The Sound of Midnight - An Oxrun Station Novel

by Charles L. Grant

  "Your story leaves something to be desired, Vic."

  Dale caught her breath.

  "But even if I wanted to—and I don't—there's not much I can do about it now. This," and he jabbed a finger at the jack, "and Jaimie's emotional state, and your good characters—if I can use such an outdated term—seem to let you off the hook. Not that you were seriously on one anyway."

  "So we can go then," Vic said.

  "You can go," Abe nodded, "as long as you're sure you're just attracting bad luck."

  "I can only say again, Abe, that Ed was a friend of ours."

  "All right"

  "And if you don't mind," Vic added, glancing at his watch, "I'll wait until morning to fill out whatever reports there are for my car."

  Stockton only dipped his head wearily, and Dale backed to the door, opened it and looked up at Borg, whose anxiety was unprofessionally evident.

  "I think he wants to see you," she said.

  "This is supposed to be your line," Vic said when they stepped outside and flinched at the whipping cold, "but I sure don't fancy staying alone tonight."

  Dale said nothing, only took his arm and hurried him the few long blocks to her house. They sat in the living room, staring out the windows, clinging to each other like children in the face of a storm. And when they spoke, it was in whispers—meaningless sentences, nonsense phrases, groping for the comfort that would blanket them against the coming of the dawn.

  CHAPTER XIII

  "Who," Vic said, is getting on whose nerves?"

  Dale flung a pillow into the corner of the sofa and strode angrily to the front window. "You are getting on my nerves."

  Vic laughed harshly, turned up the television and clapped in time to a commercial's jingle.

  A prisoner, Dale thought, a prisoner in my own house.

  After they had finally awakened—stretched out on the floor and covered by a blanket Vic had fetched from an upstairs closet —they had decided with little disagreement that it would be something akin to suicide to show themselves in the village. Whatever was stalking them might be inclined to do so more boldly, and more effectively, as time drained rapidly toward the first of November. Given the powers preternatural behind the fire-thing, they knew the house would be less than impregnable; yet it easily presented itself as a comfort which temporarily warmed them, a fortress which gave them a tenuous sense of security.

  And for the first few hours of the day it worked.

  By midafternoon, however, Dale's calm had shredded into a quiet, slow fear. There were no signs of attack, no contact at all with the outside world except for a single curt call to Bella to close the store if she didn't want to work by herself—but the fear grew nevertheless, and as it did it stifled freedom of movement within the house. They had wandered about in acrimonious silence, in ever decreasing patterns until they were caged in the one room, staring out at the traffic, watching the children racing by in their Halloween costumes. The doorbell rang several times, but neither of them felt constrained to answer it. Next year, Dale promised the figures as they fled from the porch, next year I'll have tons of candy; but this year she trusted none of the tiny ghosts and goblins, pirates, and tramps that dragged their paper sacks and pillow cases from door to door in search of their treats. A prisoner.

  Twilight came early, then, with a settling of thick clouds while the air turned a dull gray, a fog-like dimness that blurred the wall of the park trees, forced cars to turn on their lights and become furtive things that scurried by the house in search of warmth. By four it was snowing, and by six great wet flakes had coated bark and shrub, erased the walks, filled the gutters.

  "Why don't they do something?"

  They were in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil.

  "I don't understand why they don't do anything."

  "They don't have to now," Vic said. "Someone there is smart enough to realize we can't tell the authorities what we suspect. And as long as we don't directly threaten them, they can pretty much leave us alone."

  She nodded, not entirely convinced. Then she lifted the kettle from its burner, poured the steaming water into two cups. A frown when she heard Vic begin a quiet laugh, a turn when the laugh quickly built into a full-throated howling that made his eyes water and forced him to sit at the table before he fell. She glared, hating to be left out of the joke, shouted to calm him down and received only a trembling, pointing finger in return. The cups. She glanced down into the clear water. She had forgotten to spoon in the instant coffee.

  "That does it!" she said, and stamped out of the room.

  Vic followed, still laughing, and put his arms around her, hugged her tightly.

  "We can't just sit here, Vic," she said into his chest. "If I'm not crazy now, I definitely will be before the day is over."

  He nodded, gasped for a quieting breath before releasing her and grabbing the phone book from an end table. He winked and dialed and she listened as he ordered a rental car from the agency two doors down from the toy store. When he finished, he grinned.

  "In an hour. The guy said he'll bring it over, which is what I call typical Oxrun hospitality."

  She hesitated before responding. To begin some sort of action was at the moment infinitely preferable to remaining in the house—but now that the moment had come she wasn't sure precisely what it was that should be done. And immediately as she thought it she knew it was a lie.

  "How are you feeling?"

  She shrugged. "Better, I guess. Better than sitting around, anyway."

  "Good." He slapped at his knees. "Now, the first thing we'll do is get something decent to eat. There's no sense in launching an attack on an empty stomach."

  "Vic, do you have to use that word?"

  "What word?"

  "Attack."

  His hand reached to her shoulder, turned her and pushed her lightly toward the kitchen. He said nothing, and there was nothing to be said. Only the sounds of the pots on the stove, dishes on the table, refrigerator humming. She tasted little but ate well, surprised that her stomach could be so receptive at a time like this. And while Vic was upstairs hunting for warm clothing, she stood at the sink with her hands immersed in warm soapy water, watching the storm outside. The snow had changed over to smaller flakes, a laced curtain that slapped icily against the window pane. When the doorbell rang she didn't move, listening as Vic rushed down the stairs and flung open the door. Voices. Low. Vic's too-hearty laughter and the door closing again. The water grew cold, the dishes were unwashed. She saw a darkness between the flakes that swirled against the direction of the wind, and in that darkness the presence of the fire-thing.

  "Hello, Fred, this is Vic. I thought you'd be out prowling for ghosts tonight."

  "In this kind of weather? You've got to be kidding. Say, how are you two doing? I mean—"

  "We're hanging in there, Fred, hanging in there. I'm going to be at Dale's for the rest of the evening. I don't want to get Abe's dander up again. I really don't fancy spending Thanksgiving in one of his hotel rooms."

  "Very funny. Hey, you might like to know, by the way, that the prelim medical report confirms Ed's death as an accident. No signs of funny business anywhere."

  "That's the best news I’ve heard all day, pal. All year, in fact."

  "I thought you'd like it. But look, my kids are getting ready for a party. I don't want to rush you but . . ."

  "Oh, sure, that's all right. Listen, Dale and I were worried about little Jaimie."

  "Didn't Abe tell you? He's staying with friends of the family. He'll be all right"

  "Oh, that's great. Well, we were thinking, see, of bringing him something from the store. You know, a small gift to keep his mind off things. If you know what I mean."

  "Now that's really nice of you guys, Vic. I don't suppose Abe would mind me telling you, then. When the Doc finally got him calmed down, he asked him to call the Campbells. You know the ones—the two old ladies that lost that boy and the father? He's over there now. I don't guess they'
d mind you stomping in with something. It is Halloween, after all."

  "The Campbells. Oh yes, I think I know where they live. Well, thanks a lot, Fred, and don't let those kids confuse you with the donkey."

  "Not me, kid. I just stand around taking pictures like every other father in the world."

  Dale shivered in spite of the heater's hard-blowing fan. Boys and girls together, she hummed, me and the Children of Llyr. The houses drifted by slowly as Vic hunched over the wheel, cursing the storm. After the call to Borg, they had thrown on sweaters, coats, boots, and gloves in a tacit decision to make their first move at the Campbell house. Playing it by ear, Vic had called it, and she could think of no other way to do it. Not at least until they knew exactly what was being planned for the Feast of Samain.

  Vic grunted.

  They were six blocks from Dale's house, the park still on their left. She pointed at a street sign. "Three houses in, I think," she said.

  Vic took the corner at a crunching crawl, yet the car still fishtailed when it struck a patch of ice and Dale held her breath until he brought the vehicle back under control. They drove down to the next corner, turned and parked in front of the house just below the Campbells. The entire street was dark save for the lights in the Campbell windows; it was a low, single-story home; no blanket of snow could adequately hide the fact that it grimly needed a coat of paint.

  "Company's coming," Vic whispered, tugging at his gloves. "Surprise, surprise," she said. "Now what? Do we ring the bell?"

  "What do you think?"

  With the engine silent the heater wasted no time blowing in cold air. Dale quickly flicked it off, leaned close to her window, and stared. "I think," she finally said, "we'll end up like Ed if we walk in unannounced. We might be able to look in from the side. Let's try it and see who all we can find. Then maybe we'll ring the bell."

  "Or run like crazy."

  "Or that too," she said, and pushed open her door before she could change her mind.

  The front edge of the lawn sloped sharply, the steps leading to the walk uncleared. Dale led the way, angling away from the porch to the side of the house and out of the direct force of the wind. Brushing a glove over her face to wipe away clinging snow, she gripped the sill and raised herself onto her toes while Vic moved down to the next window. She was looking into a small dining room evidently prepared for a Halloween party: streamers dangled from a cheap, brass-plated chandelier; decorated paper plates and cups were placed carefully on a small square table covered with an orange cloth. A plastic pumpkin served as a centerpiece and on the walls were cutouts of witches and cats and small grinning skeletons. But there was no one in the room; nor, as she looked across the front hall, in the room on the other side of the house that she could see. Quickly she rejoined Vic who shrugged failure, and they paused, crouching against the wall as a plow clanked by, before moving cautiously to the back, up onto a narrow porch that faced a treeless back yard. Leaning over the shaky railing, Dale peered through the rear window and saw no one, reached out and gripped the doorknob. A sudden wet gust blinded her, and she waited patiently until the air calmed. Then she turned her hand.

  "Bingo," Vic whispered.

  Without bothering to shake the snow from their coats or boots, they stepped into a large white kitchen un-remodeled for at least two decades. The stubby refrigerator and bulky stove were a yellowed white, the cabinet doors over sink and counters warped open. There was a battered wooden table in the center of the grease-crusted linoleum floor, and a clock over the entrance to a hall had stopped at seven.

  Melting snow dripped down her neck and Dale shook her head, snapped off her scarf and brushed at it. She exhaled. Her breath smoked in front of her. She removed one glove and lay her hand on the radiator by the door—but there was no heat there, no heat anywhere.

  Gestures, then, since neither was willing to break the silence that smothered the house. Dale nodded rapidly. A rapid search of the house might bring them luck, and the clues they would need to locate the Campbells. Slowly, then, as though the carpeted floor would give way beneath them, they passed through the dingy kitchen into the hall and down to the front. The dining room was as she had seen it from the outside—empty, ready for a party, but without its celebrants.

  A staircase formed the right-hand wall of the corridor. She leaned on the newel post, looked upward but saw and heard nothing.

  She moved right to stand at the threshold of the living room. It was far larger than she had first thought, stretching along the full side of the house. There was little furniture, and what there was had been shoved up against the whitewashed walls, off the worn red carpet that only accentuated the grime on the floor. At the far end of the room, however, was a single gold table over which was suspended a small wooden wheel rimmed with lighted candles; they were the only source of illumination in the room, and their spawn of shadows flickered on the walls though the flames were steady.

  "Dale," Vic said suddenly, and he pointed.

  On the table was the chess set she had sold to McPherson. All the pieces were in place except for a handful of pawns—four were arranged behind the Children of Don, and a fifth was missing.

  Dale followed Vic to the table, more like a regal display far out of place in the house it was set.

  "Four Hounds," she said dully. "Ed, Willy, Elinor, Dave."

  "'The one that's gone. It must have been the one I threw at the fire."

  She reached out to pick up a queen, snatched her hand back when it met a cold so intense her fingers were burned. She glanced up at the ringed fire, frowning, then opened her eyes wide and took a step away.

  "What?" Vic said.

  "That ring," she answered. "Like the orchard, Vic. It just now occurred to me," and she struck her forehead with a scolding palm. "Someone tried to kill us out there, right? But unless that fire would have trapped anyone who went there—"

  "Someone had to know we would be the ones! But that's silly, Dale. Nobody knew."

  "Wrong," she said. "Come on, let's go someplace where it's warm. My ears are ready to fall off."

  She hurried away, was stopped in the foyer when Vic grabbed at her shoulder. "Hey, wait a minute! What do you mean, wrong? Who knew, for Pete's sake?"

  "Who gave us the list for the scavenger hunt?"

  Vic's gesture of denial was stopped by a rustling in the dining room. Dale looked to Vic, hoping to see a signal that would send them running for the safety of their car. But a figure in a billowing black robe girdled in gold stepped into the light and stopped her. The white-trimmed hood was back, the hair straight and wafting in the drafts that eased down the hall. A pale white hand lifted, and there was a gun pointed at Dale's chest.

  "Who indeed," the figure said "It's cold out here, children. Please," and the gun motioned them into the dining room, into two chairs placed at the head of the table. Liz Provence sat opposite them, her grin a mockery of the pumpkin's plastic expression.

  "I don't believe it," Vic said finally.

  "Why?" Liz said. "Did you really think you belonged at my party? A schoolteacher and a shopkeeper? Really, Victor, I thought you were smarter than that."

  "I almost started to like you," Dale said softly. "I really did."

  "I'm flattered," the woman said. She rested her forearms on the tablecloth, keeping the weapon aimed over the top of the centerpiece. "But it's of no consequence now, is it? I mean, the party's over," and she waved her free hand at the decorations, laughed loudly in a voice that belonged to a woman ten times her age.

  "Samain," Vic said.

  Liz quieted abruptly, her face more graven than the chessmen she guarded. "Samain," she said, nodding. "Midnight."

  Time, then, and Dale was glad she hadn't worn a watch. The silence became a weight, fought the pressure of the wind, the sound of an occasional passing car. Chills swirled around her an-Ides, drifted up the legs of her jeans and tightened her skin. She dared not look at Vic for fear she'd cry out, but she knew he was almost numbed by the danger
pointing directly at his chest. She coughed once, and the gun jerked, and she closed her eyes to wait for the explosion.

  "A couple of hours, less," Liz said finally.

  "To what?" Dale asked, her voice cracking, her hands tight in her lap. "What's going on?"

  "Ah, I thought you knew already. I thought little Willy told you."

  "He never had the chance," she snapped. "The children did it, didn't they? He was given one of the pawns, and they drowned him. Samain was what he wanted to tell me about, wasn't it?"

  "In one of his self moments, yes, I imagine it was."

  The house trembled at a prolonged rush of wind.

  "Do we get an explanation?" Dale asked again. "Don't you think we deserve one?"

  "A dying request?" Liz said. "No. Not a single word."

  "It isn't necessary," Vic said. He pushed back his chair and stood, carefully, his hands wide to show Liz he had picked up nothing threatening. Slowly he moved to the window, turned and leaned back against the sill. "Samain. When the gods walk, isn't that right? I didn't believe it at first, you know. I thought Dale here was losing her mind. But . . ." and he shrugged into Liz's silent laugh. "Flora brought the means over here, didn't she? Some kind of rituals she unearthed, probably literally, back in Wales or wherever the hell she came from. Something . . . preliminary to possess the children, to give the Children of Don and Llyr some minimum contact with the modem world."

  "Those questions," Dale said, striking the table with a palm. "All those questions and sessions with the library. But why the children?"

  "Because," Vic said before Liz could speak, "they still have illusions, dreams, fancies and such. Not like us big, sophisticated adults so terribly fashionably cynical that we don't even believe in Santa Claus any more. They would accept the children, wouldn't they, Liz? And that acceptance gave them the foothold they needed."