Short Stories

by F. Paul Wilson

  Perhaps her best course was the one she had taken with the last house­keeper. Take over her body when she was asleep and drive to the bars and roadhouses outside of town. Find a man two men, if she were in the mood and spend most of the night in a motel room. Then come back to the house, clean her up, and leave her asleep in her bed. It was anonymous, it was exciting, but it was somehow .. . empty.

  She would be more careful with Ste-phie than with the last housekeeper. Marta had been ill one night but had moved into the other body anyway. She had lost control when a stomach spasm had gripped her own body. The pain had drawn her back to the house, leaving the woman to awaken between two strangers. She had panicked and run out into the road.

  Yes, she had to be very careful with this one. Stephie was so sensitive to her power, whatever it was. She only had to become drowsy and Marta could slip in and take complete control, keeping Stephie’s mind unconscious while she controlled her body. A few milligrams of a sedative in her cocoa before bed­time and Stephie’s body was Marta’s for the night.

  But young Pritchard wasn’t working out. At least not so far. There was per­haps a slim chance she could reason with him when he came back. She had to try. She found him terribly attrac­tive. But where could he be?

  Sparks of alarm flashed through her as she realized that her own body was upstairs in the house, lying in bed, helpless, defenseless. What if that crazy boy — ?

  Quickly, she slid onto the bed and closed her eyes. She shut out her senses one by one, blocking off the sound of the rain and thunder, the taste of the saliva in her mouth, the feel of the beclothes against her back . . .

  . . . and opened her eyes in her own bedroom in the house. She looked around, alert for any sign that her room had been entered. Her bedroom door was still closed, and there was no mois­ture anywhere on the floor.

  Good! He hasn’t been in here!

  Marta pushed herself up in bed and transferred to the wheelchair. She wheeled herself out to the hall and down to the elevator, cursing its slow descent as it took her to the first floor. When it finally stopped, she propelled herself at top speed to the foyer where she immediately turned the dead bolt on the front door. She noted with sat­isfaction that the slate floor under her chair was as dry as when she had walked out earlier as Stephie. She was satisfied that she was alone in the house.

  Safe!

  She rolled herself into the solarium at a more leisurely pace. She knew the rest of the doors and windows were se­cure — Stephie always locked up before she made the bedtime chocolate. She stopped before the big bay windows and watched the storm for a minute. It was a fierce one. She gazed out at the blue-white, water-blurred lightning flashes and wondered what she was going to do about young Pritchard. If she couldn’t convince him to stay, then surely he would be in town tomorrow, telling a wild tale. No one would believe him, of course, but it would start talk, fuel ru­mors, and that would make it almost impossible to get help in the future. It might even make Stephie quit, and Marta didn’t know how far her power could reach. She’d be left totally alone out here.

  Her fingers tightened on the arm rests of her wheelchair. She couldn’t let that happen.

  She closed her eyes and blocked out the storm, blocked out her senses . ..

  . . . and awoke in Stephie’s body again.

  She leapt to the kitchenette and pulled out the drawers until she found the one she wanted. It held three forks, a couple of spoons, a spatula, and a knife — a six-inch carving knife.

  It would have to do.

  She hurried out into the rain and up the hill toward the house.

  Jerry rammed his shoulder against the big oak front door again but only added to bruises the door had already put there. He screamed at it.

  “In God’s name — open!”

  The door ignored him. What was he going to do? He had to get inside! Had to get to that old lady! Had to wring the Devil out of her! Had to find a way in! Make her give Steph back!

  His mother had warned him about this sort of thing. He could almost hear her voice between the claps of thunder: Satan walks the earth, Jerome, search­ing for those who forsake the Word. Be­ware — he’s waiting for you!

  Jerry knew the Devil had found him — in the guise of old lady Gati! What was happening to Steph was all his fault!

  He ran back into the downpour and headed around toward the rear. Maybe the kitchen door was unlocked. He glanced through the solarium windows as he passed. His bare feet slid to a halt on the wet grass as he stopped and took a better look.

  There she was: old lady Gati, the Devil herself, zonked out in her wheel­chair.

  The sight of her sitting there as if asleep while her spirit was down the hill controlling Steph’s body was more than Jerry could stand. He looked around for something to hurl through the window, and in the next lightning flash he spotted the ladder next to the house on the lawn. He picked it up and charged the solarium like a jousting knight. Putting all his weight behind the ladder, he rammed it through the center bay window. The sound of shat­tering glass broke the last vestige of Jerry’s control. Howling like a mad­man, he drove the ladder against the window glass again and again until every pane and every muntin was smashed and battered out of the way.

  Then he climbed in.

  The shards of glass cut his bare hands and feet but Jerry barely noticed. His eyes were on old lady Gati. Throughout all the racket, she hadn’t budged.

  Merciful Lord, it’s true! Her spirit’s left her body!

  He stumbled over to her inert form and stood behind her, hesitating. He didn’t want to touch her — his skin crawled at the thought — but he had to put an end to this. Now. Swallowing the bile that sloshed up from his stom­ach, Jerry wrapped his fingers around old lady Gati’s throat. He flinched at the feel of her wrinkles against his palms, but he clenched his teeth and began to squeeze. He put all his strength into it —

  — and then let go.

  He couldn’t do it.

  “God, give me strength!” he cried, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Not while she was like this. It was like strangling a corpse! She was barely breathing as it was!

  Something tapped against the intact bay window to the right. Jerry spun to look — a flash from outside outlined the grounding wire from the lightning rods as it swayed in the wind and slapped against the window. It reminded him of a snake —

  A snake! And suddenly he knew: It’s a sign! A sign from God!

  He ran to the window and threw it open. He reached out, wrapped the wire around his hands, and pulled. It wouldn’t budge from the ground. He braced a foot against the window sill, putting his back and all his weight into the effort. Suddenly the metal grounding stake pulled free and he staggered back, the insulated wire thrashing about in his hands . . . just like a snake.

  He remembered that snake handlers’ church back in the hills his mother had dragged him to one Sunday a few years ago. He had watched in awe as the men and women would grab water mocca­sins and cotton-mouths and hold them up, trusting in the Lord to protect them. Some were bitten, some were not. Ma had told him it was all God’s will.

  God’s will!

  He pulled the old lady’s wheelchair closer to the window and wrapped the wire tightly around her, tying it snugly behind the backrest of the chair, and jamming the grounding post into the metal spokes of one of the wheels.

  “This is your snake, Miss Gati,” he told her unconscious form. “It’s God’s will if it bites you!”

  He backed away from her until he was at the entrance to the solarium. Lightning flashed as violently as ever, but none came down the wire. He couldn’t wait any longer. He had to find Steph. As he turned to head for the front door, he saw someone standing on the south lawn, staring into the solar­ium. It was Old Lady Gati, wearing Steph’s body. When she looked through the broken bay window and saw him there, she screamed and slumped to the ground.

  “Steph!” What was happening to her?

  Jerry sprinted acr
oss the room and dove through the shattered window onto the south lawn.

  Marta awoke in her own body, pan­icked. What has he done to me? She felt all right. There was no pain, no —

  My arms! Her hands were free but she couldn’t move her upper arms! She looked down and saw the black insu­lated wire coiled tightly around her upper body, binding her to the chair. She tried to twist, to slide down on the chair and slip free, but the wire wouldn’t give an inch. She tried to see where it was tied. If she could get her hands on the knot. . .

  She saw the wire trailing away from her chair, across the floor and out the window and up into the darkness.

  Up! To the roof! The lightning rods!

  She screamed, “Nooooo!”

  Jerry cradled Steph’s head in his arm and slapped her wet face as hard as he dared. He’d hoped the cold pounding rain and the noise of the storm would have brought her around, but she was still out. He didn’t want to hurt her, but she had to wake up.

  “Steph! C’mon, Steph! You’ve got to wake up! Got to fight her!”

  As she stirred, he heard old lady Gati howl from the solarium. Steph’s eyes fluttered, then closed again. He shook her. “Steph! Please!”

  She opened her eyes and stared at him. His spirits leaped.

  “That’s it, Steph! Wake up! It’s me — Jerry! You’ve got to stay awake!”

  She moaned and closed her eyes, so he shook her again.

  “Steph! Don’t let her take you over again!”

  As she opened her eyes again, Jerry dragged her to her feet.

  “Come on! Walk it off! Let’s go! You’ve got to stay awake!”

  Suddenly her face contorted and she swung on him. Something gleamed in her right hand as she plunged it toward his throat. Jerry got his forearm up just in time to block it. Pain seared through his arm and he cried out.

  “Oh, God! It’s you!”

  “Yes!” She slashed at him again and he backpedaled to avoid the knife. His bare feet slipped on the grass and he went down on his back. He rolled frant­ically, fearing she would be upon him, but when he looked up, she was run­ning toward the house, toward the smashed bay window.

  “No!”

  He couldn’t let her get inside and untie the old lady’s body. Steph’s only hope was a lightning strike.

  Please, God, he prayed. Now! Let it be now!

  But though bolts crackled through the sky almost continuously, none of them hit the house. Groaning with fear and frustration, Jerry scrambled to his feet and sprinted after her. He had to stop her!

  He caught her from behind and brought her down about two dozen feet from the house. She screamed and thrashed like an enraged animal, twist­ing and slashing at him again and again with the knife. She cut him along the ribs as he tried to pin her arms and was rearing back for a better angle on his chest when the night turned blue white. He saw the rage on Steph’s face turn to wide-eyed horror. Her body arched convulsively as she opened her mouth and and let out a high-pitched shriek of agony that rose and cut off like a circuit being broken —

  — only to be taken up by another voice from within the solarium. Jerry glanced up and saw old lady Gati’s body juttering in her chair like a hooked fish while blue fire played all about her. Her hoarse cry was swallowed and drowned as her body exploded in a roiling ball of flame. Fire was everywhere in the solarium. The very air seemed to burn.

  He removed the knife from Steph’s now limp hand and dragged her to a safer distance from the house. He shook her. “Steph?”

  He could see her eyes rolling back and forth under the lids. Finally they opened and stared at him uncomprehendingly.

  “Jerry?” She bolted up to a sitting position. “Jerry! What’s going on?”

  His grip on the knife tightened as he listened to her voice, searching care­fully for the slightest hint of an accent, the slightest roll of an “r.” There wasn’t any he could detect, but there was only one test that could completely convince him.

  “My name,” he said. “What’s my last name, Steph?”

  “It’s Pritchard, of course. But —” She must have seen the flames flickering in his eyes because she twisted around and cried out. “The house! It’s on fire! Miss Gati —!”

  She had said it perfectly! The real Steph was back! Jerry threw away the knife and lifted her to her feet. “She’s gone,” he told her. “Burnt up. I saw her.”

  “But how?”

  He had to think fast — couldn’t tell her the truth. Not yet. “Lightning. It’s my fault. I must have messed up the rods when I was up on the roof today!”

  “Oh, God, Jerry!” She clung to him and suddenly the storm seemed far away. “What’ll we do?”

  Over her shoulder, he watched the flames spreading throughout the first floor and lapping up at the second through the broken bay window. “Got to get out of here, Steph. They’re gonna blame me for it, and God knows what’ll happen.”

  “It was an accident! They can’t blame you for that!”

  “Oh, yes they will!” Jerry was think­ing about the ground wire wrapped around the old lady’s corpse. No way anyone would think that was an acci­dent. “I hear she’s got family in New York. They’ll see me hang if they can, I just know it! I’ve got to get out of here.” He pushed her to arm’s length and stared at her. “Come with me?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t! How?”

  “We’ll make a new life far from here. We’ll head west and won’t stop till we reach the ocean.” He could see her wav­ering. “Please, Steph! I don’t think I can make it without you!”

  Finally, she nodded.

  He took her hand and pulled her along behind him as he raced down the slope for the gate house. He glanced back at the old house and saw flames dancing in the second floor windows. Somebody down in town would see the light from the fire soon and then half the town would be up here to either fight it or watch it being fought. They had to be out of here before that.

  It’s gonna be okay, he told himself. They’d start a new life out in Califor­nia. And someday, when he had the nerve and he thought she was ready for it, he’d tell her the truth. But for now, as long as Steph was at his side, he could handle anything. Everything was going to be all right.

  Patrolman Grimes looked better now. He was back from the couple’s apart­ment and stood in the hospital corridor with an open notebook, ready to recite.

  All right,” Burke said. “What’ve we got?”

  “We’ve got a twenty-three year old named Jerome Pritchard. Came out here from West Virginia nine months ago.”

  “I mean drugs — crack, Angel Dust, needles, fixings.”

  “No, sir. The apartment was clean. The neighbors are in absolute shock. Everybody loved the Pritchards and they all seem to think he was a pretty straight guy. A real churchgoer — car­ried his own Bible and never missed a Sunday, they said. Had an assembly line job and talked about starting night courses at UCLA as soon as he made the residency requirement. He and his wife appeared to be real excited about the baby, going to Lamaze classes and all that sort of stuff.”

  “Crack, I tell you!” Burke said. “Got to be!”

  “As far as we can trace his move­ments, sir, it seems that after the baby was delivered at 10:06 this morning, he ran out of here like a bat out of hell, came back about an hour later carrying his Bible and a big oblong package, waited until the baby was brought to the mother for feeding, then . . . well, you know.”

  “Yeah. I know.” The new father had pulled a 10 gauge shotgun from that package and blown the mother and kid away, then put the barrel against his own throat and completed the job. “But why, dammit!”

  “Well. . . the baby did have a birth defect.”

  “I know. I saw. But there are a helluva lot of birth defects a damn sight worse. Hell, I mean, her legs were only with­ered a little!

  If it takes a thief to catch one—" then this scheme ought to work just fine

  F. PAUL WILSON

  RATMAN

 
; Since its purpose was neither to load nor unload cargo, his converted tramp freighter was directed to a landing pad at the far end of the field where it wouldn't get in the way. Orz, red-haired and of average height and build, though somewhat stoop-shouldered, didn't mind. As long as he was in the general area his efficiency would be unimpaired.

  When the viewscreen picked up an approaching ground car, Orz snapped his fingers and a half-kilo space rat leaped from the control console to his shoulder.

  "Let's go, 62," he said to his favorite employee.

  Tbe space rat grasped the fabric of his master's shirt tightly in his tiny paws and lashed his tail about nervously. He didn't like meeting strangers, but it was part of his job; his master had found that there was a definite psychological advantage in appearing with a space rat on his shoulder.