Wait. The air conditioner wasn't running. No mistake about that. This old place didn't have central air so he'd had to buy window units, and they were anything but quiet.
Lyle froze. Not from the cold but from another sensation: he was not alone in the room. He could feel a presence somewhere in the darkness at the end of the bed.
"Charlie?"
No response from the shadows, no rustle of clothing, no whisper of breathing, but the stiff hairs on his arms and the tight skin along the back of his neck told him that someone else was here. He knew it wasn't his brother—Charlie would never play with his head like this—but he had to ask again.
"Charlie, damn it, is that you?" He heard a tremor in his voice, in sync with his quivering heart.
As the cold became more intense, Lyle slid back against the headboard. He wormed his hand between the mattress and box spring and came up with the carving knife he'd placed there earlier. With its handle in a sweaty death grip, he fumbled his free hand toward the bedside lamp, and clicked it on.
Nothing happened. He clicked once, twice, half a dozen times more. Still no light. What was going on? It had worked just fine a few hours ago. Was the power out?
No. The clock display was still—
Then the clock blacked out, just for a second, as if a dark shape had passed in front of it.
Lyle's heart was pounding madly now. He sensed whoever it was coming closer, moving toward him around the side of the bed.
"I've got a knife, damn it!" His hoarse, dry voice cracked in the middle. "Stay back!"
But whoever it was moved relentlessly forward until he hovered over Lyle, leaning closer…
"Fuck you!" Lyle screamed and rammed the knife straight ahead.
Whatever the blade sliced into, it wasn't clothing or flesh; more like powdery snow, and cold—Lyle had never felt such cold. He drew back his hand and tried to drop the knife but his numb fingers wouldn't respond.
And then the lamp came on. Lyle jumped, gasped, and thrust out the knife again—to attack, defend, he didn't know, the blade seemed to move of its own will—but he saw no one.
Gone! But that couldn't be. And the cold—gone too, leaving cloying, humid air in its wake. He looked at the knife and cried out when he saw the thick red fluid oozing down the blade. He hurled it to the floor… and saw what else lay there.
"Charlie!"
Oh God oh Christ it was Charlie on his back, legs and arms splayed, his chest a bloody ruin, and his glazed eyes staring at Lyle in shocked surprise.
Lyle felt as if his bones had dissolved. He slid off the bed and crumpled to his knees beside his dead brother.
"Charlie, Charlie," he mumbled through a sob as he bent over him. "Why'd you do it? Why'd you do something so stupid! You knew—"
"Lyle?"
Charlie's voice. Lyle snapped upright.
"Lyle, what do you want?"
Behind him. He turned and there, across the room, in the doorway on the far side of the bed, stood Charlie. Lyle opened his mouth but couldn't speak. It couldn't be. It…
He turned back to the floor and found it empty except for the knife. No Charlie, no blood on the rug or the blade.
Am I losing it?
"What's going on, man?" Charlie said, yawning. "Why you callin' me this hour?"
Lyle looked at him again. "Charlie, I…" His voice choked off.
"Hey, you all right?" Charlie said, his expression concerned instead of annoyed as he stepped forward. "You look bust, bro."
Finally he could speak. "I just had the worst nightmare of my life. It seemed so real and yet… it couldn't have been."
"What happened? I mean, what it about?"
"Someone here, in the room, coming for me…" He decided not to tell Charlie how the dream had ended.
Charlie nodded. "Well, no mystery where that come from, yo."
Right. No stretch to interpret this dream, but Lyle couldn't shake its remnants… the cold… and the presence.
"But I was so sure someone was here." He pointed at the knife on the floor. "I even tried to cut him."
Charlie's eyes widened as they fixed on the blade. "Sweet Lord, I can see I better start locking my door at night case you start sleepwalking."
He grinned to show he was only kidding. Lyle tried to return the smile, and hoped it didn't look as sick as he felt. If Charlie only knew…
Lyle picked up the knife and turned it over and back, shuddering at the memory of the blood he'd seen coating it. He examined his worn reflection in the surface of the blade, as pristine as when he'd taken it from the cutlery drawer earlier tonight.
Okay, so he hadn't stabbed Charlie. Thank God for that. But against all reason he couldn't shake the feeling that someone else had been here in this room tonight.
Maybe he should go out and find himself a gun.
IN THE IN-BETWEEN
It still does not know who or what or where it is, but memory fragments flash like meteorites through its consciousness, frightening glimpses of sharp objects and gushing red liquid. It must leave here, must get out, OUT!
SATURDAY
1
"I'll be fine, Mom," Vicky said as Gia gave her one last great big hug before releasing her to the camp-bound bus. "You're just having separation anxiety."
Gia had to laugh as she pushed her daughter back to arm's length. "I'm having what?"
"Separation anxiety. I read about it in the camp brochure."
"But you're supposed to have it, not me."
"I am. I'm worried you're going to cry when I leave."
"I won't. I promise."
Another kiss and a long hug—how she loved this little eight-year-old who sometimes acted forty—and then Gia backed up to stand with the other parents.
No tears, she told herself as she watched Vicky step up into the maw of the idling bus. It will only upset her.
She and Vicky had cabbed down to the pick-up spot by the UN Plaza, with Vicky doing most of the talking. A good thing, because Gia wasn't feeling so hot this morning. Her stomach felt queasy. Nerves because Vicky was leaving her, or something else?
Nerves, she'd told herself. Has to be.
Whatever the cause, the bumpy cab ride hadn't helped matters. She'd been very happy to listen to Vicky rattle on about how she couldn't wait to work with clay on the lathe at art camp this year, because she'd been too young last time.
Gia kept her emotions pretty well in hand until Vicky took a seat by a window and waved to her. Gia saw the dark hair she'd braided into a French twist this morning, saw that big smile and those sparkling blue eyes, and almost lost it. But she gamely forced a tremulous smile and blinked to keep the tears at bay.
What kind of a mother am I? She's only eight and I'm sending her off to stay with strangers for a week. I must be crazy!
But Vicky so loved art camp. She'd tried it for a few days last year and this time pleaded to stay for a week. Gia knew she had talent and wanted to give her every opportunity to nurture it.
But a whole week away in the Catskills… that was forever.
The door closed, the engine gunned, and the bus moved off. Gia waved till it was out of sight, then allowed herself the luxury of a few tears and sniffles. She looked around and noticed she wasn't the only one with moist eyes on this sultry summer morning.
She decided to walk back. It wasn't far and the exercise would do her good.
Besides… she had a stop to make along the way.
Half an hour later Gia stood at the antique white porcelain sink in the upstairs bathroom and stared at her third pregnancy test in fifteen minutes.
Negative. Just like the other two.
But she felt pregnant. That was why she'd stopped and picked up three different brands of home test kits, just to be sure.
They all told her the same thing, but that didn't change how she felt.
The phone rang. Thoughts of a bus accident, Vicky hurt, flashed through her mind and she snatched it up.
"Gia!" said a familiar woman's
voice. "It's me, Junie!" She sounded excited, all but burbling.
"Oh, hi. Did you find—?"
"That's why I'm calling! When I got in last night I went straight to the big blue vase by the door and turned it upside down. Want to guess what dropped out?"
"Don't tell me—your bracelet?"
"Yes!" She laughed. "Right where Ifasen said it would be! I couldn't believe it! I hardly go near that vase. I don't know how it got in there but I was so happy I cried. Isn't he just so amazing?"
Gia didn't respond, thinking about what Jack had said last night, how he'd explained Ifasen's billet-reading trick. All fine and good, but how could he explain this? Gia wouldn't buy that it was an educated guess like when Ifasen told her she'd have…
Oh, God! He'd said she'd have two children… and here she was, feeling pregnant.
"Hey, Gia," Junie said. "You still there?"
"What? Oh, yes. Still here. I'm just wondering how this can be possible. How could he have known something like that?"
"He didn't. The spirits did. They told him, and then he passed it on to me. Pretty simple, don'tcha think?"
"Hmmm," Gia said. She felt a crawly sensation in her stomach that had nothing to do with morning sickness. "Right. Simple."
She ended the call as quickly as possible without being rude, then wandered to a front window and stared out. Her eyes fixed on the townhouses across the square from hers without really seeing them.
Maybe that was all this was… the power of suggestion. She'd screwed up her pills, a psychic said she'll have two children, and then her subconscious went to work, making her feel pregnant.
The tests—three of them, no less—said otherwise.
But home kits weren't all that accurate in the very early stages of a pregnancy. The labels did warn about false negatives.
A blood test… that was supposed to be extremely accurate, positive within days of conception.
She found her Daytimer and looked up her gynecologist's number. No way Gia expected Dr. Eagleton to see her on a Saturday, but no reason she couldn't order the test for her, maybe at someplace like Beth Israel, and Gia could run up there, have her blood drawn, and wait for the results.
Yes, she thought, punching in the number. Let's get this settled once and for all.
As much as Gia loved Jack, she did not want to be pregnant.
2
Lyle awoke hot and sweaty. He could hear the air conditioner in the window running like a bandit, yet the room felt like a steam bath. Damn thing was only a month old. Couldn't be going south already.
He opened his eyes and lifted his head. Someone had pulled up the blinds and opened all his bedroom windows.
Lyle rolled out of bed. What was going on here? Had Charlie done this?
He had no intention of cooling the rest of Astoria so he slammed his windows shut and stalked down the hall to the rear bedroom. He barged in and found Charlie sprawled on his sheets, both windows wide open, and his AC going full blast.
"Damn it, Charlie, what are you up to?"
Charlie lifted his head and blinked at him. "Whassup, bro?"
"The windows, for one thing! What's with opening the windows? It's gonna be ninety today."
"Didn't open no windows."
"Yeah? Well then who did? Ice-T?"
He slammed them closed, then stepped back into the hall. He was headed for his room when he felt a warm breeze flowing up the stairwell. He ran downstairs and found all the waiting room windows and the front door wide open.
"Charlie!" he shouted. "Charlie get down here!"
When Charlie stumbled in he gaped at the open windows and door. "Dawg, what you doing?"
"Me? I locked that door last night myself, chain lock and all. I didn't get up and open it. And since there's only two people in this house, that leaves you."
He shut and relocked the door as he was speaking.
"Don't look at me, yo," Charlie said, closing the windows. "I been racked out."
Lyle stared at his brother. Charlie used to be a def joker who could spin out a line like no one else. But ever since he'd been born again, he told the truth—about everything, even if it hurt.
"Then who…? Shit! Someone got in!"
Lyle raced to the channeling room. If they'd wrecked the equipment…
But no, the room looked fine. No obvious damage. A quick survey by Charlie and him revealed it to be just as they'd left it. Except for the windows. During the remodeling he'd painted the panes black and draped them with heavy curtains to block the tiniest ray of light. Now the drapes were pulled back and the windows thrown open, allowing sunlight to flood the room. It changed the look entirely, making all his carefully arranged mystical touches look… tacky.
Relieved that nothing had been damaged, Lyle closed the windows, pulled the drapes, and headed back toward the kitchen.
"We're running late, Charlie. We've got a noon sitting, so—"
Lyle almost tripped when he came back through the waiting room: the windows and the front door were open again.
Charlie stumbled to a stop behind him. "What in the name of the Lord—"
"The Lord's got nothing to do with this, Charlie. They're still here!"
Lyle darted into the kitchen—where the windows and back door all stood open—and grabbed two knives. He handed one to his brother.
"All right. We know he's not down here. So you plant yourself by the stairs to make sure no one sneaks down, while I sweep upstairs."
Lyle's heart was already running in high gear as he took the steps up two at a time; it further picked up its tempo as he moved down the hall, knife held before him. He'd grown up in a tough neighborhood, but he'd stayed away from the crazies, the crackheads, and the bangers. He'd had fights along the way, mostly shoving matches, one that got his face cut when someone pulled a boxcutter, but that was it. So he wasn't exactly practiced in knife fighting. He didn't even know if he could stab somebody, but he was mad enough now to find out.
He checked the hall closet—empty. Moved on to his bedroom. Shit! The windows were open again. How the hell? But the screens weren't pushed out so no one had gone out that way. He checked his closet, then closed the windows.
Same with Charlie's room: open windows, empty closet. Who was opening these things? After closing them he moved to their sitting room—actually a converted bedroom; what had been the living room and dining room downstairs was now the Channeling Room.
All clear here.
Downstairs he rechecked the kitchen and pantry, going so far as to look behind and under the sofa in the waiting room.
"Okay. Both floors clear. That leaves the cellar."
First he and Charlie locked up, front and back, then stood in the center hall before the cellar door.
"If he's still in the house, that's where he'll be."
Charlie shook his head. "The paper towels still there, yo."
Right, Lyle thought. To keep the stink in the cellar. Forgot about that.
"We'll look anyway."
He pressed his hand ever his nose and mouth as he pulled open the door. He started down the stairs and risked a sniff half way down. No stench, just the typical musty basement odor.
"It's okay," he told Charlie, close behind him. "The stink's gone."
Searching the basement was a snap: no closets, no heavy furniture, nobody hiding. The crack was still there, though, big as ever.
Relieved, Lyle let out a long, slow breath. Whoever had been in the house was gone.
But when they got back up to the main floor, Lyle felt a warm, humid breeze. Uneasy, he approached the waiting room.
Someone had opened the windows again.
"How're they doing this, Charlie? Did they rig our house while we were sleeping?"
Charlie was the mechanic half of their partnership. He made the otherworldly illusions happen. He hadn't done well in school—more for lack of interest than lack of ability—but he knew how things worked. He could break down any piece of machinery and put it back tog
ether. If anyone could explain this, it would be Charlie.
"Don't see nathan," Charlie said as he inspected one of the windows. "Even if I did, you know what it take to whip up this sorta rig overnight? Gotta have a whole crew with drills and pry bars and hammers."
"Okay, then maybe they did it some day when we were out for a while."
"Still don't see nothin' gonna open no window. I mean, it gotta be pushed or pulled, and ain't nothing here gonna do that."
"Take the windows apart if you have to. There's got to be some sort of servomechanism in there that's doing it."
He wasn't quite sure what a servomechanism was, but it sounded good.
"Maybe we got ourselfs a demon."
"Not funny, Charlie."
"Ain't kidding, bro. Nothin' in or on this window to make it move."
"Got to be. We both know that the only demons and ghosts in this world are the ones manufactured by the likes of you and me. Someone's trying to gaslight us, Charlie. Scare us off. Only we don't scare, right?"
Before Charlie could answer, Lyle heard the click of the front door latch, the door he'd locked just minutes ago. With his mouth going as dry as leather, he watched it swing open with a soft, high-pitched creak.
Lyle leaped through the opening onto the front porch. No one. Empty. He turned in a quick circle, looking for someone, something, anything to explain this. He stopped when he saw the plants.
"Charlie, come here."
Charlie had been inspecting the front door. He straightened and stepped up beside Lyle. "I can't find no—dear Lord!"
All the foundation plantings—the rhodos, azaleas, and andromedas—were dead. Lyle hadn't noticed anything wrong with them last night, but now they weren't simply wilted, they were brown and dried up as if they'd been dead for a month or more… as if something had sucked the juice of life out of them.
"Someone must've sprayed them with weed killer."
"When this gonna stop, Lyle?"
He heard the fear in his brother's voice and laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder.