The good thing was that the bat was sticking out from under the foot of the bed, the part nearest the door. It would be difficult to grab, but not impossible, and even if the doll ran for the door while he was grabbing the weapon, it would not have time to open the door and he would be able to whale on it and destroy it before it could escape.
What if it attacked him instead?
He did not even want to think about that.
Daniel shot one more glance at the dark shifting figure, then moved quickly, dashing across the carpet. He bent down, acutely aware of the vulnerability of his dangling genitals, and braced himself for an attack as he reached under the bed and hurriedly grasped the familiar tape-covered handle.
The door clicked open behind him, and he whirled around to see the doll running out of the bedroom, laughing in a whispery sibilant way that reminded him of the sound of broom bristles on hardwood floor.
He followed it into the hall. He was still naked, but embarrassment was the least of his concerns, and, grunting, he swung the bat low, as hard as he could, hoping the doll had not gotten too far away and that he'd be able to hit it.
No such luck.
Still laughing, the figure hurried down the dark hallway, blending in with the shadows against the sideboard, disappearing into the gloom.
"Damn!" he said.
He looked up, and on the far wall, in a dim half circle of what appeared to be reflected moonlight, he thought he saw a shadow.
The shadow of a girl.
Doneen.
Beckoning him.
He'd gone back into his room after that, locking his door, and although he dozed off eventually, he tried to stay awake all night, and what little sleep he did get was troubled and intermittent. He was as tired when he woke up as he had been the night before.
Daniel walked into the dining room.Billingsly smiled cheerfully at him and, lifting a silver pot, said, "Coffee?"
The butler had laid out an elaborate breakfast on the oversized banquet table, and Daniel sat down at its foot, nodding his acknowledgment.
He felt like shit. Billingsly , by contrast, was in peak condition. If yesterday he had accentuated the spookiness of the House with his pale, cadaverous appearance, today he complemented it with his visible robustness.
He was no less creepy for his newfound vigor, however, and improved health only served to emphasize those things that were so disturbing about him in the first place.
Daniel looked from the rejuvenated Billingsly to his own enervated reflection in a mirror above the sideboard.
The dichotomy was too striking not to notice.
Maybe Billingsly was a vampire. Maybe the butler was feeding off him, sucking the life out of him for his own nourishment.
No. More likely, the butler's health was connected with that of the House. And now that the House was getting charged back up, oldBillingsly was receiving a power boost as well.
Billingsly smirked at him as he poured his coffee. "I trust you had a pleasant evening?"
Daniel smiled sweetly up at him. "Couldn't have been better." He sipped the hot drink. It tasted wonderful.
"So why didn't you recruit new people to live in the House? I assume that's what you did before. I know my family didn't live here for generations."
"No, they didn't. But they knew why they were here, they knew what they were doing. They were recruited by the previous occupants, specifically selected to maintain the barrier, and they did so, following all of the rules and rituals bequeathed them by their predecessors." His expression hardened suddenly, and the change in expression was so quick and complete that Daniel nearly spilled his coffee. "As you remember, Danny boy, breakfast is promptly at six. No later. You will be allowed to slide today, but tomorrow ..." His voice trailed off, an implied threat.
Daniel's heart was pounding, but he feigned nonchalance, tried to keep the tremble out of his hand. "Your daughter," he found himself saying. "She predicted my mother's death. And she was somehow involved with it." His eyes metBillingsly's . "I thought you were, too."
The butler shook his head. "No."
"Then why did you force us to stay, me and my dad?"
"As I told you, the House needed occupants."
"But you knew she died?"
"I did not know how."
"A doll, a doll made out of dust and lint and gum wrappers, shoved itself down her throat and strangled her."
The butler's voice remained even. "I did not know that."
"You didn't know that I was making one of those dolls, too? You don't know that my son saw her and she taught him how to make them, as well?"
"She was obviously trying to keep you from the House, trying to remind you of what had happened and scare you away."
"And you? Tony said he saw you, too."
"I was trying to entice you back."
"And you knew nothing about her? This is all news to you?"
Billingsly nodded.
Daniel angrily grabbed a bagel, dug into the eggs and sausage on his plate. Billingsly moved unobtrusively around the table, refilling Daniel's coffee cup, taking dishes back to the kitchen, and it was only after Daniel had finished his breakfast that the butler finally asked a question: "Have you had sex with this . . . being?"
"No." Daniel was firm. "She wanted me to, but I refused.
Like I said, that's why I left."
Billingsly nodded. "I don't know who or what this child is, but I assure you that I have never seen her, and until now I've been entirely unaware of her existence."
It was true, Daniel thought. He had never seen the two of them together. He'd just assumed Doneen was Billingsly's daughter.
Or perhaps she'd told him that.
"Apparently, she was successful in her efforts to drive you away from the House," Billingsly said. "And, indeed, that weakened the barrier. I assume that was her goal, to open the border." The butler smiled reassuringly.
"But if she was here, she is gone now--at least in that guise. You have come back, the House is once again returning to its intended state, and all attempts to thwart the House in its intended purpose have failed."
"My son saw her," Daniel reminded him. "I think I've seen her, too. And I thought I saw one of those . . .
dolls in the window when I drove up. I'm pretty sure she's still around."
Billingsly smiled again, and this time there was some thing predatory in the gesture, an intensity and cold unnatural fierceness completely unlike any human expression.
For the first time, Daniel thought, he was seeing the real butler, and he could not look upon the sight, he had to turn away.
Billingslyplaced his coffeepot back on its tray and surveyed the table. "Are we all finished with breakfast?"
he asked innocently.
He was acting as though nothing was wrong, as though nothing unusual had occurred or been discussed, and Daniel wasn't sure if that was good or bad.
"I think so," he said.
"Very well. Dinner is at six sharp. You may eat lunch or not, as is your wont, but you must appear for dinner."
His eyes were hard. "On time."
"What am I supposed to do all day? Can I leave, go shopping?"
Billingsly laughed, and for the first time there seemed to be real humor in it. "I'm afraid not."
"What then?"
The butler began walking around the table. "Whatever you want. This is your home now, explore it. Get to know it."
"I do know it," Daniel said. "I spent half my fucking life here."
Billingsly smiled. "I think you'll be surprised."
There was nothing threatening in either Billingsly's words or his tone of voice but Daniel still felt chilled.
"I don't want to be surprised," he said softly.
But the butler had walked into the kitchen and did not hear him.
Stormy Stormy strode out of the dining room into the sitting room. He was determined not to simply fall into line and do whatever Billingham told him to do. That snotty servant had rubb
ed him the wrong way even as a child, and while he'd always been afraid of and intimidated by him, he'd always resented it. He wasn't about to capitulate now, to give in and give up and blindly follow orders.
If anything, he was more determined than ever to stand up to the butler and the House.
Butchery.
He kept thinking of the movie.
He kept thinking about a lot of movies. Now that he knew the world wasn't going to end, he was anxious to get the hell out of here and get back to work. He didn't know how long he'd been here--with the wacky time that seemed to affect this place, who could tell?--but even if it had just been a day or two, he needed to get back. He had things to do. He had the Taos festival to prepare for.
Had he been reported missing? he wondered. Were people looking for him? Would anybody be able to find him?
Doubtful. He didn't know where he was himself. To paraphrase Dorothy, he had the feeling he wasn't in Chicago anymore.
He wondered if the dead who had come back to life were still hanging around the reservation. Or if his return home and the fact that the House was once again occupied had put a stop to that. Had they disappeared, the living dead? Had they simply fallen in their tracks?
Had they rotted away and turned to dust like Dracula?
He hoped Rodman had been out there with his camera, documenting it. It would make a hell of a film.
He had to get out of here. He had to escape.
But what if the butler was right? What if he was the only thing protecting the world, the universe, from demons and monsters, from this "Other Side." Didn't he owe it to ... to humanity to do everything he could to--how did Billingham put it--"maintain the barrier"?
No.
There were bound to be people willing to give up their lives for this, to devote all of their time for the greater good. The same people who joined the Peace Corps and spent all of their free time helping the homeless.
But he was not one of them.
He knew it was selfish, but he had things he wanted to do, too. He had his own life to live. Let Billingham find someone else to staff his fucking House. From what Stormy could tell, all that was needed was a warm body.
Anyone would do. It didn't have to be him. He wasn't bringing any special skills or abilities to the table.
Stormy glanced back toward the dining room. The first question he had to ask himself was: Did he believe Billingham about the House?
Yes.
He didn't know why--he'd seen no evidence to support the butler's wild claims--but he supposed it was because he'd experienced his own examples of that other world bleeding into this one. And Billingham offered an easy one-stop explanation.
Time for the next question: Who was Billingham ? What was he?
That one was a little harder.
Maybe he was God.
God was his family's servant? He found that hard to believe.
But it worked from an objective, interpretive standpoint.
If this was a film, the girl would obviously represent the devil, evil, temptation. You didn't have to be Antonioni to figure that out.
And that would make Billingham God.
No, Stormy thought. He didn't buy it. The butler clearly didn't know about the girl.
But maybe he wasn't the final word here. Maybe he was a good guy, but the power didn't rest with him.
Maybe he and the girl were both puppets.
With the House pulling the strings.
Stormy took a deep breath. The first thing he had to determine was what he wanted to do. Obviously, Billingham was not very forthcoming on these subjects. He didn't think he was going to get a whole lot more out of him than what he'd gotten already. So should he confront the butler or go around him? Should he accept fate and do as he was told--or try to escape?
Stormy picked up a lamp off the small table next to the love seat and yanked out its extension cord.
He voted for escape.
He threw the lamp at the front window as hard as he could. He expected it to either break the glass or bounce back, but instead it disappeared into the window, as though it were sinking in a pool of water --and instantly appeared back on the table.
He glanced wildly around the room, found a marble cameo box in the center of the long coffee table, picked it up, and heaved it with all of his might at the window.
Same result.
Fuck it. Billingham had told him to explore, and he was going to explore, goddamn it. And he'd find another way out of here if it killed him.
He remembered what the butler had said: / think you'll be surprised.
A chill passed through him.
He ignored it, pushed all reservations to the back of his mind. Where should he start?
The doors. He'd tried to get out through the front door almost immediately after he'd arrived, but he hadn't tried it since. And if he remembered right, there was a side door off the kitchen and a door leading from the den to the back porch.
If that didn't work, he'd start with the basement and work his way up.
He walked out of the sitting room into the entryway.
The front door was still locked. Not just locked. Frozen.
The latch on the handle did not rattle, and there was not even the slightest give as he tried to yank the door open.
Billinghamwas in the kitchen, humming to himself, some song that nagged onStormy's brain with its familiarity but which he could not quite place, so he left that one for later and went into the den.
It had been a long time since he'd been in this room, but he remembered it perfectly: its look, its smell, the way sunlight seemed to die somewhere along the way from the windows to the dark wood walls. Even the books on the shelves were exactly as he remembered them--he recognized the titles.
The den windows had looked out onto the extensive gardens in the backyard, but the windows now looked out on nothing. Light came through them, clear bright light obviously generated by the sun, but it appeared to be either smoggy or foggy behind the glass and there was only white and only light and no detail of the world beyond could be made out.
He increased the speed of his step as he approached the back door. He reached for the knob, and it turned in his hand. It was unlocked.
He opened the door.
And stepped over the threshold to the Other Side.
It was not at all what he'd expected. There were no ghosts or animated corpses, no black sky or barren landscape, no skeletons or witches or drooling befanged demons. Instead, he was in a house structurally identical to the one he had just left, but with all of its insides scooped out. There were no rooms or staircases or hallways or interior walls, just a giant, single three-story room that took up the entire building. Its unadorned interior was a color that had no counterpart in the known universe, an entirely new hue that bore no relation to red, yellow, blue, black, white, or any of the colors of the spectrum. High above, clouds floated near the top of the three gables, the whitish wisps floating back and forth just beneath the ceiling, as if searching for a way out.
It was a compelling sight, beautiful in its way, but his attention was captured by a figure against the far wall:
a bald woman, naked, sitting in a huge straw nest atop an egg the size of a medicine ball.
His mother.
Stormy stood rooted in place, staring, unable to move.
His mother waved at him, smiled broadly. "Stormy!"
There were tears in his eyes, and part of him wanted to run over to her and throw his arms around her and hug her so hard that she could never get away from him.
But another part of him, a more rational part, was not sure that it would be such a good idea. The egg and the nest and the baldness threw him off, and while he had no doubt that this really was his mother, something kept him from wholeheartedly embracing her.
"Stormy!" she called again.
Was this what it would be like if the border was down? Conversing with the dead, maintaining a relationship with someone even after they passe
d away?
And was that so bad?
He didn't think so. Death was responsible for most of the sadness in the world, and if loved ones were still around after they died, if ghosts weren't considered frighteningly unnatural, weren't demonized by myth and religions but were accepted as merely another form of being, all of that grieving and mourning and anguish and depression would be immediately eliminated.
But were the living and the dead supposed to mix?
They had at one time. Before the House.
According to Billingham , though, if they'd continued to do so, his world would have long since been engulfed and would no longer exist.
Was this heaven? he wondered.
Or hell?
Maybe it was both.
Through the windows, he could see other houses of the same unknown color, an endless line of them, like repeating images in a hall of mirrors, stretching endlessly to either side.
In front was whiteness.
In back was black.
Was this the afterlife? Was this where people went when they died? It seemed kind of small and limiting, kind of barren. He had never really given much thought to what would happen to him after death, and if pressed he probably would have said that his brain would stop and that would be it, he would cease to exist. He had never really believed in a heaven or hell.
But clearly, the soul, the spirit, the essence of a person, did live on after death.
Only . . .
Only he found it kind of depressing. If he had imagined a hereafter, it would have been more expansive than this, more luxurious, more along the lines of traditional conceptions. But if his mother died only to become a bald lady sitting on a nest in an empty house . . .
Well, simply having his brain stop and ceasing to exist didn't seem quite so bad.
But that feeling disappeared as he gathered his courage and began walking toward her. She called his name again, and waved to him, but as he drew closer she seemed to fade and grow insubstantial. Her form became slim and wavery , and as he reached the nest, she floated upward, joining the clouds at the top of the house. Only they weren't clouds, he saw now. They were spirits. The wisps had faces, faint traces of eyes and mouths that shifted and changed as they moved.
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