The Tea Party - A Novel of Horror

by Charles L. Grant

  “Not a great recommendation.”

  “Fight and opposition aren’t the same thing, Liz. Hey, gotta run. I’ll see you later.”

  She dialed again and listened to the Bazaar’s phone ringing, a worried frown creasing her brow when it wasn’t answered right away. She was almost ready to hang up and try again when she heard the handset lifted on the other end. There was no immediate greeting, and she hesitated before giving her own.

  “Oh,” Ollie said, her voice strained, and distant.

  “Ollie, are you all right?”

  “Yes, I guess so.”

  Liz looked at the door, but Doug was still outside. “Well, look, do you think you guys could come over to Doug’s later?” She forced herself to sound more jovial. “We’re going to have a meeting of all the hotheads in this burg, to see what can be done about the Winterrest sale. You wanna burn down a few castles or something?” She softened her voice. “It’s okay if you don’t feel up to it.”

  “Bud doesn’t believe me!” Ollie blurted in anguish. “He thinks it’s someone else’s kid.”

  “Oh, Ollie.”

  “Liz, he’s left me. He took the car, and he’s gone!”

  “Don’t worry,” she said automatically, cursing herself for such an inanity. “He needs time, dear, that’s all. Look, why not let Clark bring you over. The company will do you good.”

  Ollie wavered, then agreed in a soft, almost inaudible voice, and Liz wished she could wring Bud’s thick little neck.

  As the handset clicked onto its cradle she heard a shout outside, and turned just as Doug and the kids charged into the room. They were drenched, their hair gleaming against their scalps, their clothes spattered darkly. A glance to the window, and she saw the rain.

  Hard rain, streaking out of the sky and cracking like hail against the panes. The kids were whooping as they raced for towels, but Doug remained at the door, looking down when she joined him.

  “Shower,” he said unnecessarily.

  She could barely see Maggie huddled miserably under a tiny apple tree. The brisk wind was damp, unpleasantly cool, and she rubbed her arms hard to smooth the skin and bring it warmth. The sky was light; when she looked again she could see no clouds at all—the color above was a darkening blue.

  There was thunder, no lightning; she was reminded of the sound the earthquake had made.

  Thunder again as Heather returned, jeans replacing her shorts, her hair in a terry cloth turban. This time lightning flared and made them all squint, and the third clap of thunder rattled the windows, rattled on the cups on the table, and Heather moved closer, shivering.

  “Wow,” she said. “Wow.”

  The wind punched a chilling spray through the screen, yet no one moved to close the door. Gouts and spears of water rose from the lawn, slammed away from the sundeck, sheeting and wavering when lightning crackled over the fields; thunder rolled and crested and exploded like boulders dropped onto the roof. Heather yelped and grabbed her mother; Liz fumbled for Doug’s hand, while Doug stepped closer to the door, shaking his head as he looked up, shaking it again as thunder and lightning followed in swift artillery fire, so loud Liz at last covered her ears and turned her head.

  Keith was standing in the kitchen doorway, head cocked to the storm, eyes narrowed, and he was smiling.

  2

  Bud drove the rust-pocked VW recklessly, not caring that he had almost veered off the road twice. He took the jump into the driveway at speed, and braked hard only when the garage door filled the windshield. The bumper touched wood. He listened as the engine whined before he turned it off.

  Blinking rapidly, he slid out and leaned on the roof, putting his head on his forearms until, with an effort, he jerked upright and swallowed. He headed for the front where, at the walk, he paused to look at the signpost, remembering how Ollie had bitched for an hour for him to be careful as he worked the scorching tool over the words.

  The sun in its setting slowly turned red, and the air took the appearance of unnerving heatless fire. The trees were shifting to gold, the street to black blood, and the lawns were shimmering as a breeze touched the grass.

  How could she do it? How could she sit there and tell him she had been pregnant and not know it? What did she think he was? Why didn’t she tell him? God, they could have found a clinic and everything would have been fine, just the two of them again, for the rest of their lives. Fine. Great. Until she lied. He glanced to the bedroom window over his head. All that time up there, all those times at all times of the day—and she was pregnant.

  The street darkened, and he hurried inside. A tear broke, and he didn’t care because she had broken their sacred trust. What an idiot she must think him; five, six months gone and not even suspecting? What an idiot. What an ass.

  He listened for several seconds before he knew he was alone. She was gone. He walked slowly through the aisles until he paused at the Retirement Room, went in and locked the door behind him. He sat heavily on the lounge and brushed a finger over the scorch mark. This was what was left of the rest of his life; this was all there was left to living.

  He wanted to believe she hadn’t known, but. . .

  The dim light sifted out of the room.

  He wanted to believe, but god, he wasn’t a magician.

  An hour later he heard her calling and jumped eagerly to his feet. And froze. He heard footsteps on the staircase, and she called his name again. No remorse, no tears—she was goddammed excited! No plea for forgiveness, no begging him to come back so she could make it right between them again. None of it. No goddamned nothing.

  He sat and clasped his hands, knuckle-cracking hard. Needle-point pain erupted in his wrist, and he welcomed it while he told himself he was a fool, that trust was all there was, that Liz was right when she said this wouldn’t be the first time that something like this had happened. There were all sorts of reasons, and he ought to give Ollie a chance to explain, for crying out loud. After all these years, she ought to have a chance.

  Her footsteps were muffled, hurried. There was no calling him name this time, no begging, no entreaties.

  Footsteps, running, and she was gone.

  A few minutes later all hell broke loose.

  The storm startled him to his feet, whirled him around to the window where he watched the lightning drive away the black, felt the thunder ring in his ears until they started aching. The building shook. The chairs and desks in blue-white strobic flashing jumped from the walls, crawled toward him, scuttled away. The panes rattled as if the glass were made of sheet metal. The floor vibrated, and he made his way to the sill, shaded his eyes against the bursts of light, and tried to see through the rain. Hard rain. Almost as hard as hail when a gust splattered it against the glass.

  He watched the storm, reached out to press a palm against the window, and within seconds it had calmed him, drove his doubts into the corners, and left him knowing exactly what he had to do. He could not stand to be laughed at, which is what they would all do when Ollie told practically everyone who mattered. It was as simple as not being able to stick around anymore. As simple as that. Ollie had betrayed him, had made all those promises, and then had gotten herself pregnant. To trap him. To pin him down. To force him to share her with someone—no, something else.

  And he wouldn’t have it.

  As he watched the lightning burn through the sky, watched the rain gouge trenches in the yard, he would not have it.

  When it was over, when the fury outside was done and gone, he went upstairs, went to the phone, and vacillated only a moment before calling Eban Parrish.

  “This man of yours, Mr. Parrish,” he said without preamble. “Is he still interested in the Antique Bazaar?”

  The line crackled with waves of static.

  “Mr. Yardley, this is a surprise. And am I to assume that you would actually sell now?”

  An implied question: do you know what you are doing?

  “I would, and I am, Mr. Parrish,” he said as firmly as he could. �
��I absolutely am.”

  “I see. Well. This is a rather late development, Mr. Yardley.”

  “The offer was a good one,” Bud said. “If your man still wants to make it, we’ll accept. I just wanted you to know.”

  “I see.”

  “Is there going to be a problem?”

  “Not for me,” Parrish said. “But Mr. Yardley, may I suggest that we talk about it further? Perhaps tomorrow, at the affair? You are going, aren’t you?

  He hadn’t been. He was going to stay home, among his own children. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, sir, I’ll be there.”

  “Excellent. That’s excellent, Mr. Yardley. And may I recommend you think it over very carefully, so there are no more last minute changes of mind.”

  “Mr. Parrish—”

  “Until tomorrow, then, Mr. Yardley.”

  A vicious explosion of static made him pull the handset away from his ear. He turned, walked to the living room window, and watched the street. He didn’t know what he expected to see, but all there was was the rain puddles, the twilight, and the odd red glow that made him think of dying.

  3

  Piper decided he was going crazy. Or worse—he was getting senile. For years he had been going along just fine, keeping his health, nursing a steady business with the hounds, staying out of Nell’s and Wilbur’s way; now, without warning, his mind was slipping. He was standing outside the Depot, and he recalled . . . no, he seemed to recall speaking with Eban Parrish earlier that afternoon. But that couldn’t be. They had barely exchanged two words in twenty years outside what he was being paid to do. No call to. He wasn’t buying houses, and the mummy sure wasn’t buying hounds. Yet there was this odd sensation that they had actually had a conversation. Today. But he couldn’t remember what was said, and he couldn’t remember where it was said. He just suspected it, and the suspicion turned his stomach.

  It was twilight. Shadows were breaking from behind the trees, slipping out from under the porches, a few sifting into the air like black mist. The streetlamps were on, partially smothered by the foliage, and doing little more than illuminating tiny round stages along the sidewalks.

  A hiccough made him cover his mouth. Shame made him walk away from the bar and head for the highway.

  He had been drinking. For the first time in years he had taken more than a token drink, and he was disgusted. It was Dumpling’s fault. That dumb hound running off, not saying a word, taking her litter to get killed in the woods. He sniffed back a tear. Stupid bitch.

  Wilbur, as usual, was no help. He hated the dogs, a hatred fostered by that big-titted wife of his. Nell. What the hell kind of a name was that, anyway? It was something you called a horse. And she wasn’t any help either. She had practically run him out of the Shade Tree when he came in for his supper, said he stunk of dogshit, why the hell couldn’t he at least take a shower after he handled those animals. Those animals. She called them that, not once that he knew ever giving them a chance to prove they were special, loving, ready to lie down and die for you if you were to ask them not even nicely.

  Wilbur—the spineless little creep, how could he be his son for god’s sake—Wilbur just stood by like a wimp and nodded. He was always on her side, always against his very own father.

  Shit and damnation.

  At the amber light, reflected in dying suns trapped in roadside puddles, he turned right and headed for home. Sitter was folding up his chair. Piper waved; Sitter waved back.

  Another bad feeling.

  Didn’t he see McMahon before, sometime this afternoon? Wasn’t the dope heading down for Winterrest with a big canvas sack in his hand?

  That couldn’t be. The demons would’ve got him. Sitter thought there were witches there, but Piper knew it was the demons. Waiting behind the windows to grab the souls of travelers too stupid to stay away. Demons. Shadows tangled around his legs and made him trip over his own feet. Cars swooped past him, radios loud, voices loud, lights so damned bright they hurt his eyes. He tugged on his cap and tried to ignore the dark of the hill looming on his right.

  Like he tried to ignore the Hollow where Douglas Muir lived. He didn’t like it there. There was no one around, you couldn’t hear the traffic, and that dumb horse was always trying to take off his hand. But then, Muir and his horse were just as crazy as Sitter, only he was seeing cars instead of witches on broomsticks.

  Crazy, all of us, he thought. Crazy. It must be the heat.

  He turned into the lane, sniffed back another tear, and began calling for Dumpling.

  He missed her. And since Nell and the wimp would be at the restaurant until after eleven, he was going to crank up Carmel Quinn, stand on the porch, and listen to the voice that made him wish he were all Irish. And he was going to bawl his damned eyes out because everyone was going crazy and his favorite pup in all the world was missing.

  4

  On any other Saturday night Bernie Hallman would have flatly refused any emergency calls that came into the gas station; he was closed at six and that was that and the hell with stranded motorists who didn’t have the brains to take care of their cars. Tonight, however, Wanda got a damned bee in her bonnet and started nagging at him about modernizing the place, about doing his duty as a husband, about fixing the plumbing, about every damn thing that came into her mind. So when the call came from Parrish, he was glad of it. Shit, there was still an easy hundred bucks to be made, and Parrish was very upset that his rich friend hadn’t been where he said he was. Very upset. Hell, Bernie thought the guy was gonna cry right there on the phone, for Christ’s sake.

  Well, Parrish was gonna cry even more, because Bernie was tired of running around like he was some kind of servant, waiting in the damned dark and there was still wasn’t anyone here he could do business with.

  When he had arrived at the estate, the gate was open. He’d finished his beer, tossed the can onto the floor, and drove in slowly, making sure he didn’t scrape his truck on the wall. Then he’d headed for the house, peering and swearing because while the sky was still streaked with light, it was almost midnight down here. The moon was already up, a few stars were making attempts to break through, and then he had been stuck in the cab during the downpour.

  He didn’t think about the absence of clouds, just counted the bucks he was going to get if that guy would just get his ass in gear and come on out. He had to be in there; there was a light in one of the first-floor windows. Faint, but steady, like a candle or a lantern. And when it seemed that no one was going to answer the sound of his horn, he climbed stiffly to the ground, walked to the door, and slammed a fist against it. Once. Just to let them know they weren’t dealing with some half-brained Triple-A driver who had more forms than an insurance agent to fill out before they would even say hello.

  Nosir, this here was Bernie Hallman, the best mechanic in the county, and he was glad to be out of the house, glad for the money. And he’d be a damnsight gladder once he plopped his aching butt down on one of Judy’s stools and polished off a bottle of Jim Beam while watching the waitresses strut their stuff in their beautiful tight jeans.

  With the headlights behind him, casting his shadow on the door, he looked around and shrugged as if to someone in the truck. Then he knocked again, tried the knob, knocked a third time, and stepped back.

  “Hey!” he shouted. “Hey in there, it’s the tow truck!”

  The pickup creaking a cooling behind him.

  “He ain’t gonna like it, Mr. Parrish ain’t, me havin t’come out twice like this!”

  The truck creaked again, a weight settling on it.

  “Well, fuck ya,” he said. “You and the horse you rode in on.” He gave one last slam on the door, winced at the pain that shot up his arm, and managed two steps back before he stopped.

  The truck was creaking louder, swaying side to side, winch and chains in the back groaning and clanking. The driver’s door slammed shut, swung open, slammed shut.

  Puzzled and annoyed, Bernie took another step forward before he looked
down, and saw that the tires were disappearing into the gravel that filled the drive.

  It had to be a trick, because the damned truck was sinking.

  “Jeezus! Hey! Hey!”

  The metal began to shriek like nails drawn across slate, the chains clanged tonelessly, and all he could do was leap off the drive and onto the grass and dance around helplessly, shouting, once running back to the door to pound furiously on it for help before turning around to run back. He couldn’t leave his truck; it was the only one he had. And he couldn’t stop it from sinking. Couldn’t stop the gravel from skittering around the vehicle, slamming against it, denting it, spilling into the back, and forcing it lower.

  To the door.

  To the window.

  The glass exploded outward, and he threw himself on the ground and covered his head. Something landed on his back and he yelled, rolled over and picked up a small rock. He threw it as far away as he could, and widened his eyes when it landed back at his feet.

  A piece of fine-edged gravel struck his cheek; he gasped at the burning and swiped at it—his palm came away bloody. Still another bounced off his boot and gouged the oil-smeared leather.

  The cab roof and the angle of the winch were the only things above the drive now, and he could still hear it groaning, screaming, while some of the gravel shifted direction and headed straight for him.

  He pushed himself to his knees, and groaned when they were sliced open by stones hidden in the grass.

  Stumbling up and backward, he heard skittering, slithering, and saw in the last of the light stones tumbling toward him. They swarmed over his feet. He kicked out, and they clung like razored burrs, spinning, drilling through the leather, drilling through his feet.

  He screamed.

  Gravel swarmed up his legs, shredding his trousers, knifing his calves, his thighs, throwing him back again when he tried to flail at them. He leaned down once and saw for the first time what was left of his legs.

  He screamed.