38
THE POLSONS
Hiram was snoring again.
Louise, unable to sleep, rolled over. She tugged her numb legs after her. The bed was piled high with blankets and quilts, yet it was still cold. She opened her eyes.
Sweet William stood before her. He seemed to be hanging in the moonlight, his body nearly transparent. Louise gaped, goosebumps marching up her arms. He drifted closer to dangle, suspended, near the foot of her bed. He was both there and not there.
He smiled, his lips drawing back slowly to expose discolored, rotting teeth. Louise could smell the reek of corruption on his breath. She grabbed her Bible from the nightstand, moaning, and began to pray. She begged for faith, prayed that she would prove capable of believing in the power of prayer.
"Touch me," William said. "Touch me again. Please."
"Begone, spirit," Louise whispered. "You are not welcome here."
The apparition vanished, as if it had never existed. But Louise Polson wept. She knew it had, and also that it was bound to return.
39
THE BAXTERS
Timmy Baxter decided that his mother was right about those darned horror comics. They hadn't seemed to bother his sister much, but he'd read one just before turning out the lights and now he couldn't fall asleep. He told himself how silly it was, that it was his own fault and he oughta know better.
But he was still afraid of the closet.
Timmy eased one eye open a crack and took a look at it. The door was closed, but he just knew that the closet was full of monsters. It seemed to be staring right back at him, toying with the idea of setting those monsters loose. Letting them all rush out with a huge growl to tear him limb from limb. It was up to the closet to decide. The closet held the power.
He shut his eyes and pulled the blankets over his head. His father had told him that monsters couldn't chew through sheets and blankets, but he'd never believed that. Monsters were different. They didn't have to obey rules like people. Monsters did whatever they wanted, pretty much, and hardly anybody knew how to stop them. You really had to read a bunch of stuff, and work at remembering it, if you were gonna fight one. Timmy knew all about those kinds of things. He'd had to learn in self-defense. He was scared of vampires and monsters.
Of that dang closet, too.
He tried to imagine something pleasant: Cotton candy, Monday, the county fair. Pinball machines, video games and kids he liked. Going bowling. Catching a matinee at the theater down the block. Horses, kittens, ice cream —
Creak!
The boy sat up instantly, terrified, already beginning to stream with perspiration. He faced the closet. Steeled himself…
There came a tapping at his window.
Timmy Baxter curled in upon himself like a snail. Mr. Rourke had promised this wasn't gonna happen. There weren't any such things, at least not up here in these mountains. Badness, go away. Get lost.
Tapping.
He opened his eyes and turned, clutching at the blankets. It was a dead man, wearing tattered old clothes like a hobo. He had sick-looking grey skin and keen, animal eyes. The man touched Timmy's mind — invaded, all slimy and gooey. Things got fuzzy. The boy shut his eyes again. He wished for morning sunshine/Mom/breakfast smells to prove this was a nightmare [got to check and see for sure, you can do it] and then he peeked.
It was peering into the window, standing only a few feet away from his bed.
A vamper.
The worst had happened. The sight was chilling, yet less scary than it should have been, probably because there were no surprises. Everything was just as he'd imagined it, down to the last detail. It looked familiar, like he'd actually been through this before or had seen it in some movie. As if an image had been yanked from his head to freak him out, only the copy wound up a little too perfect.
The vamper got into his brain. He spoke without talking, but it was impossible to keep from listening. This was the voice of a big snake, a thin, hissing moan; like a tiny fart, or maybe stale air leaking from a punctured tire.
Please let me in, the man said sweetly. Open the window. I won't hurt you, little boy.
"No," Timmy fired back. "Get away from here!"
Then come out and play with me, Timmy. I would really like that, if you'd come out and play. We'd have fun together.
"No, vamper. You can't fool me!"
The man's clothing flapped and fluttered in the light breeze. Timmy could practically see right through him; he was so thin, so empty...So thirsty.
The comics said a vamper couldn't just enter a home. Not unless somebody gave it the okay and opened the door. Well, then? Timmy's life-long curiosity about such things began to dilute his terror. He flipped the covers to the side, leaned forward and pressed his face against the windowpane. The man drooled. His eyes flared red as hot coals and he floated closer to the boy. Their faces met at the window, separated by less than an inch of wire mesh and glass. Timmy dared to meet those terrible eyes. The vamper's pale, blue lips slowly parted; drew back in a grotesque imitation of a smile, exposing long, vulpine front teeth.
Vampers, the comics said, could hypnotize people and get them to do things they wouldn't normally do [like let them in]. The wraith snarled, showing still more of its curved, yellow fangs.
Open this window, it barked. Now!
Timmy shook his head. He wished he had a cross, something to defend himself with. But this was crazy; he had to be dreaming, having one real doozy of a nightmare. He tried to yell for his mother. His body refused to obey the command.
See? That proves this is just a dream [or that you're getting hypnotized, dummy. You know what that means!]
"Go away," Timmy croaked. The words emerged in a hoarse whisper that sounded foreign to him. Like someone else was talking, somebody funny in the head.
Hey, Timmy, come with us. This is all so different. I think it's really fun.
Julie? But that didn't make any sense. His sister was sleeping just around the corner, and she sure wasn't dead. She couldn't be one of them, a vamper. Naw, it was just trying to fool him again. Switching to a different sales pitch.
Buzz off, Timmy thought. I ain't gonna go for it. Never in a million years.
The hollow, evil man drifted away, carried along by the wind. He shot Timmy one last, hungry look. Just as he hit the tree line and was almost out of sight, he reached for something. Something that reached back.
A white arm.
Another vamper, Timmy gasped. A lady one, since the hair was so long.
This was nuts. Bananas.
But there they were, the two of them. Off in the distance, sliding away into the dark woods; clasping hands like high school lovers on the way home from a date. The boy shook his head, stunned. He did his best to study the other one, the lady, even though she was awful far away. It was real dark, too dark to be sure of anything, but Timmy saw enough.
He forgot all about the monsters in the closet, his horror comics, even the shock of confronting the vamper. His whole body jumped as if he'd been electrocuted. Hair rose, palms went damp. His spine turned to ice. The second one, the vamper with the long hair.
She looked a lot like Julie.
Eight years old, but wiser than most, Timmy did the hardest thing he'd ever done in his whole life. He gathered his courage, which took a little while, and swung his feet around. He set them down on the cold floor of the camper and got out of bed. Feeling like a helpless baby, Timmy swallowed and crept down the hall. He tip-toed past the ominous closet to the edge of his sister's bunk.
Julie was there. He could hear her breathing.
Timmy returned to his own bed. He climbed in and buried himself under the blankets. Morning would come, and he would wake up and know for a fact that it had all been make believe. Just a sicko nightmare from reading those stupid magazines. Nothing more, just another dream.
Like the one about the closet.
Still, his feet felt cold. He had really gotten up to check on Julie. But so what? That didn
't mean anything, except that he'd been awake near the end. There was no way to prove it had happened, no evidence. It sure wasn't worth trying to explain this to Mom, and she would probably never believe him anyway.
Besides, he didn't want it to be real.
40
ROURKE & MAGGIE
Rourke tossed and turned fitfully, unable to find a comfortable position on Maggie's couch. He was too restless to sleep. Monday, napping nearby, offered a small, sympathetic whine. Peter massaged his aching temples. He had begged his talent to shut down, but this was a night filled with old ghosts and pleading voices. Rourke was unwilling to let go to grief and afraid to extend his senses. He fought against skulling, but some leaked in despite his efforts; enough to shake him to the core. He no longer believed in a rational, ordered universe.
How the fuck do you explain this to someone? That some walking nightmare was loose in the world, and reality was being distorted to suit its whims. It would soon seek him out. It would have to. How do I convince someone, and then what would we do about it?
Bare toes on carpet, the smell of perfume. He could just make out her shape, there in the doorway, all rounded flesh and pale blue lace.
"Peter, are you asleep?"
"No."
She came to him. Maggie's presence muted most of the shrill static in his throbbing head; submerged it in more tactile sensations. Her soft breasts pressed against his forearm as she knelt beside the couch.
"Just a minute," she whispered. She went back and closed the bedroom and hall doors, anticipating his need. She enfolded him, stroked his face and kissed him. Rourke's little boy, always pressured to achieve and endure, pushed the grown man aside. Said in a tiny, clear voice: I hurt.
He felt himself beginning to cry for the first time in many years. The release was wonderful. Maggie held him, urging him on until sorrow had run its course. She shifted her body and lay beside him on the couch.
Maggie caressed and awakened him, tugged at his trousers; hitched up her nightgown and placed them together. Quiet murmurs, quickening flesh. She locked one leg above him and held on like a woman drowning, her lips moving against his neck. Her body was hungry, damp and willing. When he finally let go and poured himself into her, she said ahhh softly, happy to absorb what she could of his pain. When Rourke and Maggie at last released each other, they noticed that Monday had begun to snore. They giggled like small children at the little wheezing noises he made.
Maggie waited silently until Rourke began to speak. He told her everything he had experienced or guessed, beginning with the murder of Dee Jennings.
At first she didn't fully understand what he was saying. He began to explain about the evil he had first sensed up on the mountain, in the cave, and that wicked, watchful presence in the back of Martoni's store. Then she knew, because she had felt it too.
"What... What do you think it is?"
"I don't know," Rourke said. "But it's ancient and powerful. It's got us all at war with ourselves. Do you believe me?"
Maggie thought of 'Tony' and shuddered. "Yes, Pete. I believe you."
"This thing that's happening, it feeds on the negative emotions or something. I think it can blur fantasy and reality, until someone like Martoni can't tell the difference anymore. It just keeps on growing. When it takes someone over or kills, it gains even more power."
"But how…"
"It knows what we secretly fear, Maggie. That's the source of its strength."
"Why did it choose Two Trees?"
He shrugged. "Perhaps it's always been here. Or maybe because this is a dying town, and there's nobody here who can put up much of a fight." Or, he mused silently, it might be after me. Christ.
Maggie said: "Peter, let's just get the fuck out of here, okay?"
He looked at her, and his sad concern broke her heart. "I'm sorry," he said, "I should have taken you away earlier."
"Because..?"
"Maggie, we're stuck in the Two Trees area. I can sense it won't let us leave this place. Not now."
Maggie trembled. "Is Michael safe?"
"I can't guarantee anything, but probably. He just got here, so it hasn't had time to work on his mind. Not yet."
"If we can't leave town, then what can we do?"
"I honestly don't know, but I'm working on it. Let's go up to my cabin tomorrow. Maybe it will be weaker from a few miles away. It's worth a try, and then we'll see how things go from there."
"I have an idea." Maggie shifted position and took his hand. "Pete, listen," she said. "You said it knows what we're afraid of."
"I think so."
"Then talk to me, Rourke. Please, for your own sake. Tell me about your demons. The graveyard. Get it out in the open, understand?"
"I see what you mean."
"Let's take away its power before it can hurt us."
She was right. And so he did.
"My Grandfather's name was Peter Sharpe," he said. "He was one of the first ranchers to become successful in Nevada. A tough act to follow. I was born on his birthday, named after him and expected to be like him. He called me Pinky when I was a kid, because I had his bright red hair.
"Grandpa smelled of cigar smoke and hard work. He ruled Two Trees with an iron hand and no one, not even my uncle Jeremy, talked back to Peter Sharpe. Yet he was gentle, too; he took great joy in being alive. I loved him, Maggie. When my father got crazy, it was always the thought of Grandpa that kept me going.
"He ran that massive ranch on his own. He kept the books, juggled the debts, even forecast the good and bad years with remarkable accuracy. I can understand that part of it, now. He had the talent. But since no one believed in that stuff when he was young, Grandpa just considered himself lucky.
"When I was eleven years old, he suffered a stroke. Nobody was prepared for what happened. Hell, he seemed indestructible, like he'd live forever. And now he was totally paralyzed, couldn't move or talk. My family brought him back to the ranch.
"Jeremy slaved over the books, but he just didn't have his father's gift. We began to lose money. It was costing a lot to keep Peter Sharpe alive and at home. Prize breeding stock was sold, men were let go, but I was barely aware of all that. I was watching my Grandfather being destroyed.
"You see, they hired this nurse. She'd put him on the toilet with a hoist whenever it seemed like a logical time for him to take a crap. He'd be hanging in this swing, and she'd pull his pajama bottoms down and set him on the potty as if he were a child. Worse yet, she would baby-talk him like he was retarded. She didn't mean any harm, but it must have been torture for Grandpa.
"Jesus, how he suffered.
"I still dream of his eyes sometimes, Maggie. They used to light up when I came into the room. I knew he was aware and alive within that prison of a body, because by then I could touch his mind. It was our little secret; my father would have driven me insane if he'd suspected. He had no idea how gifted I actually was.
"Grandpa had a second stroke. This one left him hospitalized and on an I.V. rig. They couldn't even force his mouth open to feed him. I went over to his bed and I watched him lying there, flat on his back. He was on some kind of life-support system for his lungs; depressed, lonely and so stuck full of needles and tubes he looked like a space creature. I told him a joke, something stupid about the lung machine.
"He looked at me, Maggie.
"It must have taken everything he had, but Grandpa tried to communicate with that fucking machine clicking and whirring and working to keep him alive. Everything got... strange, then crystal clear. I kissed his hand. I can still smell the disinfectant on his fingers.
"'Yes, Grandpa,' I said. 'I hear you. And I do love you that much.' I reached down behind the machine that was keeping him breathing, gripped his hand — and pulled the plug."
Maggie was sobbing. Rourke sighed and held her. "The hardest thing was that I locked with him at the last moment, and he was afraid. But it was too late. I had to yank my mind away from his or I would have died with him. I plugged t
he machine back in and left. I think my mother knew, though. Somehow. Because she never spoke to me again."
"You did right," Maggie whispered.
"I hope so," he said.
She pulled him closer. Rourke lost himself inside her, suddenly as full of life as he had been of death.
41
GLADYS & EDITH
"Hi, there! Are you excited about this evening?"
Gladys Pierson looked up from the switchboard, startled. Edith, cloaked in her customary occult black, was standing a few feet away. Gladys tapped her heart with her fingers. "You really frightened me," she croaked. "Don't you ever knock?"
Edith laughed lightly. "I just pass through doors," she said. "It's a very spiritual thing to do, you know."
Gladys reluctantly unplugged the line. She'd been eavesdropping on one whopper of a conversation: An irate Sheriff Bates had just been turned down for a job as a security guard at Harrah's Tahoe. Edith stepped around the desk. She was attractive, sparse and small-boned. Born thin, thought Gladys. A lucky woman.
"Practically everyone is going," Edith continued. "Everyone still left. But I don't know if I want to go or not."
"Neither do I," Gladys said, although the thought of a full picnic basket made her stomach rumble. "It's like we're all trying too hard, you know? It's so soon after the other night. It makes me sad that we're all trying to act so happy and all."
"I know. But me, I really am happy!"
"Goodness, why?"
"Goodness has nothing to do with it!."
Edith turned a straight-back chair around. She perched like a blackbird on a telephone wire. "Gladys," she smirked, "you know I'll go along with whatever you decide to do. I won't force this on you, dear."
Oh, wonderful, Gladys thought. It's the two of us and some more séance nonsense, either way. What else is there to do in Two Trees?
"I really enjoyed last night," Edith bubbled. "We got some marvelous responses from the ouija board."
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