Short Stories

by F. Paul Wilson

  “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Well, you had an unusually active night. At least I hope it was unusual.”

  Steph had been about to crack an egg on the edge of the frying pan. She stopped in mid motion and turned to face him.

  “Jerry . . . what on earth are you talking about?”

  She looked genuinely puzzled, and that threw him. “Last night... at the gatehouse ... it was after three when you left.”

  Her cranky scowl dissolved into an easy smile. “You must really be in a bad way!” She laughed. “Now you’re believing your own dreams!”

  Jerry was struck by the clear inno­cence of her laughter. For a moment, he actually doubted his memory — but only for a moment. Last night had been real. Hadn’t it?

  “Steph ...” he began, but dropped it. What could he say to those guileless blue eyes? She was either playing some sort of game, and playing it very well, or she really didn’t remember. Or it really never happened. None of those choices was the least bit reassuring.

  He wolfed his food as Steph moved in and out of the kitchen, attending to old lady Gati’s breakfast wants. She kept glancing at him out of the corner of her eye, as if checking up on him. Was this a game? Or had he really dreamed it all last night?

  Jerry skipped his usual second cup of coffee and was almost relieved to find himself back in the confines of the cel­lar. He threw himself into the job, partly because he wanted to finish it, and partly because he didn’t want too much time to think about last night. By lunchtime he was sweeping up the last of the debris when he heard the sound.

  It came from above. The floorboards were squeaking. And something else as well — the light sound of feet moving back and forth, rhythmically. It contin­ued as he filled a carboard box with the last of the dirt, dust, and scraps of rot­ten wood from the cellar. He decided to walk around the south side of the house on his way to the trash bins. The sound seemed to be coming from there.

  As he passed the solarium, he glanced in and almost dropped the box. Steph was waltzing around the room with an invisible partner in her arms. Swirling and dipping and curtsying, she was not the most graceful dancer he had ever seen, but the look of pure joy on her face made up for whatever she lacked in skill.

  Her expression changed abruptly to a mixture of surprise and something like anger when she caught sight of him gaping through the window. She ran toward the stairs, leaving Miss Gati alone. The old lady neither turned to watch her go, nor looked out the win­dow to see what had spooked her. She just sat slumped in her wheelchair, her head hanging forward. For a second, Jerry was jolted by the sight: She looked dead! He pressed his face against the solarium glass for a closer look, and was relieved to see the gentle rise and fall of her chest. Only asleep. But what had Steph been doing waltzing around like that while the old lady napped?

  Shaking his head at the weirdness of it all, he dumped the box in the trash area and returned to the house through the back door. The kitchen was empty, so he made his way as quietly as pos­sible to the solarium to see if Steph had returned. He found all quiet — the mu­sic off and old lady Gati bright and alert, reading a book. He immediately turned back toward the kitchen, hoping she wouldn’t spot him. But it was too late.

  “Yes, young Pritchard?” she said, rolling that “r” and looking up from her book. “You are looking for something?”

  Jerry fumbled for words. “I was look­ing for Steph to see if she could fix me a sandwich. Thought I saw her in here when I passed by before.”

  “No, dear boy,” she said with a smile. “I sent her up to her room for a nap almost an hour ago. Seems you tired her out last night.”

  “Last night?” He tensed. What did she know about last night?

  Her smile broadened. “Come now! You two didn’t think you could fool me, did you? I know she sneaked out to see you.” Something about the way she looked at him sent a sick chill through Jerry. “Surely you can fix something yourself and let the poor girl rest.”

  Then it hadn’t been a dream! But then why had Steph pretended —?

  He couldn’t figure it. “Yeah. Sure,” he said dully, his thoughts jumbled. “I can make a sandwich.” He turned to go.

  “You should be about through with the basement by now,” she said. “But even if you’re not, get up to the roof this afternoon. The weatherman says there’s a sixty percent chance of a thunder­storm tonight.”

  “Basement’s done. Roof is next.”

  “Excellent! But don’t work too hard, young Pritchard. Save something for Stephie.”

  She returned to her book.

  Jerry felt numb as he walked back to the kitchen. The old lady hadn’t touched him once! She seemed more relaxed and at ease with herself than he could ever remember — a-cat-that-had-swallowed-the-canary sort of self-satisfaction. And she hadn’t tried to lay a single finger on him!

  The day was getting weirder and weirder.

  Replacing the shingles on the sloping dormer surface outside old lady Gati’s bedroom had looked like an easy job from the ground. But the shingles were odd, scalloped affairs that she had or­dered special from San Francisco to match the originals on the house, and Jerry had trouble keeping them aligned on the curved surface. He could have used a third hand, too. What would have been an hour’s work for two men had already taken Jerry three in the broiling sun, and he wasn’t quite finished yet.

  While he was working, he noted that the wood trim on the upper levels was going to need painting soon. That was going to be a hellish job, what with the oculus windows, the ornate friezes, cornices, brackets, and keystones. Some crazed woodcarver had had a field day with this stuff — probably thought it was “art.” But Jerry was going to be the one to paint it. He’d put that off as long as he could, and definitely wouldn’t do it in summer.

  He pulled an insulated wire free of the outside wall to fit in the final shin­gles by the old lady’s window. It ran from somewhere on the roof down to the ground — directly into the ground. Jerry pulled himself up onto the para­pet above the dormer to see where the wire originated. He followed it up until it linked into the lightning rod on the peak of the attic garret. Everything con­nected with this house was ornate — even the lightning rods had designs on them!

  He climbed back down, pulled the ground wire free of the dormer, and tacked the final shingles into place. When he reached the ground, he slumped on the bottom rung of the lad­der and rested a moment. The heat from the roof was getting to him. His tee-shirt was drenched with perspiration and he was reeling with fatigue.

  Enough for today. He’d done the bulk of the work. A hurricane could hit the area and that dormer would not leak. He could put the finishing touches on tomorrow. He lowered the ladder to the ground, then checked the kitchen for Steph. She wasn’t there. Just as well. He didn’t have the energy to pry an explanation out of her. Something was cooking in the oven, but he was too bushed to eat. He grabbed half a six pack of beer from the fridge and stum­bled down to the gatehouse. Hell with dinner. A shower, a few beers, a good night’s sleep, and he’d be just fine in the morning.

  It was a long ways into dark, but Jerry was still awake. Tired as he was, he couldn’t get to sleep. As thunder rumbled in the distance, charging in from the west, and slivers of ever-brightening light flashed between the blinds, thoughts of last night tumbled through his mind, arousing him anew. Something strange going on up at that house. Old lady Gati was acting weird, and so was Steph.

  Steph ... he couldn’t stop thinking about her. He didn’t care what kind of game she was playing, she still meant something to him. He’d never felt this way before. He —

  There was a noise at the door. It opened and Steph stepped inside. She said nothing as she came forward, but in the glow of the lightning flashes from outside, Jerry could see her removing her nightgown as she crossed the room. He saw it flutter to the floor and then she was beside him, bringing the dreamlike memories of last night into the sharp focus of the real and now. H
e tried to talk to her but she would only answer in a soft, breathless “uh-huh” or “uh-uh” and then her wandering lips and tongue wiped all questions from his mind.

  When it was finally over and the two of them lay in a gasping tangle of limbs and sheets, Jerry decided that now was the time to find out what was going on between her and old lady Gati, and what kind of game she was playing with him. He would ask her in a few seconds ... or maybe in a minute ... soon ... thunder was louder than ever outside but that wasn’t going to bother him ... all he wanted to do right now was close his eyes and enjoy the delicious exhaustion of this after­glow a little longer . . . only a little ... just close his eyes for a few seconds ... no more . . .

  “Sleep well, my love.”

  Jerry forced his eyes open. Steph’s face hovered over him in the flashing dimness as he teetered on the brink of unconsciousness. She kissed him lightly on the forehead and whispered, “Good­night, young Pritchard. And thank you.”

  It was as if someone had tossed a bucket of icy water on him. Suddenly Jerry was wide awake. Young Prit­chard? Why had she said that? Why had she imitated old lady Gati’s voice that way? The accent, with its roll of the “r,” had been chillingly perfect.

  Steph had slipped her nightgown over her head and was on her way out. Jerry jumped out of bed and caught her at the door.

  “I don’t think that was funny, Steph!” She ignored him and pushed the screen door open. He grabbed her arm. “Hey, look! What kind of game are you play­ing? What’s it gonna be tomorrow morning? Same as today? Pretend that nothing happened tonight?” she tried to pull away but he held on. “Talk to me Steph! What’s going on?”

  A picture suddenly formed in his mind of Steph going back to the house and having hot chocolate with old lady Gati and telling her every intimate de­tail of their lovemaking, and the old lady getting excited, feeding off it.

  “What’s going on!” Involuntarily, his grip tightened on her arm.

  “You’re hurting me!” The words cut like an icy knife. The voice was Steph’s, but the tone, the accent, the roll of the “r”s, the inflection — all were perfect mimicry of old lady Gati, down to the last nuance. But she had been in pain. It couldn’t have been rehearsed!

  Jerry flipped the light switch and spun her around. It was Steph, all right, as achingly beautiful as ever, but some­thing was wrong. The Steph he knew should have been frightened. The Steph before him was changed. She held her­self differently. Her stance was haughty, almost imperious. And there was some­thing in her eyes — a strange light.

  “Oh, sweet Jesus! What’s happened to you?”

  He could see indecision flickering through her eyes as she regarded him with a level stare. Outside, it began to rain. A few scattered forerunner drops escalated to a full-scale torrent in a matter of seconds as their eyes re­mained locked, their bodies frozen amid day-bright flashes of lightning and the roar of thunder and wind-driven rain. Then she smiled. It was like Steph’s smile, but it wasn’t.

  “Nothing,” she said in that crazy mixed voice.

  And then he thought he knew. For a blazing instant, it was clear to him: “You’re not Steph!” In the very instant he said it he disbelieved it, but then her smile broadened and her words turned his blood to ice:

  “Yes, I am ... for the moment.” The voice was thick with old lady Gati’s ac­cent, and it carried a triumphant note. “What Stephie sees, I see! What Stephie feels, I feel!” She lifted the hem of her nightgown. “Look at my legs! Beauti­ful, aren’t they?”

  Jerry released her arm as if he had been burned. She moved closer but Jerry found himself backing away. Steph was crazy! Her mind had snapped. She thought she was old lady Gati! He had never been faced with such blatant madness before, and it terrified him. He felt exposed, vulnerable before it. With a trembling hand, he grabbed his jeans from the back of the chair.

  Marta Gati looked out of Stephie’s eyes at young Pritchard as he struggled into his trousers, and she wondered what to do next. She had thought him asleep when she had kissed him good night and made the slip of calling him “Young Pritchard.” She had known she couldn’t keep her nightly possession of Stephie from him for too long, but she had not been prepared for a confron­tation tonight. She would try for sym­pathy first.

  “Do you have any idea, young Prit­chard,” she said, trying to make Stephie’s voice sound as American as she could, “what it is like to be trapped all your life in a body as deformed as mine? To be repulsive to other children as a child, to grow up watching other girls find young men and go dancing and get married and know that at night they are holding their man in their arms and feeling all the things a woman should feel? You have no idea what my life has been like, young Pritchard. But through the years I found a way to remedy the situation. Tonight I am a complete woman — your woman!

  “Stephanie!” young Pritchard shouted, fear and disbelief mingling in the strained pallor of his face. “Listen to yourself! You sound crazy! What you’re saying is impossible!”

  “No! Not impossible!” she said, al­though she could understand his reac­tion. A few years ago, she too would have called it impossible. Her brother Karl had devoted himself to her and his business. He never married, but he would bring women back to the house now and then when he thought she was asleep. It would have been wonderful if he could have brought a man home for her, but that was impossible. Yet it hadn’t stopped her yearnings. And it was on those nights when he and a woman were in the next bedroom that Marta realized that she could sense things in Karl’s women. At first she thought it was imagination, but this was more than mere fantasy. She could feel their passion, feel their skin tin­gling, feel them exploding within. And one night, after they both had spent themselves and fallen asleep, she found herself in the other woman’s body — actually lying in Karl’s bed and seeing the room through her eyes!

  As time went on, she found she could enter their bodies while they slept and actually take them over. She could get up and walk! A sob built in her throat at the memory. To walk! That had been joy enough at first. Then she would dance by herself. She had wanted so much all her life to dance, to waltz, and now she could! She never dared more than that until Karl died and left her free. She had perfected her ability since then.

  “It will be a good life for you, young Pritchard,” she said. “You won’t even have to work. Stephie will be my maid and housekeeper during the day and your lover at night.” He shook his head, as if to stop her, but she pressed on. And when you get tired of Stephie, I’ll bring in another. And another. You’ll have an endless stream of young, will­ing bodies in your bed. You’ll have such a good life, young Pritchard!”

  A new look was growing in his eyes: belief.

  “It’s really you!” he said in a hoarse whisper. “Oh, my dear sweet Lord, it’s really you in Steph’s body! I. . . I’m getting out of here!”

  She moved to block his way and he stayed back. He could have easily over­powered her, but he seemed afraid to let her get too near. She couldn’t let him go, not after all her work to set up a perfect household.

  “No! You mustn’t do that! You must stay here!”

  “This is sick!” he cried, his voice ris­ing in pitch as a wild light sprang into his eyes. “This is the Devil’s work!”

  “No-no,” she said, soothingly. “Not the Devil. Just me. Just something—”

  “Get away from me!” he said, backing toward his dresser. He spun and pulled open the top drawer, rummaged through it and came up with a thick book with a cross on its cover. “Get away, Satan!” he cried, thrusting the book toward her face.

  Marta almost laughed. “Don’t be silly, young Pritchard! I’m not evil! I’m just doing what I have to do. I’m not hurting Stephie. I’m just borrowing her body for a while!”

  “Out, demon!” He said, shoving the Bible almost into her face. “Out!”

  This was getting annoying now. She snatched the book from his grasp and hurled it across the room. “Stop acting like a foo
l!”

  He looked from hex to the book and back to her with an awed expression. At that moment there was a particu­larly loud crash of thunder and the lights went out. Young Pritchard cried out in horror and brushed past her. He slammed out the door and ran into the storm.

  Marta ran as far as the doorway and stopped. She peered through the del­uge. Even with the rapid succession of lightning strokes and sheets, she could see barely a dozen feet. He was nowhere in sight. She could see no use in run­ning out into the storm and following him. She glanced at his keys on the bureau and smiled. How far could a half-naked man go in a storm like this?

  Marta crossed the room and sat on the bed. She ran Stephie’s hand over the rumbled sheets where less than half an hour ago the two of them had been locked in passion. Warmth rose within her. So good. So good to have a man’s arms around you, wanting you, needing you, demanding you. She couldn’t give this up. Not now, not when it was fi­nally at her disposal after all these years.

  But young Pritchard wasn’t working out. She had thought any virile young man would leap at what she offered, but apparently she had misjudged him. Or was a stable relationship within her household just a fool’s dream? She had so much to learn about the outside world. Karl had kept her so sheltered from it.