I didn’t want you exposed to it, I guess. So I did an about-face, turning around to go home. I looked over my shoulder once, at the end of the block, and could see her arm still reaching out of the doorway.
All in all, not one of my prouder moments.
So it’s just you and me today. Maybe all the rest of this week. The way I feel right now, maybe until after you’re born.
The thing that gets me, though, is that no matter how hard I try, when I think back to that final glance I had of the woman in the doorway, with just her arm visible, I can’t quite remember if she was still beckoning for help . . . or pointing. At us.
Which probably wouldn’t be a big deal at all, if it weren’t for that stupid dream I had last night, about you whispering something in your brother’s ear. Just before . . . well, you know.
That’s just me being silly, right? First-time pregnancy jitters and everything?
All I want is to keep clinging to the same reassuring hopes that every woman has for her baby: That you can be anything you want to be. That instead of being forced to bend to the world’s will, you can make it bend to yours. That you can plant your ideas like seeds, and they’ll take root and spread like wildfire. That you’ll discover your own way to make things better.
Except right now I can’t help but wonder: have you started that already?
Come on, Tadpole . . . tell me I’m just being neurotic. Because the more I think about this morning, the clearer it seems to me that the woman in the doorway really was pointing at us. In accusation. I mean, for a moment there, I saw her eyes. But why would she do that? What did we ever do to her?
So come on, Tadpole. Tell me I’m just stressed out. That you didn’t talk your brother into letting go. Not with a whisper, but with a dream. Tell me that if I check with the doctors and demand to know, they won’t tell me he wasn’t merely one of the first to be lost . . . but the first. That you haven’t dreamed a dream so dreadful it echoes on and on.
Tell me nothing went wrong in there. I only want you to be normal.
Okay, all this is destined for the black marker. But I feel so much better getting it off my chest.
Remember our Einstein: “There are only two ways to live your life: as though nothing is a miracle, or as though everything is a miracle.”
To me, in this world, every day that you and I have together is a miracle. When you’re born, I promise to celebrate you as one. No matter what.
Until then, I promise to keep serenading you, to tell you how much you’re loved and that everything will be all right . . . or I’ll try to, at least. Lately there seems to be something terribly wrong, either with my playing or with my instruments. I never knew they could make these kinds of ghastly noises.
But you seem to like it anyway.
It perks you right up, and you dance until I’m sick.
ROBERTA LANNES
The Other Family
ROBERTA LANNES IS A NATIVE of Southern California, where she has been teaching high school English, along with fine and digital art, for thirty-three years.
Her first horror story was written and sold in Dennis Etchison’s UCLA extension course in “Writing Horror Fiction” and appeared his anthology The Cutting Edge in 1985. Since then she has been widely published in the science fiction, fantasy and horror genres. She also has every intention of finally finishing her novels as retirement from teaching approaches.
In 1994, film-maker Ian Kerkhof made an award-winning “docu-drama” entitled Ten Monologues from the Lives of Serial Killers, using the writings of William S. Burroughs, Roberta Lannes, Charles Manson and Henry Rollins.
As the author explains: “ ‘The Other Family’ grew out of my absolute greatest supernatural fear – being trapped in an alternate or parallel universe, able to observe but not interact with the universe from whence I came.
“As a child with the same fears as most children (the boogie man, the creature under the bed), I was curious as to where these monsters originated. It was an innocent comment by someone, I don’t recall who, that these things came from a parallel universe; that they could cross over and take you into their world and you were lost forever.
“During a trip when I was nine-years-old with my family to a beach resort in Oregon, with its foggy days and string of cottages lining the shore, a child went missing from a neighbouring cottage. She was found before we left, but I believed for that time she’d been taken by the thing under the bed.
“It all came together after a visit with my husband to his former home in Cumbria – seeing the cottages line the sand where the ocean had receded far into the distance. I knew this story belonged in England.”
SIXTEEN SEASHELLS RATTLED and sloshed in Madeline’s bucket as she wobbled over the sand from the shoreline. The shovel in her little hand was a yellow flag she waved at her parents sitting on the veranda. Her mother set her book down in her lap and stretched. Her father pushed his glasses up his nose and went back to making one of his driftwood sculptures. Madeline put the bucket and shovel down at the bottom of the steps.
“Mum, I saw a crab! It walked sideways!”
Her mother put her thumb and forefinger to her forehead and shielded her eyes as she went down the steps. She scanned the beach in front of their cottage for Nicholas, Madeline’s older brother. Her pale shirt and shorts waffled in the breeze.
“Mum, look, I’ve got lots of shells!” Madeline held the bucket up, the blue plastic handle straining from the weight of shells, sand and water.
“Yes, my, look at all of those. You can clean them up and sell them at the street fair the week after we get home on Sunday.”
“Can I? Oh, yes, please, Mum.”
“Where’s your brother, Maddie?”
Madeline looked up at her Mum, then to the beach. Nicholas had been wading in the cold water, periodically scooping up froth and flinging it at Madeline. He’d tortured her with seaweed dangled over her back and slapped wet sand on her head when they were wading. No one scolded him from the cottage veranda; no one tramped down to the water and hauled Nicholas back to his room. Madeline wasn’t at all happy he was getting away with his mischief. And now Mum wanted to know where he was! He’d been there when she’d turned to take her shells to Mum and Dad.
“I don’t see him, Mummy. Is he swimming very far? You said no swimming because we’ve just had lunch.”
The shoreline was dotted with the occasional child and parent, but few people were out on the beach in a hazy day like this one. They went for drives in the nearby countryside instead. The townsfolk who lived in the cottages and rented them for summer had gone to Italy or Spain. The families on holiday were beginning to leave at the end of the season, so many of the houses were standing empty, awaiting their owners.
“Frank, I’m going to look for Nicholas. He’s not in the water and I can’t see him on the beach. He might have sneaked up the beach to one of the vacant houses. It’s like him.”
“Right, then, Hildy, I’ll watch Maddie.” Madeline’s father smiled down at her then turned back to his artwork.
“Mum, can’t I come with you?”
Her mother wrung her hands, looked back and forth along the shoreline. “I think it’s best you stay here. I don’t want two lost children.”
That made no sense to Madeline. If she was with her Mum, how could she be lost? She watched her mother amble off down the wooden planked walkway that strung together the steps to each of the cottages along the strand. Her mother’s short, cropped hair spiked into the air as she walked into the breeze. She held herself, as if she was cold.
“Maddie, come up on the veranda and show me your shells.”
Madeline jammed the shovel into the sand and stood up. She lugged her bucket up the steps and padded over the wooden veranda to her father’s worktable. She set the bucket down and peeked over the tabletop.
“Is it a bird?” She fiddled with her hair.
He grinned. “Yes, it’s an egret. If I’m lucky, I find driftwood that alrea
dy looks like something. This one looked like a bird right off.”
Madeline picked up some gnarled bits of wood. “This one looks like a snail. And that one looks like an angel.”
Her father pointed to her tanned face. “You are going to be an artist like your father, Maddie. You have a good eye.”
Madeline touched one eye. “Is it this one?” Her father laughed heartily. “What’s so funny?”
“You are.”
Maddie watched him whittling and sanding his piece, pleased she might grow up and be like her father with a good eye. After a few minutes, she forgot about Nicholas and her mum.
Nicholas was still quiet from all the shouting his father did before supper. Madeline crawled into the bed next to him. He was moping. He didn’t like being told off, especially in front of his little sister. He always said she was the good one, always got away with stuff. She knew how wrong he was. She was sent to her room for touching Nicholas’s things, for going into his room without permission, for watching television when she was supposed to be doing schoolwork. No one ever swatted his bottom for using Mum’s make-up or letting the dog chew on her moccasins. And then there were the days following their arrival to the cottage. Mum and Dad hadn’t seemed to care one way or the other who did what to whom, until someone disappeared.
“Where did you go, Nic?”
“Go to sleep, you little twit.” He rolled away from her.
“I’m just curious. Mum looked scared and Dad was really angry.”
Nicholas made mocking whining noises, then went quiet again.
Their Mum came to the door. “Are you two going to need a blanket?”
Madeline rose up on her elbow, looked at Nic, then sighed. “Nic’s upset. But, I’m all right. Would you read me a story?”
“Nicholas, you and I will be on the bus home tomorrow if you keep this up. You ran off and scared us silly, and you’re going to stay in this house until Saturday.” Then her tone changed completely. “Maddie, sweetheart, Mummy is tired. I’ll read to you another night, all right?”
Nicholas breathed deeply and sighed, but said nothing.
“Okay.” Madeline was petulant. Mum and Dad were just not as fun as they usually were on their holiday. They barely talked to each other. Nicholas acted as though he knew something she didn’t, but Madeline didn’t know what question to ask to find out what it was. This time, Mum was always reading or cooking or staring at the sea, and Daddy did his sculptures, went for a swim without them, and grumbled about the fog when it came in. She could recall the last time they holidayed at one of the cottages listening to her parents laughing and playing cards after she and Nic had been put to bed, the sound of the bedsprings above them and howling from tickle fights. They went into town as a family and shopped and had ice cream with Flakes. This holiday was boring and endlessly long.
Mum closed the door and the hall light went off. The sky was still light and cast the room in an amber glow. Madeline lay back and stared at the ceiling. There were shadows and streaks of light that moved with the sheer curtains. They made her think of fairies and sprites.
This was the third year coming to the seaside. Madeline liked this cottage. It was cleaner and had nice new furniture. Now that she was eight, she could appreciate it. She was allowed to swim without a rubber ring, and collect things and even though Nicholas was supposed to be watching her, she could wander off when he was distracted. Not like last time when her mother stuck to their sides like cockles. Some kids had disappeared so all the parents were playing with their children, not allowing them out of their sight. Nicholas was miserable then. But he was miserable now, too. He was twelve; too old to have to take care of a “baby”.
She must have fallen asleep, because when she looked up to the ceiling next, it was dark. The curtains were still. Madeline put her hand out on the bed where Nic slept beside her. He was gone. Slipping out of bed, she crept to the hall and went to the kitchen and living area. She was afraid to call out for him. Her parents would wake and he’d be in trouble again.
The light was eerie, undulating; a full moon bristling off the ocean was cast on the walls. Madeline went to the window by the front door and peered out. The beach was barren, the water bright beneath the moon. Her tummy tightened and she swallowed hard. If Nicholas wasn’t in the bedroom, the kitchen or living area, he had to be in the bathroom upstairs. She waited at the bottom of the stairs. But Nicholas didn’t come down.
Madeline had to find him, bring him back. The trouble he would be in, well, she could just imagine how much worse the holiday would get. She went to the front door and out. The air was faintly musty and moist, bright with moonlight. A bank of fog that threatened far off on the horizon glowed like a string of lights in a mist. The T-shirt she’d worn to sleep clung to her thighs as she went down the steps to the boardwalk. She glanced up to the bedroom window where her parents slept. She had to find Nic before morning so that they were both found waking in their bed.
Which direction would Nicholas go, she wondered. Towards town or away? She chose away and stepped gingerly over the splintered wood walkway in her bare feet. She whispered his name as she went. She stared at the dark faces of each cottage, not knowing if there were people inside or the place was hollow.
A huge Victorian mansion stood at the end of the wooden path. There were lights on in the highest tower room. Madeline stared up at it, willing Nicholas to appear, see her there and wave, happy to see her. Instead, the lights went out. The house was the only one on the strand with an ironwork fence around it. Nicholas wouldn’t have found a way in, and besides, it was a scary-looking thing.
She turned back, walking quickly, more afraid. The air seemed very still. A splinter from a wooden plank caught her big toe and Madeline stopped. She pulled her foot up, but her own shadow kept the splinter from clear sight. She felt for it, started to yank it out, and toppled onto the sand. Her mouth closed around the grit as she yelped.
“Ow, ow, ow.” She spat sand as the splinter came out between her fingers. She squeezed to make the wound bleed, remembering her Mum’s advice about punctures. She wiped her toe on her T-shirt.
As she stood, she looked at the cottage across the boardwalk and glimpsed someone standing on the veranda. She squinted to see if it was Nic, but the figure was too far away. She limped over the walkway to the low wooden gate and pushed it open. The person remained still before the front door, a darker shadowy form.
“Nicholas?” She strained to see. As she got closer she saw it was a girl, about her size, her age, similar long curly brown hair, but wearing a long dress to her ankles.
“Are you lost?” Madeline approached the girl cautiously.
The girl shook her head “no”.
“Is your cottage?”
Again the girl shook her head.
“Where do you live? Why are you out so late?”
The girl pointed towards the end of the boardwalk where the Victorian mansion loomed up like an ornate peg holding down the ribbon of boardwalk.
“You live in the big house?”
The girl nodded. When she spoke, Madeline felt her voice as much as heard it. It was light and young, yet sharp and steely. “I cannot get back inside. My brother has locked me out. Everyone is asleep now.”
Madeline thought of Nicholas. “I can’t find my brother. I think he’s gone exploring. If I help you get home, will you help me find my brother?”
The girl came to the edge of the veranda at the top of the stairs. She glided more than stepped. “Yes, please.” She came down the steps and stood before Madeline, the moonlight turning her skin a pale waxen yellow. “I know where the boys like to hide. There is a conservatory behind my house. It is huge and full of plants and places to hide. The gate is broken at the side. Come. Let us look there.”
“I’m Maddie.” Madeline reached to take the girl’s outstretched hand. When their hands touched, Madeline pulled hers away. The girl’s hand was so cold it hurt.
“Sorry.” The girl wiped h
er hands on her dress. “I’m called Celine. My mother is French.”
“My name is French, too, but my Mum is from Coventry.”
“Maddie doesn’t sound French.” The girl straightened imperiously.
Madeline frowned. She didn’t like know-it-all girls one bit. “Maddie is short for Madeline. Madeline is French. My Mum said so.”
“Well, then, let us go, Madeline, whose name is French.”
Celine walked past her to the boardwalk and continued towards the mansion. Madeline scurried after her, her toe throbbing a bit. They came to the side gate Celine mentioned. Celine stopped, looking at the gate as if it was on fire.
“Go on, Maddie. It is broken. Just push it open.”
Madeline reached for the latch, which hung limply against the ivy that was entwined in the ironwork. A mere nudge was all it took for the gate to swing wide. The path from the gate was in the shadow of tall junipers, but once they were inside, Celine walked ahead of her, sure of the way.
It seemed a long way to the conservatory. The path wound around trees circled in brick and manicured patches of flowers and lawn. Celine was a radiant figure moving smoothly through the garden, as if lit from inside by moonlight.
“Here we are.”
“Oh!” Madeline thought the huge glass building must have risen up from the earth when she blinked because it hadn’t been there before.
The double doors were open and faint tiny lights illuminated a central area with a table and chairs. Celine went to the centre and turned to Madeline.
“He is here, hiding. Call out. When he comes, send him home. Then you can help me get back into the house.”
“But Nicholas could help you better. He’s twelve years old!”
“Only you.” Celine put her hands on her hips, insistent.
Madeline looked about the conservatory. It smelled of peat and flowers and ripe greenery. There were many paths leading from the centre. Nicholas would like it here, she thought. Yes, he’s here.
The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror 17 Page 31
