Alice’s eyes snapped open. She could still feel the heat of breath on her cheek. Very hot breath, like an updraft from a forest fire.
The basement light was on. The chairs across from her sat empty - Alice herself sat against the cold concrete wall, something she had no recollection of doing, and she realised her fingers no longer held the pistol as she looked up to meet Karen’s eyes.
‘Are you all right?’ Karen gazed at her with fear and concern mixed on her face. She had tucked the pistol into her belt.
‘Give it back.’
Karen shook her head. ‘I can’t.’
Alice stood. Despite her haggard appearance, she felt as strong as ever. Stronger, maybe. She kept her mouth shut, unsure how to describe the - well, vision, for lack of a better term. Though there had been no vision to it at all. The hearing.
‘You’ve been unconscious for three hours.’
Alice reeled. ‘That can’t be.’
Karen bit her lower lip; the skin turned white. ‘I’ve been upstairs, doing a little reading of my own.’
‘You didn’t.’ Alice felt her heart drop to her stomach. A cold storm brewed there, ready to break out along every nerve in her body. ‘Not after what it’s done to me.’
‘I had to see if I could save you before it was too late.’
Alice lifted both hands before her face. The withered, twisted appendages looked like something out of a Halloween costume magazine. ‘It is too late!’
‘But I’m your sister, Allie. I couldn’t sit by and do nothing.’
‘So you’ve killed us both.’
‘I hope not.’
Alice considered her for a moment, halfway between rage and gratefulness. Three hours. Her sister didn’t appear any thinner. ‘What did you find?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Then you’ve wasted our time.’ Alice dropped into a chair, her legs draped out in front of her. ‘Give me back the gun before you get hurt. I promise you I’ll end this.’
‘No.’
‘Karen, open your eyes! It’s the only way!’ Alice felt rage flare up again, stronger than she’d felt in a long time. Her whole life, perhaps.
‘They are, Alice, and I love you.’
‘Touching, thank you.’ Alice scowled. ‘But it won’t keep this from consuming me.’
‘It’s not fair.’ Karen backed toward the stairs. Amber sunlight touched her face; a tear slipped down her cheek and hung on her chin. ‘Martha wrote that book. You just read it on accident, without knowing what you were doing.’
‘I don’t think this curse cares about innocence or guilt. Martha Bradshaw wanted that book to be found so she could have her revenge. She wanted power, got it, and had it taken away through death. But that doesn’t mean she stopped wanting it.’
Karen’s heel found the first step and she stopped. ‘If not Slater, I’ll go to Doctor Phelps, then, down in Gaviston. He’s my family doctor; he won’t say a word.’
Alice sprang to her feet; the chair crashed over. ‘No! You tell him nothing! You know we have secrets, Karen, and you know how that works. We tell no one.’
‘I have to, Allie, honey. I have to.’
Alice stalked forward, hands clenching into fists. The rage within her reached a new high. ‘You stupid, pathetic excuse for a woman. Give me that gun now or I’ll pry it from your fingers. After I rip out your throat.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Karen whispered. She spun and ran up the stairs, feet pounding on the wooden planks.
With a half-crazed scream, Alice charged after her. She tripped and crashed down hard enough to slam her teeth together. Karen grabbed the door handle and threw it open. Alice dove, slashing out with hooked fingers. She clipped Karen’s ankle, her fingernail tearing a jagged line in her flesh, and Karen fell through. Alice dragged herself forward, snarling, but Karen slammed the door. The lock snapped into place with a heavy click.
Angry as she was, Alice knew when she was beaten. The thick oak planks wouldn’t give to anything less than a chainsaw. She smashed her fist against the door twice, more taking out her aggression than trying to get through, and then walked back to the basement. She flipped the lights out on her way.
Sitting, Alice felt her mind clear. It was like a sink of dirty water had mucked up her brain and then someone had pulled the plug. The water drained away in a tight vortex, and what she’d done hit her full force.
Alice sagged forward, resting her elbows on her knees and cradling her head in her hands. She understood now why they had burned Martha Bradshaw in Salem.
‘It’s not all at once; it’s like I lose pieces.’ She knew she was talking to herself, but couldn’t stop. Sometimes it helped to hash things out. ‘First the flesh, then emotions, then the mind. Eventually I’ll be consumed. Or dead.’
Then again, sometimes it was better just to let things lie.
She began pacing, looking for anything else that could snuff out her life. A bullet to the brain had been on the top of her list. Quick, painless, and ninety-nine percent guaranteed to work. But Karen, in her mistaken attempt to help, had removed that option.
A rope lay coiled on a stack of boxes - not a rope, really, but a truck’s tow strap. Alice smirked. The support beams in the basement were open and unprotected - and thick enough to hold her even with her increased strength. There were matches in the cupboard; it could be just like Salem all over again. She scooped the rope up. And then that infernal book would burn, with all its knowledge and its curse.
Or I could live. And become this.
The desire surprised her. Mixed with revulsion, but a growing desire all the same.
The tow strap had a loop sown into the end, and Alice ran it through itself and hooked the new loop--the noose--around her neck. It would be quicker than fire, and maybe Karen would be smart enough to burn the book herself.
She dragged her chair under a rafter and tied the tow strap to it with just enough slack that she could stand if she pushed herself up straight. She had to do it, she knew, and fast. If the thing inside Martha had written that book in hopes that someone would read it later, and that thing was now inside her, she had to kill her body before it took complete control and Martha Bradshaw’s demon was loosed on the outside world.
Standing straight as a post, Alice tugged on the rope to make sure it would hold. No use trying to kill herself and failing. That would only anger it. She had to make her death quick, irreversible. Her heart beat wildly; breath came in quick gasps. She could feel her pulse pounding in her temples. Not often did one stand ready to die, and the terrible anticipation forced sweat to stand out along her brow. Almost dead and yet still alive.
But I choose this, the way Martha should have. A passage from the Bible flashed to mind, remembered from long ago in Sunday School. Something about the sins of one carrying on to future generations. She let a vicious grin twist her upper lip. You’ve given us a hell of a sin to deal with, Martha dear, but we’re dealing.
‘Stop.’
She hadn’t heard Karen descend the stairs, but as she turned and saw her at the bottom, Alice wasn’t surprised. ‘Shoot me, then.’
‘You don’t understand. Look.’ Karen held up her hand.
For a moment, Alice couldn’t see anything wrong. When she did, she blinked, hoping her eyes were playing tricks on her. But she leaned in as close as the noose would let her, and she knew.
Karen’s hands had thinned. Her fingers hooked slightly and ended in jagged, yellowed fingernails.
Alice swallowed, hard. ‘Oh, Karen.’
Karen managed a smile. ‘I should have known better.’ She hefted the pistol from her belt. ‘You’re sure there’s no way to stop it?’
‘I wouldn’t gamble on it.’
‘Then let’s not waste time.’ Karen raised the pistol and pressed the barrel firmly against her temple. ‘I love you, Alice. My sister.’
‘I love you too, Karen.’ She spun her hand in a circle. ‘Turn around; don’t watch me.’
‘If I don’t do
it first, I’ll lose my nerve.’ Karen brought her empty hand up, stared at it for a moment as if hoping it would have resumed its former shape, shook her head sadly, and pulled the trigger.
The gunshot sounded like ten claps of thunder all going off at once. Fire burst out around the gun’s muzzle like a camera flash and Alice saw a cloud of red mist explode away from Karen’s skull. Most of it, along with a fragment of white, cracked bone, sprayed over the far wall. Darkness returned just as quickly, and Karen crumpled to the ground.
Alice screamed, unable to turn her head fast enough. She tried, flinging her body around, and lost her balance. She swung off the chair, her foot striking it and sending it skidding away and white light sprang up behind her eyes. Pain lanced through her neck and throat.
She tried to swallow and couldn’t. Somehow that set her off like nothing else, and she began tearing at the noose. The strap, designed for pulling vehicles weighing a lot more than middle-aged women, held firm. Alice felt one of her fingernails rip off, then another. Small fires of pain burned on the exposed ends, but she kept at it.
Her strength began to slip away. Alice tried to breathe, but got nothing. Her legs hung a few inches from the floor, too far to reach and take pressure from her neck. She kicked them anyway, reflexively. Grabbing the strap, she tried to lift her body. She managed to raise herself up an inch or so, but her strength wore out as her oxygen-deprived brain struggled to survive. She gasped in a few shallow breaths, and then fell back.
Red edged her vision. Her eyes drifted to Karen’s form and she felt relaxation began to take hold. Submission. Maybe she could just close her eyes for a moment, rest a bit, and then get out of this. Yes, close them just for a moment.
As she let her eyelids drop to eclipse the world, Alice remembered the book. Was it still in the attic, or had Karen brought it to the main floor to do her reading? Either way, with a double suicide in the basement, the book would be found. Secrets would be revealed, and it would be read.
Her mind slipped away, turning silent and still, and Alice felt Martha Bradshaw’s hot breath lingering on her cheek. Martha may have died, but that hardly meant her legacy had burned with her.
Bentley Little
THE MIRACLE
It wasn't the shape of the Virgin Mary on a windowpane or a shower tile, it wasn't a statue of the Hindu god Ganesh that drank milk.
It was a rock that sang opera.
That was what concerned everyone so. The apparent meaninglessness of the miracle, the fact that it did not seem to be affiliated with any major religion. Other so-called miracles were equally meaningless, but they had mythology behind them and observers and believers were able to invest purpose in the purposelessness of a silhouette that resembled an artists' conception of a biblical figure.
Not so the rock.
The clear-cut realism of the miracle people found disturbing. It was not vague, ambiguous, and open to interpretation. It was definite, obvious, a physical, measureable occurrence. It was what it was and could not be confused with anything else.
The rock also followed no timetable, did not perform on command, but burst into song whenever it wanted.
That, too, was disturbing.
It was a modern rock in that it eschewed the melodramatic Nineteenth Century staples in favour of serialists and minimalists and more contemporary operatic forms, and some experts speculated that its purpose was to expose people to new music, to educate the public about the importance and viability of modern art. Others attempted to string together the text of its librettos, looking for some sort of statement or coherent message in the words it chose to sing, thinking perhaps that it was trying to communicate.
Owen didn't believe any of that. It was his rock and he knew it better than anyone else. He had discovered it in his refrigerator one March morning, on his ranch in southern Colorado. He lived alone, having never married, and he'd been about to take out some eggs and milk in order to make pancake batter, when he saw the rock sitting on the middle metal refrigerator rack next to the orange juice pitcher. He reached for it, wondering what it was and how it had gotten there, and it started to sing, a deep low bass in some foreign language.
He slammed the refrigerator door shut and stumbled backward against the kitchen table, terrified. He might even have screamed; he wasn't sure. The rock was still singing, its voice clear but muffled inside the refrigerator, and Owen backed around the table and out of the kitchen, wondering what the hell he was going to do. He wished there was someone else here—his parents, a wife, a roommate, someone—but he was all alone and town was twenty miles away.
Even though he was in his long johns, his first instinct was to grab his keys, get out to the truck and take off. This was like something out of a horror movie, and he had no idea how to deal with it. This was not a prowler or a bear or some physical threat that he could shoot. This was something beyond his comprehension. He had no idea what was going on here. His house could be haunted. Or he himself could be possessed.
But fear of making a fool of himself was even stronger than his fear of the rock. With his luck, he'd race to town, get the police and a minister, and when he returned there'd be nothing in the refrigerator except milk and eggs and butter.
He crept forward again, to the door of the kitchen. The room was silent. There was no sound.
Then the rock started singing again, in yet another language, its voice still muffled by the refrigerator, and Owen backed quickly away, moving through the dining room into the living room.
Dial 911, he thought. That's what he should do. Call the authorities, have them come out here and investigate what was happening.
He hurried over to the phone, picked up the receiver, started to dial, but returned the handset to its cradle before anyone answered. What was he going to say? Was he really going to have the police drive all the way out to the ranch because a rock was singing in his refrigerator? What was so threatening about that?
What was so threatening about that?
He didn't know. Nothing, really. He was scared because it was unusual, because it was unexpected, because it was something he had never heard of or run across before, not because of anything inherently frightening about it.
Cautiously, he returned to the kitchen. Muffled singing still sounded from within the refrigerator, and he cautiously opened the door of the appliance. The voice was loud, and he simply stared at the rock for a few moments. It was probably a prank, he told himself, a practical joke. There was a receiver of some sort embedded in the rock and it was broadcasting music that was being transmitted from somewhere else.
But he didn't really believe that.
He touched the rock, felt the vibrations of sound rumbling on its irregular surface. He was still afraid to pick it up, but he pushed it, turned it, searching for a speaker, a switch, a piece of metal, anything that would indicate it had been altered from its natural state.
Who had placed it here? he wondered. Who had left it?
The answer was obvious: no one.
No one could have gotten into his house at night. No one could have broken in, placed the rock in the refrigerator and then left, locking everything up behind him.
The rock had just appeared.
It was a miracle.
He stopped at that. Miracle. A miracle was something that happened in biblical days, a long time ago in a land far, far away. Not here, not now, not to him. And weren't miracles usually involved with rescuing oppressed people, or feeding the poor and hungry, or somehow changing the course of history?
They weren't this small, they weren't this specific.
They weren't rocks that appeared in household appliances and sang.
But why not? he thought. Why couldn't they be?
Gingerly, he reached into the refrigerator and picked up the object. It was an ordinary piece of brownish tan sandstone, and aside from the sonic vibrations it felt perfectly normal in his hand, nothing about its weight or texture identifying it as anything other than the sort of
typical rock he saw or stumbled over a thousand times a day on the path to the stream.
But it was singing. Loudly, clearly, in a voice that could be heard throughout the house, with the perfect clarity of the most expensive stereo system. He held the rock up near his face, turned it over, examined it, but he could not determine if the voice was coming from within the centre of the rock or if it simply emanated from the exposed surface of the object.
Both, he assumed.
He put the rock down, watched it for awhile, and listened to it. He knew he should call someone, tell them what he'd found, but he didn't know who, so he called his friend Zack and let the word spread outward from there.
Spread it did.
There were none of the cinematic shenanigans that usually accompanied such an occurrence in a film or on TV. No secret government agency attempted to wrest the rock from him, no slimy showman cheated him out of it. Yes, there were media interviews and attention, yes, lawyers and agents offered to represent him, but everyone respected his right of ownership, everyone deferred to his opinion, respected his decisions. It was partly fear, he figured. No one knew what to make of the rock, and even amongst the most detached scientific minds, the fact that he had been chosen, that the rock had come to him, obviously carried some weight.
The constant scrutiny, the worldwide notice, was rather daunting at first. A professor from one eastern college talked to him about the sound conducting qualities of granite as opposed to sandstone, another professor from another college wanted to study him and his effect on other rocks and minerals. There were offers to appear on late-night television talk shows, ghost-writers willing to author his story for publication, numerous filmmakers and would-be documentarians who wanted to film everything from a day in the life of the rock to his own boring ranch routines.
Horror Express Volume Two Page 2
