The Complete Short Fiction of Charles L. Grant Volume 2: The Orchard (Necon Classic Horror)

by Charles L. Grant

  I called Stick, but he couldn’t come to the phone.

  I called Mary, but she wasn’t there.

  I even called Amy, but her mother said she was locked in her room and wouldn’t come out. Would I mind coming over to see if I could calm her down?

  I hung up without saying goodbye.

  Then I went out to the shed and stared at dead Mary, and thought about how some people can go all their lives without having all their friends die on them until they’re supposed to, how some people can get through college without having a crisis every ten minutes, about how some people just can’t seem to help latching onto someone else, like having a transfusion and all the problems flow from one person to the other, get solved, and flow back and everything’s all right — and if it isn’t all right, at least it’s bearable until next time.

  A finger traced the lines of her wooden hair, the lines that soared up and away from her forehead and down around her ears, just like in real life; it stopped to show the way her cheeks were slightly sunken, the way her chin was almost but not quite pointed, the way a muscle on the left side of her neck stood out even when she was resting.

  Rich was dead, and I was glad.

  Mike was going to die, and all afternoon I worked at some decent tears, some feeling other than a horrid sense of relief that I wouldn’t have to listen to his constant bitching anymore about a woman only a year out of high school who wouldn’t give him the right time of day.

  I thought he was my friend, and I thought I should cry.

  I knew something was wrong with me, but I didn’t know what, and I didn’t know then whether or not to be scared.

  I slept in my bed, but I dreamed I was in Mary’s, made of cloud and soft rain and warm sunlight and her; I slept so soundly that Aunt May had to wake me, and remind me that in less than two hours I had my first exam.

  I don’t think I ever moved so damned fast in my life. I skipped my shower, skipped breakfast, and couldn’t believe it when I ran the whole two miles to Hawksted’s small campus. I was, barely, on time; luckily, English still remained my best subject and the professor my easiest mark — the questions were simple, the conclusions to be — drawn obvious, and I was one of the first to turn my work in.

  As planned, Stick met me at the student union.

  We found an empty lounge and dropped onto one of the couches, doing our act about misery and woe and how God Himself would have to grade the papers with divine compassion before we could pass. And when that was done, we matched schedules for the rest of the week. My next test was Wednesday morning, the first of a string of three in a row. Stick had one a day, the fortunes of war.

  Then he told me about Mike.

  “Jackass wrapped his old man’s car around a telephone pole, can you believe it? He must have been doing ninety, the cops said.” He shook his head, took off his baseball cap, and slapped his knee with it. “I don’t get it, y’know? He just doesn’t do stuff like that, speeding and crap.”

  I was cold in that room, and I couldn’t meet his eyes.

  “You go see him?”

  I nodded. “I tried, anyway. Snuck up when they weren’t looking, but they caught me. “

  “Yeah. He looks — ”

  I glared, and he didn’t say it, and whatever we were going to do that afternoon was instantly replaced by a trip to the hospital, he on his new moped and me riding behind. It was a tight squeeze, and he laughed most of the way because our combined weights held us down to barely a walk.

  “Damn good thing you’re dropping some tonnage,” he told me as we walked into the building. “Christ, the way you used to be, you would have squashed it flat.”

  I shoved him hard through the revolving doors, sneered at his protest, then composed myself as I approached the receptionist and asked about Mike Buller. She looked at me kind of funny, looked at Stick until he took off his cap, and looked pointedly between us into the waiting room. I half turned and saw a group of people gathered around Mike’s parents — his mother was crying, his father looked ready to tear the place apart.

  “Shit,” Stick said, grabbed a tissue from a box on the desk, and blew his nose.

  “I’m going,” I told him when he started to walk over.

  “What?” He stopped and slapped his cap back on. “But you can’t, Herb! You gotta … you gotta say something, don’t you think?”

  I shrugged. I supposed I did, but I didn’t know what, and I wasn’t going to get myself into that mess over there, standing around with my hands in my pockets while I watched the Bullers’ world fall apart.

  “C’mon,” Stick said, reaching for my arm.

  I stepped away and told him no with a look.

  “Sometimes,” he said then, “you are really a shit, Herb, you know?”

  I ignored him and left, walked up to the luncheonette and ordered a chocolate shake. It tasted lousy, but I sat at the counter anyway, like I was in a bar and nursing a drink. I stayed for an hour and had a sandwich I didn’t finish, took a walk through the park and watched some kids playing ball, then wandered again until I passed Station Motors and saw myself in the window.

  The first thing I thought was, there was someone standing behind me, that damned guy again — but when I looked, I was alone. And when I looked back, I saw this almost skinny guy, this blond-haired guy wearing baggy pants and a baggy shirt, with eyes, because of the dark car in the front of the showroom, that looked like empty holes.

  I put a hand to the plate glass as if I could touch myself, backed away to the curb, and looked down at myself. My hands began to tremble. My stomach felt ready to get rid of the shake and sandwich. I must have stood there for nearly five minutes, pulling at my shirt, pulling my waistband away from my gut, acting like I’d never seen myself before.

  I knew I hadn’t been eating right for a while; I knew that I’d been swearing to go on a real, honest-to-god diet if that’s what it would take to be human again; and I knew that the last time I’d said that was only Friday afternoon. When we were all at the orchard.

  But you can’t lose fifty pounds in three days. You just can’t.

  Another stare at the window, another look at my stomach, and I started to run. I was scared. A million names of real and fake diseases tumbled over each other in their attempts to explain, and a million other reasons sounded just as bad.

  You can’t lose fifty pounds in three days. You just can’t, and expect to live.

  When I got home, everyone was gone, there was no note, and I could smell a full turkey dinner cooking and baking in the kitchen. I didn’t go in. I ran upstairs to the bathroom, stripped off my clothes, and stood in front of the full-length mirror on the door.

  “God,” I said. “God, Jesus, what . . .”

  Not only wasn’t I fat like I used to be, there wasn’t even any sagging. My skin was normal, no folds where the weight used to be, no wattles on my neck, no creases . . . no nothing.

  “Oh, god. Oh, Jesus.”

  I sat on the floor, trying to get a breath and stop the tears that were there suddenly, then grabbing onto my arms, my legs, to keep them from shaking themselves right out of their sockets.

  I felt the cold, but I was used to it.

  And I heard the buzzing in my ears, the murmuring of a thousand voices so low I couldn’t understand them.

  And I looked at myself again and something heaved in my stomach; I crawled over to the toilet, threw up the lid, and leaned over the bowl. But nothing came out because there was nothing inside, and the retching went on so long I started to whimper at the pain, at the burning, at the tiny flecks of black I saw floating in the water.

  I don’t think I’ve cried so much since I was a baby.

  I could smell turkey and bread dressing and hot rolls and fresh butter.

  The light dimmed before I was able to move again, and the first thing I did was put my clothes back on, not caring how I looked, only wondering who I could go to, who I could find who would tell me what was wrong.

  The second th
ing I did was smash the mirror with everything I could pull from the medicine cabinet.

  The house was dark.

  I could smell pumpkin pie and ice cream and whipped cream and fresh cider.

  I stumbled into the living room and stared at the phone.

  I couldn’t call Mike, I couldn’t call Rich, I couldn’t call Amy because she would only want to talk about how her life was over.

  Mary wasn’t home.

  Stick was.

  “What do you want,” he said flatly.

  “Stick, I’m in trouble, man, real trouble.”

  He didn’t say anything, and it didn’t hit me right away that he was still pissed about my leaving the hospital without talking to Mike’s folks.

  “Stick, honest to god, I think I’m in big trouble.”

  “No shit,” he said, his voice oddly slurred. “But in case you hadn’t noticed, friend, some of us other guys got troubles, too. You just don’t seem to care anymore.”

  If he had been in the room, I would have knocked out his teeth. “Stick, you don’t get it, man. I — ”

  “I ain’t got the time,” he said then. “I just slashed my wrists.”

  “Jesus, that isn’t funny, Stick.” There was no response. “Stick? Stick, goddamnit, I said that isn’t — ” The receiver dropped on his end and I could hear it swinging back and forth, slamming against something, hollow and loud. “Stick! Jesus, Stick!”

  If the front door hadn’t opened right away, I think I would have smashed right through it.

  Two blocks, two long and hard blocks, and I jumped the stairs to Reese’s porch and started pounding on the door. No one answered. I yelled, I rang the doorbell, I ran to the windows that looked in on the front room, cursing because the curtains were drawn, finally finding a crack wide enough to look through.

  He was there. I could see his feet poking out of the foyer, I could see the receiver swinging from its cord and hitting the wall, and I could see on one knee what looked like blood.

  I know what I should have done. I know I should have busted a window and called the police, or gone to a neighbor’s and begged for help. But I ran instead, like I’d killed him myself, staying to the shadows, ducking behind poles and trees and even hedges when a car went by, turning around whenever I saw someone walking toward me.

  By the time I ran out of wind and my legs had started to scream, it was twilight.

  Soft colors, soft breeze.

  And I was in the orchard.

  I’m not a coward, you know. I know when to fight and when to back off. But when I looked around and realized where I was, I couldn’t stop myself from wishing my mother was here.

  Most of the trees were dead. Gnarled, tall, without the grace of a tombstone to lend them some purpose. Their rows were ragged, their trunks bent and angled, and the shadows they cast were like no shadows I’ve ever seen. They were cold, and the air around touched with the feel of a ghost or a bad dream. The grass grew, but not high; there were weeds without blossoms; the rocks were small, the stones sharp; and the dead leaves blown in here from the woods to the north were always brittle, and bladed, even after it rained.

  I didn’t like it here, didn’t know why I’d come when I should have been with Mary, or Aunt May, or even Uncle Gil.

  Anyone who could tell me what the hell was going on.

  Twilight deepened to dusk.

  I turned to leave, holding my stomach and deciding that maybe I should be in the hospital. The doctors there would know what was wrong with me; they would listen to my problems and they’d cure me, really cure me. They’d take me apart and put me back together, and when I got out I’d be just as good as new.

  The thought made me smile, and with one hand out to push away the branches, I took one step, and saw Mary’s tomb.

  It was lying in a clear space, like an aisle between rows of trees, and when it registered that I wasn’t seeing things, that I wasn’t losing my mind, I started to lose my temper, to search for a name to put blame to for playing this sick joke as I ran over and dropped beside it, leaning close because the light was going fast and I wanted to be sure it hadn’t been hurt.

  “Jesus,” I said.

  “Jesus!” I shouted, and jumped to my feet, fists ready, teeth bared, daring the goddamned bastards to come out of hiding and face me like men.

  The pastels faded and shaded to black.

  Something moved.

  I froze, even though I wasn’t sure I’d heard anything, a hand out over Mary as if to protect her.

  Then it moved again, just off to my left.

  I looked up at the twisted branches and they were hands reaching for my scalp; I backed away from the boles that were scaled black on the sides as if marked by a great fire; I stumped over a rock half buried in the ground and told myself that if I didn’t stop it, I was going to scare myself to death.

  A twig snapped.

  A foot scuffed through dead leaves.

  I turned quickly, breath ice in my throat, and saw nothing, saw no one, not even my shadow.

  “Who the hell is it?” I demanded, amazed that my voice didn’t crack. “Is this your idea of a joke? Is it? Well, it ain’t goddamned funny!”

  Far behind me, on the highway, a truck sounded its horn.

  A soft voice in front, a whispering, words I couldn’t make out.

  “All right, knock it off. You think it’s funny?

  You know Stick is dead? Huh? Do you bastards know Stick is dead?”

  Something flew overhead, low and banking sharply, and I ducked, lifted a shoulder, and waved a frantic hand to drive it away. It came by again, wings short and chopping the air, dropping me to one knee while I tried to move backward. A third time, and it was gone, black into black, leaving me panting and feeling incredibly stupid.

  “Idiot,” I muttered as I struggled to stand. It was only a bat, after a bug I couldn’t see. Feeling like a class-A jerk, I dusted my jeans off, rolled my shoulders, and moved over to Mary to see how I was going to get the tomb back home. I figured they must have used a truck; they must have broken the lock on the shed and carried her out in a pickup.

  But I didn’t know anyone who owned one, and no one, not even Stick, had known what I was doing.

  It’s a dream, I told myself then; it’s nothing but a stupid dream and you’re going to wake up any minute now. Any minute now you’re going to get out of bed and go down to breakfast and tell Aunt May you’re on another diet. And Stick will be there, telling you you’re an asshole because you won’t give up Mary.

  I stood over her image and shook my head, reaching out to touch her, and yanking my hand back when I felt the cold wood. Looked up to the moon — it was new, just a crescent, but it and its stars were bright enough to let me see the lines in Mary’s face, and the shadow by the tree.

  It wasn’t Stick Reese, because he was dead.

  It wasn’t Mike, and it wasn’t Richard, and it wasn’t Uncle Gil.

  And it certainly wasn’t Mary, come to bring me to her bed.

  There was little form, less substance; there was no movement at all. In a gap between trees, only vague ripplings in black to show it was there at all, the suggestions of a dress or cloak, the outline of a covered head.

  When the breeze gusted, it swayed. And it appeared to be listening.

  I cleared my throat, wiped my mouth, and tried real hard not to think about psychotic ax- and knife-wielding killers who preyed on innocent college juniors, slashing their throats and leaving them in deserted fields and orchards to be found days later, picked to pieces by the crows.

  I looked over my shoulder, figuring the distance to the road and the odds of my being able to get there safely, assuming I didn’t fall, assuming I wasn’t caught.

  The moon touched the orchard with traces of dead silver; the wind touched the air with traces of screams.

  I eased back a step and looked to the shadow to see if it had followed.

  It hadn’t.

  It just stood there.

&n
bsp; I thought about claiming I wasn’t alone, my friends were here with me and there was no chance it could take me without getting hurt itself; I thought about claiming I had a gun and wouldn’t hesitate to use it.

  Standing there.

  Sweat dropped into my eyes. I shook my head, rubbed a hand over my face, and looked again to see how much closer it had gotten.

  It hadn’t.

  It was gone.

  Panic tightened my groin. My fingers clenched, stiffened, clenched again as I turned a quick tight circle, staring into the dark, looking for the shadow, finally closing my eyes and releasing a breath in a barely audible moan. Christ, I thought; and I punched my chest once, punishment for the way my imagination had scared me. I was alone. I knew it. Because everyone else had left me.

  “All right,” I said briskly, clapping my hands and giving myself a shake. “All right, let’s get moving here, huh, Johns? Let’s get our ass in gear. “

  First I’d take care of Mary, then get to the hospital and take care of myself.

  Slowly I walked around the huge block of wood, peering closely again to be doubly sure nothing had been damaged. It was hard, though. I kept hearing things behind me, feeling things watching, feeling the nightcold as it sifted down from the moon. I knelt at the head, at each side, and finally the foot, suddenly awfully tired and holding onto the top corners when I pushed myself up.

  And looked at my thin hands, at the thin pale shadow that draped over Mary.

  I don’t know what happened, but I felt really dizzy and fell forward, my hands landing on either side of Mary’s hips to keep me from landing on her, one knee cracking against the rim.

  The top moved.

  The wind whispered.

  I eased myself away so carefully I almost cramped, knowing something was wrong because that wasn’t any top — it was all one big piece, with nothing inside.

  I reached out, pulled back, dried my hands on my jeans, and reached out again like I was ready to put my whole hand in fire. Mary, I thought; Mary, please help me. And I pushed a corner, hard. Nothing happened, and I laughed dryly. So I pushed a second time-and the scrape of wood against wood dropped me to my knees. I looked up and saw the shadows standing under the trees. I looked down and saw white bone gleaming through my skin.