melody ring me if she knew I was needed?” said JC. He took out his phone and checked, but there were no missed calls.
“Why didn’t Happy yell at you with his mind?” said Lissa.
“Because I put a lot of time and effort into training him not to do that except for real life-endangering emergencies,” said JC. “Still…”
“Oh, to hell with it,” said Lissa. “Let’s go see what they want. I’m sick to death of this room. Never wanted to come in here anyway.”
JC nodded slowly and started to follow Lissa out of the room and into the corridor. At the last moment, he stopped in the doorway as a thought struck him. The costumes only attacked him. Not Lissa. Not even when she was tearing at them, to save him. Odd, that…
He looked around the room. There were no clothes, no costumes. Even the clothing racks were gone. He saw only a bare and empty room, full of dust and shadows.
EIGHT
IN THE FLESH
Still in the theatre lobby, and getting more than a little tired of it, Melody frowned over her scientific equipment like a mother with a sick child. She moved back and forth, doing her level best to coax and persuade the various instruments into telling her something she actually wanted to know. But, as far as all her screens, sensors, and scientific readings were concerned, everything in the lobby was wonderful. Nothing out of the ordinary was happening, and all was quiet on the supernatural front. Melody stood over her machines, scowling heavily and tugging at her lower lip as she gave the matter some thought and wondered whether she should get out the operating manual or a really big hammer. Because she knew for a fact that something was wrong with the lobby.
And that was when all her readouts started going crazy, right in front of her eyes. The first to go was the temperature gauge. The display started climbing, and wouldn’t stop. According to the figure before her, the temperature in the lobby was already at jungle heat and rising so fast it was heading for the stratosphere. If it really was as hot in the lobby as the gauge was making out, the machine would be melting, and Melody would be crisp and aromatic and ready to serve. And then the reading dropped, just as rapidly, and they kept on dropping. Shooting down past normal levels and into sub-zero temperatures that would seriously upset a polar bear. Melody felt a sudden nostalgic twinge for the old-style thermometer, with mercury in it, where if you didn’t like the reading you were getting, you could tap the thing with a fingertip until it changed. You didn’t have that luxury with an electronic readout. She was about to try hitting the thing anyway, on general principles, when the readout rose sharply again, all the way back to normal, and steadied itself.
While Melody was still trying to get her head around what had happened, all her warning alarms went off at once. The sirens were deafeningly loud in the enclosed space of the lobby, and Melody moved quickly from one readout to the next, all of which seemed convinced that she was surrounded and under attack from any number of heavily armed hostiles. The short-range sensors were picking up guns, energy weapons, Objects of Power, and all kinds of dangerous radiations, while the motion trackers showed dozens of hostile presences, circling round and round her instrument station. As far as her defences were concerned, Melody was under attack from the walking dead, demonic forces, and bloody big aliens in hobnailed boots. The machines were going crazy, warning her about everything under the sun, all of them shouting and screaming for her attention. Melody looked up and glared wildly about her; but the lobby was quite definitely empty and utterly peaceful.
All the alarms shut off at once; and a slow, steady quiet blessedly returned. All the short-range sensor readings were back to normal, indicating everything was as it should be. It was like they’d all suddenly lost their machine minds, for no reason. And then all the long-range sensors kicked in, lights blinking angrily all across the boards. Melody leaned in close to study the readings, and then shook her head numbly. As far as the long-range sensors were concerned, the theatre wasn’t there any more. It was gone, and the rest of the world with it. She couldn’t find a single sensor reporting anything: no physical readings, no energy sources, nothing at all. As though she and her ranks of machines were floating alone, in empty space. Melody looked steadily about her, but the lobby stubbornly insisted it was still there, surrounding her, and everything was fine. She stamped her foot hard on the floor to make sure.
Bright lights were flashing everywhere now, everything kicking off at once; and one by one, the monitor screens turned themselves on, showing Melody images of things that weren’t there. Brief glimpses of other worlds than this. One screen showed the inside of some vast stone temple, from an age before any known history, lit by strange, phosphorescent glows from long creepers of moss, crawling slowly across the floor and walls, and draping themselves around massive stone carvings of long-forgotten gods with horrid insect faces.
The screen next to it showed a dark, drifting, underwater scene, of some sunken city wrapped in seaweed and studded with pulsing mushroom growths. Strange, unpleasant-looking fish darted this way and that, carrying their own eerie light with them, while huge glass submarines glided past, full of hunched humanoid creatures made out of kelp.
Another screen showed the theatre lobby, soaked and splashed with blood and gore. JC and Happy stared out of the screen, standing together, their clothes and flesh ripped and torn. They were both dead, but they shuffled slowly forward on broken feet, staring out of the screen at Melody with dark bloody holes where their eyes had been, their mutilated faces full of a terrible silent accusation.
The monitor screens all shut down at once, showing nothing. Melody was breathing harshly and scowling so fiercely her face hurt. Either something was wrong with her instruments or something was very wrong with the world. And, since a quick glare around showed the lobby was still there, untouched and unchanged, it had to be her machines. She honestly didn’t know what to do. If she started running major diagnostics on everything, she’d still be here running them when JC and Happy came back to tell her the case was over. Checking them all for outside influences would take hours. Though that had to be what this was. Something from Outside was messing with her. First those nightmare posters on the walls, and now this. Someone was messing with her head, trying to make her doubt herself, and now they wanted her to doubt her instruments. Melody took a deep breath and shut all her instruments down. Everything. The lights went out, the monitor screens went blank, and every single piece of highly sophisticated technology was suddenly still and silent. Melody hated to do it, but if she couldn’t trust what her equipment was telling her, then it was no damned good at all.
It was all very quiet in the lobby now. The lighting was bright and steady, the shadows blessedly unmoving, and the air was dry and still, as though nothing had happened, and this was just another day. Melody snarled silently at that thought, and rubbed at her aching forehead. Too much thinking is bad for you, her mother always said. It’ll give you lines. Though her mother never was much of a one for thinking, anyway, or she’d never have married Melody’s father. Bad cess to the man, wherever he might be. Melody made herself concentrate on the matter at hand. Her hands weren’t as stead
y as they should have been, and her back muscles ached unmercifully from the endless tension. The stress was getting to her; and that wasn’t like her. She never let the world upset her; she made it a matter of principle to always upset the world.
But now she felt very much on her own, without her instruments to lean on. Alone and vulnerable. Melody sniffed loudly. She knew what to do about that. She crouched and reached into the arms cabinet, feeling for the machine-pistol; but her fingers couldn’t find it. She knelt so she could look right into the cabinet, but there was nothing in it. Nothing at all. She stared into the dark space. She couldn’t believe it. She swept her hand back and forth inside the cabinet, banging it against the inside walls; but every single one of her weapons was gone. She straightened up and moved quickly up and down her instrument racks, checking all the other, more secret, defensive caches she maintained in her set-up; and they were empty, too. All her weapons were gone, including all the ones nobody else was supposed to know about. Including her team-mates.
She slowly turned around in a complete circle, taking in the empty, innocent-seeming lobby. Her back muscles crawled, in anticipation of the attack she probably wouldn’t know anything about until it was too late. Her hands clenched into fists. She could feel cold sweat on her face. And then she caught a glimpse of someone, out of the corner of her eye, watching her. She spun round to look straight at him, but there was no-one there. She caught another glimpse of the watching, smiling stranger, out of the corner of her other eye. She spun around again; and again there was nobody there. She was breathing really hard now, ready to jump on anyone and beat the truth out of them, about what was really going on. She caught another glimpse, and another, from this side and from that, but no matter which way she looked, or how fast she turned, she couldn’t catch him. Only the briefest of glimpses; quick impressions of a man watching her, smiling at her, enjoying her agitation. And every time she saw him, he was that little bit closer, closing in on her. She spun round and round, eyes wide open, then stopped herself with an effort. She stood very still, hands clenched painfully tight at her sides, fighting to get her frantic breathing and heart rate back under control. She let her head hang down, squeezed her eyes shut, and refused to open them again.
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