The Tea Party - A Novel of Horror

by Charles L. Grant

  Drilling without a sound, save for the tearing of skin, the faint splash of blood, the protest of hard bone.

  A handful reached his groin, and he bellowed, began running, not caring that his legs were barely carrying his weight, not caring that he was on his hands and knees, his back covered, his spine exposed and glinting pinkly in the moonlight, his hair turning red, his arms no more than skeletons holding him up.

  He screamed hoarsely.

  The gravel avoided his throat, and he screamed more like a whisper and was driven face down into the grass by the weight on his back.

  Drilling.

  He shuddered once, and prayed Wanda to forgive him for not getting the hundred bucks.

  He shuddered again when the gravel finally drilled through his lips and into his throat.

  And he didn’t move at all when the gravel turned him to bloody sand.

  FOUR

  1

  It was eight-thirty. The food was in the kitchen, still in its bags; the beer was in the refrigerator, cooling; the liquor was in the living room, opened.

  “This,” Doug muttered, “is ridiculous.”

  No one denied the assessment—no one heard him. At his feet Heather, Keith, and the Mohawk Gang were crowded eagerly around one of the speakers, listening to an episode of Straight Arrow, giggling at the commercials, yet paying strict attention to the lurid sound effects that created the images and sparked their imaginations. He repeated his disgust, and Keith looked up, alarmed.

  “Are we too loud?” the boy asked over the hushing of the others.

  He shook his head, indicating with a gesture he was only talking to himself.

  Ollie was on the couch, Liz and Clark flanking her, speaking soothingly and ignoring him completely.

  He and Heather had ridden over on Maggie; Keith had applied a bit of wheedling directed more at him than at his mother to have the Gang included since they were going to listen to the radio shows, and when permission had been granted they had been driven over by Ian’s mother; Liz had taken the battered BMW; Clark and Ollie had arrived less than twenty minutes later, laden with brown bags of groceries and liquor. There was no word about Bud.

  The false excitement they had brewed over Winterrest was enough to provide momentum for the next hour, until the sky finally turned black. The lights had been low, and Clark was at the window, a glass in his hand. He had shaken his head and whistled.

  “Christ,” he said loudly, “We’re at the end of the goddammed world out here. You can’t even see the stars.”

  A harmless statement, but the memory of the freak storm palled them. They sank into their chairs and only half-listened to the squabbling among the kids hunting for tapes to play, until finally, inevitably, Ollie began weeping.

  “Ridiculous,” Doug said a third time and walked into the study. He switched on the overhead light and stared blindly at the bookshelves. Who the hell’s idea was this anyway, he wondered; not that he wasn’t taking any of the blame. The party had been the perfect excuse to turn their minds from the storm, the odd week, the abrupt spate of personal problems that had, he thought, turned them all into temporary emotional cripples.

  It wasn’t working.

  He knelt in front of the overloaded shelves near the floor. One by one he pulled out back issues of his architectural magazines and flipped through them until he found the pseudonymous articles he had written. Aside from the tapes, these had been great therapy for him, and calmed him now, though his confusion was still there. Something caught his eye then, a reminder of the puzzle he had been mulling over earlier in the week. He held up the glossy page and studied the photograph he had seen.

  “Goddamn,” he said. “I was right.”

  “About what?”

  His head jerked around, and the magazine slipped from his hand. Liz was behind him. An impatient hand raked through her hair, and when he pointed at the floor she knelt beside him.

  “How’s Ollie?” he said as she picked up the magazine and flipped the pages over, one finger marking his place.

  “Better. Clark’s convinced her that Bud is pulling a Casey—hiding out and trying to decide if he’s man enough to face the future.”

  “Jesus, Liz,” he groaned. “Did he really say that?”

  She chuckled. “With a perfectly straight face.”

  “And Ollie bought it?”

  “I don’t know, but she claims to feel better. What are you doing in here? You’re supposed to be the host, y’know.”

  An elbow in her ribs made her gasp, and laugh. “This was not my idea,” he said. “But I was just going through these when”—he took the magazine, opened it to the photograph, and handed it over—”I remembered this.”

  It was in black and white, one of eight on a page that featured architectural styles popular during the forties. The house he indicated was obviously fieldstone, alone on a featureless plot of land, and by the front door stood a tiny man in a dark suit, squinting at the camera as though taken by surprise.

  “God,” she said, “that looks like—”

  “Right, I saw it earlier, but I had other things on my mind. I just remembered it.”

  “But it can’t be,” she said, tilting the page, holding it away, holding it near. “That’s silly. Parrish would be . . . hell, by the looks of him he hasn’t changed a bit.”

  Spurred now, the puzzle gathering more pieces, they rummaged through the rest, and were soon joined by Clark and Ollie who were shown the photograph. They were given time for amazement, then handed more copies to glean and discard.

  After a few comments on some of the outré styles, on some of the houses they coveted, they were silent. Only the radio, only Inner Sanctum.

  An hour later there was a stack of eight magazines on the floor. In each, a picture of Eban Parrish, the dates of the taking ranging from 1914 to 1955. He was in the same dark suit, the same hair style, in front of the same house, though each of them by their captions were in eight different states.

  They hadn’t been able to find a single one that identified any of the structures as Winterrest, despite the fact that each of the houses looked exactly like it.

  Clark, sitting cross-legged, scratched at a temple. “So? This is supposed to mean something, but it beats me what.”

  “It means,” Ollie said blithely, sitting back against the shelves, “the man has discovered the fountain of youth, that’s what it means.” She grabbed an issue from the pile and flourished it after reading the caption. “This says 1935, right? Okay, well, that’s almost fifty years ago. Now it’s possible he was born old, or something like that, you know what I mean, but a man has got to show his age sooner or later. I figured he was only about sixty. He would have to be ten or twenty back in thirty-five. And I’ll bet my savings he doesn’t get any more exercise than pushing away from his desk.”

  “A relative?” Liz suggested. “His father or something.”

  Doug slapped a hand lightly on the pile. “Eight pages, Clark, and five different magazines. Who’s going to notice? The oldest magazine here is 1973.”

  They were bewildered, sensing they had found something and not knowing what it was. Finally, Doug pushed himself to his feet. “I think we shouldn’t wait for Judy. I’m going to get her and,” he said with a wink to Ollie, “drag Bud back as well.”

  “And what are we supposed to do?” Liz asked, more sharply than she had intended.

  “Your mission, should you decide to accept it, counselor, is to come up with some explanations. Then we’ll tell each other why Parrish has another mansion to peddle—which I bet he isn’t peddling at all, don’t ask me why. We will also know why he wants to buy our homes, use Clark as his attorney instead of Liz, and make us all suspiciously rich.”

  “Suspiciously?” Clark said tolerantly.

  “What would you call it?” he said. “Manna from heaven?”

  His tone was light, but he did not look at Liz and left before she could speak. He was out the front door without anyone stopping hi
m.

  The night was humid, warm, and before he was clear of the woods his shirt was clinging damply to his back. A dog’s bark curled into a howl; bats flitted over the hood and swung away blackly. Lights from the Cleary house crept onto the road, strings of headlamps emphasized the black that hovered above the trees, and the blinking amber light swayed slightly, making him think of a conductor on the tracks, trying to slow down a hurtling train.

  Judy was at the register when he walked in, and she didn’t argue when he took her to one side. The Depot was crowded, and he could see she would have been much later had he not come. She protested when he insisted she leave with him, a formal demurral that vanished the moment he feigned giving in. Her apron was off, a shouted order to Gil, and she pulled him from the tavern. Once out, she headed for her house, explaining that the clothes she had on smelled of grease and beer and she wasn’t about to face the others without at least changing.

  He agreed and followed, watching her slight form dart through the shadows of the porch. Casey, she explained without his having to ask, had not been seen all day, and she claimed in a huff that she didn’t give a damn.

  The moment the inner door was closed she fell against him, wrapped her arms around his waist, and kissed him. Surprisingly hard. Surprisingly hungry. His eyes were still open, and he made a move to ease her away. She clung to him, and he responded before he knew what he was doing.

  Then, just as abruptly, she broke away without releasing him, and said so solemnly he almost burst out laughing, “Douglas Muir, I want you to marry me.”

  His mouth opened to say what?—but nothing came out but a hissing.

  “Well?”

  Her voice was soft, a spider web quivering.

  “Uh, Judy, look . . . I mean, this is awfully, uh, out of the blue, you know what I mean? I mean—”

  She kissed him again, hips pressed hard against him, shifting back and forth, not quite grinding, not quite demanding.

  This time she only tilted her head back, her eyes bright with moisture. “Marry me.”

  “Judy,” he said breathlessly, shaking his head to find some calm. “God almighty, I—”

  “Please!” she insisted, and in the shadows of the foyer he saw what he could have sworn was something akin to rage. “Marry me, please? I’m tired of waiting for you to ask.” Her eyes softened. “I’m tired of being alone. And we can protect each other.”

  “From what?” he said kindly. “Neither one of us is exactly terrified of the wolf charging through the door.”

  “From old age.” She twisted out of his arms into the living room, where she stood in a shimmering patch of moonlight and took off her shirt. “I have to change.” Half her face was ivory, half in a deep shadow that sank her eyes into her skull, turned her lips a dead flat black. Her jeans slid off easily. “I can’t go on like this.” She lay on the rug, only shoulders to knees caught in the light, dismembered by the moon. Her voice was disembodied—spider web, waiting: “Doug. Please. Let me protect you.”

  He hesitated, thinking of Liz; Judy whispered, and Liz vanished; he felt himself responding, felt his legs lower him to the carpet, felt his hands skim over her, lightly, not recoiling at the mooncold dry flesh though his fingers began to jump. He nearly stopped when he thought, she feels like stone, then felt his chest constrict as she tugged at him to straddle her, plucked at his buttons, his belt, his zipper.

  He could not see her face—the moonlight shaft had cut off her head.

  “Marry me,” she whispered, beer on her breath, perfume in her hair, while his shadow became her blanket, her chest his pillow.

  When he glanced up, the room was black; when he looked down, her one eye was staring. Blindly. Like a corpse.

  “Forget about Liz,” she whispered. “I want to protect you. I want to feel alive.”

  Her tongue played at his ear, her hips rising to meet him; and she gasped when he entered her, grunted when he thrust.

  The moonlight was cold on his back and soles, the carpet abrasive on his knees, but he felt nothing at all, not even her rhythm, an act and nothing more in the dark living room of her darkened house, while she demanded an answer and drained the breath from him.

  When it was done, when she was done, she caressed his back with her nails (spiderlegs walking), clutched at his buttocks (spiderlegs digging), pulled teasingly at his hair. “Well?”

  He swallowed an immediate no, thinking of a way to tell her about Liz, and in the hesitation felt her hands stiffen, felt a nail penetrate his skin like the dull edge of a razor. Then she rubbed the spot quickly, apologizing, finally shifting and rolling her eyes.

  “I’m crazy, right? Jesus.” Softer; “Jesus, Doug, you have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for this. You have no idea at all.” Lightly: “Of course, you realize I had rather hoped for a bed.”

  “It wasn’t my idea,” he mock-scolded. “I think I’m crippled for life.”

  She pecked his neck, his chest, hugged him so tightly he thought he would suffocate before she released him, led him by the hand to the bathroom upstairs and left him to dress.

  From down the hallway he could hear her singing to herself, giggling once, laughing once and cutting herself off.

  He looked in the mirror, expecting to see his soul’s accusation of his betrayal of Liz. But there was no guilt. There couldn’t be. His hair was unmussed, and there was no blush on his cheeks—it was as if it hadn’t happened. Except for the cold, and the ache in his groin, it was as if nothing had happened at all.

  Judy hummed as she dressed; it was all going to be fine. The poor helpless man never knew what hit him.

  She put on cotton slacks, a light blouse and light sweater, wore loafers and white socks, then allowed him to drag her over to the Bazaar—to find Bud, he said, and bring him back to the party. Ollie needed him, and they wanted him to feel as if they weren’t taking sides.

  The VW was still in the driveway, but the lights were all out and no one answered their ringing, or Doug’s increasingly angry pounding on the door. She tried to make it a game, hide-and-seek and they were It, and shrugged to herself when Doug refused to be anything but solemn, anything but quiet. It was to be expected. She had ambushed him, and it was only natural that he retreat—to figure out what was going on.

  She knew.

  No matter what he thought about Liz or anyone else, she had him, he was hers, and unless the unforeseen tripped her up, he would still be hers long after tomorrow. This time there was no mistake. This time she had chosen wisely, and the best of it was, this time she really cared. This time the buoyancy that floated her over the yard and into the Jeep when Bud went unfound, was unquestionably genuine. He was hers. He belonged to her now. Nothing Liz could do tonight could alter that fact. Hers. All hers.

  The next fifty years would not be spent alone.

  * * *

  They checked the restaurant, returned to the Depot to leave word with Gil, and drove on to the Hollow. He filled her in as they went, trying to be as rational as he could and realizing that by the time they reached the lane she was much too silent.

  “Sounds dumb, doesn’t it,” he admitted sourly.

  “It doesn’t sound like anything at all, actually,” she said. “I just don’t know what the big deal is.”

  “Neither do I,” he said. “That is, the Winterrest sale thing is a big deal, to be sure. Deerford as far as anyone has told me has no history of planned growth except for Meadow View, and with all the people who will be coming in here, there’ll be too much strain on what little services we already have. It really doesn’t make sense when you think about it. And the more I do think about it, the more I wonder if Parrish isn’t just out to make a fast buck or two and the hell with what anyone else around here says.”

  They passed Piper Cleary’s; all the lights were out.

  Judy squeezed his arm. “Well, you’re wrong about Parrish. He’s not like that at all. Besides, the big deal I was talking about was those pictures you found. I don’t ge
t the excitement.”

  “It’s not excitement, exactly. It’s a feeling. A very strange feeling I don’t like at all.”

  “Ah,” she said. Her chin tucked in, her voice deepened. “We have a premonition, do we? A little touch of the old ESP, eh? You think maybe Eban Parrish is a demon or something?”

  For some reason he couldn’t laugh. “No, I don’t think he’s a demon or something. That kind of crap I leave to Sitter and Piper. Be serious, Judy, okay? The others—”

  “Are crazy too if they’re getting chills just because you found some pictures of an old man who sells real estate.”

  He gripped the wheel harder, not understanding why she should be so negative when she hadn’t even seen what they had. He concentrated then on weaving with the road through the woods, flickering in and out of the waning grey moonlight until his vision began to blur and he was forced to slow down. When she squeezed his arm again, he gave her a one-sided smile.

  “I didn’t come on too strong, did I?” she said.

  They pulled into the garage. The engine faltered and died, and it was too dark for comfort.

  “I was . . . not really prepared.”

  mooncold, like stone

  “Who would be?” she said, and pressed close to his side as they walked to the house. “Just don’t forget what I said.”

  “How could I?”

  She said nothing more, only smiled and patted his arm as he opened the door.

  The kids were at the kitchen table, thick sandwiches piled on a platter in front of them, soda cans open, their voices raised in earnest argument about the name of Straight Arrow’s horse. The others were in the living room, TV trays laden with cold cuts. Doug noted that the study light was off, and the magazines were now piled on the coffee table.

  There were questions then: about the weather, about Bud, about what Judy thought they should do about the sale. She stood at the hearth and told them she hadn’t the faintest idea. Yes, it was a lousy prospect, and yes, she agreed with Doug that Deerford was not the place for such abrupt growth, and yes, the more she thought about it the more pissed she grew.