Silence.
The children!
She moved down the hall, pausing at Ryan’s door to listen, then opening it to peer into the darkness within. Enough light leaked through the window to let her see her son. Chloe, her tail up and one paw lifted, was standing on the bed like a hunting dog on point. Then, as if satisfied that Caroline posed no threat, the little dog eased back down onto the blanket covering Ryan. Caroline was about to pull the door closed again and move on to Laurie’s room when suddenly Ryan spoke.
“Mom?”
“Honey? Are you all right?”
A second or two of silence, then: “I heard them again, Mom. The ghosts—the voices in the walls. I heard them whispering.” His voice, small and frightened in the darkness, drew her to him, and she perched on the edge of his bed as he clung to her. “I’m scared, Mom,” he whispered.
“I know,” Caroline replied, stroking his head. “But it’s going to be all right—I’m not going to let anything happen to you, and tomorrow we’ll go away.”
Ryan tilted his head up, searching her face in the faint glow from the window. “Promise?” he asked.
“Promise,” Caroline echoed. Then, though her own fear was still raging, she steadied her voice. “Just go back to sleep, and try not to be afraid. I’m here, and you don’t have to worry.” She tucked Ryan in, kissed him, gave Chloe a pat, then went back out to the corridor.
Laurie’s closed door loomed before her. She’s all right, she said to herself. She’s sound asleep, and nothing is wrong. But the nearer she drew to Laurie’s door, the emptier the words sounded, and when at last she stood in front of her daughter’s door, she began to feel something from the room beyond.
A terrible emptiness, that reached deep inside her, squeezing her soul.
No, she thought, unconsciously speaking aloud. Her fingers gripped the cold crystal of the doorknob, and then she twisted it.
Locked!
“Laurie?” she whispered. Then again, a little louder. “Laurie, are you all right?”
Silence!
She started to scream her daughter’s name, but then caught herself, certain that it would only bring Ryan running from his room, even more terrified than he already was.
Keys! The ring in her bag—the ring she’d brought from the store that morning. Surely one of them would open Laurie’s door. Turning away from Laurie’s door she raced down the hall to the top of the stairs, groped on the wall for a moment, then found the switch that would light the six sconces that illuminated the staircase. And there was her bag, right by the hall table, where she’d left it. Taking the stairs so fast she almost tripped, she plunged her hand into the depths of the bag, found the keys, and wheeled back to the stairs.
Then she was back at Laurie’s door, fumbling with the ring, searching for a key that would fit. Just as she thought she would scream with frustration, the lock clicked. With one motion Caroline twisted the knob, pushed the door open, and switched on the light.
Empty!
She stood paralyzed, staring at her daughter’s bed, its sheets and comforter rumpled and thrown back as if its occupant had become too warm in the night and thrown the covers aside. But the room was cool.
And if Laurie had left, why had she locked the door?
Her eyes shifted to the closet, whose door stood open, then to the window, opened part way.
Could Laurie have slipped out through the window?
Instinctively she ran to the window, but when she looked out, she realized it was impossible: beyond Laurie’s window was nothing more than a narrow ledge that even Ryan wouldn’t have tried to balance himself on. She moved on to the closet; Laurie’s suitcase was still on the shelf, her clothes still hung on their hangers.
The drawers of her dresser were still full.
Abandoning the room, Caroline raced through the upstairs of the apartment, checking every bedroom and bathroom, but found no sign of her daughter.
Or her husband.
The terror that had been growing inside her since she’d awakened a few minutes ago was starting to coalesce into panic, but Caroline fought it off, running once more to the stairs. In less than half a minute she’d searched the downstairs rooms as well, all except for one.
Tony’s study, whose door stood locked before her.
This time, she remembered which key was the one that fit, inserted it into the lock, and twisted. The lock snapped open, and once again Caroline stepped into the forbidden room. She switched on the lights, and gazed around. Everything appeared exactly as she’d left it.
No sign of her daughter.
Nor of Tony Fleming.
Then, as she stood in the doorway staring into the empty room, she heard something.
A sound, so faint and muffled she wasn’t certain she’d heard it at all. Yet it was enough to draw her further into the room.
She was close to the desk when she heard it again, and this time she could identify where it was coming from: behind a door in the corner of the wall containing the fireplace. She moved closer to the door, and listened again.
Voices. Voices murmuring words she couldn’t quite make out.
She tried the door. Locked.
Locked, like Laurie’s door, and the study door. But this lock succumbed to the same key that fit the study itself. The lock snapped open, and before the courage her fear had lent her could drain away, she pulled the door open.
A closet! Nothing more than a closet lined with cedar, its aroma flooding into her nostrils. She felt a sneeze start to build, but when she suddenly heard the voices again—even louder now—she cut it off, pressing her finger so hard against her upper lip that it hurt. The sounds came again, emanating from the back of the closet, and she pressed her ear against the cedar panels, straining to translate the inchoate sounds into words. Then, as her fingers moved over the paneling, she felt something: a small recess under the fingers of her left hand, just large enough for a single fingertip to get a tenuous hold. Unconsciously holding her breath, she pulled.
Did the panel move a fraction of an inch, or did she imagine it?
She tried again, this time pressing against the panel with her free hand to give herself more force. She felt it give slightly, then slide to the right, disappearing into a hidden pocket.
For a moment she stood frozen where she was, unable to believe the sight before her.
A dimly-lit room—not large, but big enough to hold an oblong table. Around the table were nearly a dozen people, all of whom had suddenly fallen silent, and were staring at her.
She recognized them—every one of them. Max and Alicia Albion were there, along with Irene Delamond and her sister Lavinia. On the other side of the table were Tildie Parnova, George Burton, and Helena Kensington. Yet even as she recognized them, she realized that something about them looked different.
Something had changed.
Then she realized what it was: the oldest of the women looked younger than they were. Their eyes were less sunken in their sockets, the liver spots were gone from their skin.
Their hair looked thicker, and had taken on a sheen that hadn’t been there before.
Her gaze shifted again, and she saw her husband standing at the foot of the table. His eyes were fixed on her, flashing with anger, and a vein was throbbing in his neck. Then he stepped to the side, revealing the figure on the table.
Her daughter, stripped of her nightgown, her body small and pale.
There were tubes everywhere: in Laurie’s nose, her mouth, her ears.
Where there weren’t tubes there were needles with tubes attached to them.
And pumps—pumps for every tube. At the other end of every tube was one of the women who were her neighbors.
The women who had welcomed her and her children into their building and their lives.
Who had brought food, and fussed over Laurie and Ryan as if they were their own grandchildren.
And suddenly, as she stared at Melanie Shackleforth, she knew the truth. It wasn’t Melanie
at all. It was Virginia Estherbrook, looking exactly as she had when she’d made her debut as Juliet almost half a century ago, and when she’d played the same role as Faith Blaine forty years before that.
Then Tony, with Dr. Humphries on one side of him and Max Albion on the other, was coming toward her. A tiny part of her wanted to turn and flee from the nightmare, to run back through the closet and the study and the hall, to bolt out of the apartment and escape into the street.
But a far stronger instinct surged to the defense of her child, and with a scream of anguish and rage she howled out her daughter’s name, then hurled herself at the man she’d married, her fingernails slashing as she tore at his face.
The skin gave way, but instead of blood, all she saw beneath the slashes in his skin was rotting, suppurating flesh, and oozing yellowish pus. The reeking stench of death itself poured from the lacerations in Tony’s face, and Caroline reflexively staggered backward. If Tony felt any pain at all from the deep gouges her fingernails had left in his face, he gave no sign. Instead, with Ted Humphries and Max Albion still beside him, he took a step toward her, his eyes fixed on her. But as Caroline gazed into his eyes, it wasn’t anger she saw, or sorrow, or anything else.
All she saw was a terrible emptiness, and in that single moment when her eyes met his, she saw the truth.
Anthony Fleming—the man she’d married—wasn’t real.
Everything she’d seen—everything he’d shown her—was a lie.
His looks—the thick hair, the chiseled features, the perfect skin—none of it was any more than a façade. And she should have known. That night she’d found him gone from their bed—the night Laurie had her first period—she’d seen something odd when they were finally both back in bed. He’d looked sallow that night, vaguely unhealthy.
But it wasn’t just his looks—it was everything else as well. The love, the affection, the concern for her and her children: none of it had ever been real. Suddenly everything she’d seen in his desk fell into place: all Anthony Fleming, all any of them, had ever wanted was her children.
“What are you doing?” she breathed, though she was almost certain she already knew the answer.
“Don’t you see?” Tony replied. “We need them. The children are what keep us alive.”
The rest of it crashed in on her: the food, the special treats for the children. Nothing more than feeding lambs before the slaughter.
Involuntarily her eyes shifted to Helena Kensington, and as she gazed at the eyes of the woman who had been blind only a few short days ago, she finally recognized them.
Rebecca Mayhew’s eyes!
Anthony Fleming was reaching for her now, his fingers closing on her flesh, and she felt her gorge rise as a scream finally erupted from her throat.
She’d slept with him—made love with him! But he wasn’t real.
He wasn’t alive at all.
None of them were. All of them, her husband and everyone else in the building, were nothing more than corpses.
Corpses, wandering the city, searching for the children they needed to keep their bodies functioning.
Her scream turned into a howl of anguish, but even as it was still building she felt the needle Dr. Humphries plunged deep into her arm, and as his fingers pressed the plunger home the scream died away on her lips, her legs began to give way beneath her, and the blackness of unconsciousness gave her respite—at least for a little while—from the terrible truth she had just discovered.
CHAPTER 33
Ryan had tried to do what his mother asked—he really had. But the minute she’d left his room he’d started thinking about what might be happening.
What she might be doing.
What she might be finding.
So he hadn’t stayed in bed. Instead he’d gotten up and put on his favorite bathrobe, the one his father had given him—his real father. It was too small; in fact, his arms stuck way out of the sleeves and it felt tight across the shoulders, but he didn’t care. No matter how badly it fit, it was still better than the one Tony had given him before they went to Mustique. After he’d put on the bathrobe he’d gone to his bedroom door and listened, but he couldn’t hear anything. Finally he’d opened the door a crack and peeked out into the hall, and when he was sure there was no one there, he’d told Chloe to stay where she was, and went out to the head of the stairs to peer down to the first floor.
There was light showing under the door to the study—light that drew him like a magnet. But when he got to the door, he hesitated, uncertain what to do next.
Should he knock on the door, and call to his mom? But he was supposed to be in bed, and if she caught him up, she’d be mad at him. And if Tony caught him—
He pressed his ear to the door and listened.
Quiet.
A quiet so deep it made him even more frightened than he already was.
Screwing up his courage, he put his hand on the doorknob. Slowly and carefully, terrified that any noise might give him away, he turned it. After what seemed like forever but couldn’t have been more than a few seconds, the latch clicked with a sound so loud that Ryan almost bolted back up the stairs. But when nothing happened he pushed the door open just enough to peep inside.
Empty.
He opened the door a little wider, and slipped into the study. His mother was nowhere to be seen. But then he heard something—the same kind of sounds he’d heard through the wall of his room. But now they were louder. He peered around the study once more and this time saw the open closet door.
Was that where the sounds were coming from?
He started toward the door, but paused when the sounds abruptly stopped. Then, as he was trying to decide what to do, the silence was abruptly broken by a scream.
It was an unearthly scream that slashed deep into Ryan’s mind. Spurred by the howl, he wheeled around, darted through the study door, then raced back up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Coming to the upper landing, he ran to his room, shoved the door closed behind him, and threw himself back onto the bed, clutching Chloe so hard she squealed and tried to wriggle out of his grip. For a long time he sat huddled with the dog, his heart pounding, his breath coming in terrified gasps. The scream echoed in his mind, and no matter how hard he tried to silence it, the horrible sound kept coming back. And somewhere deep inside him, he knew what the source of that scream had been.
His mother.
It had been his mother’s voice he’d heard howling out in a fear and horror far worse even than the terror he was feeling now. But what could she have seen? What could have been in the closet that could have caused her to utter the scream that had burned into his mind?
But even more frightening for Ryan to think about than the scream itself was the force that had cut it off so suddenly that it was almost like he’d imagined the whole thing.
Almost, but not quite.
Now Ryan listened to the silence. A quiet had fallen over the apartment that was almost worse than the scream itself, and far worse than the silence that had followed that terrible moment when his mother had told him to stay where he was, then left him alone.
And even more terrible than the silence was the awful feeling he had deep inside him that his mother was gone. His eyes stung with tears, and he tried to fight them back, but in the end he felt them overflow his eyes and run down his cheeks. “Mom? Please don’t go away. Please don’t leave me.” The whispered words were broken as a wracking sob seized him. As a second sob rose in his throat and Chloe began licking the tears from his cheeks, he heard a new voice, this one rising out of the depths of his memory.
“Crying won’t help, son. You just have to pretend it doesn’t hurt, get up, and keep on playing the game.”
He could still remember the day his father had been watching him playing baseball and had spoken those words. Ryan had tripped on the run from third to home plate, sliding face down onto the hard earth of the park’s ball field, scraping his cheek and bloodying his nose. It had hurt so bad he thought h
e couldn’t stand it, but then his father had been there, picking him up and setting him back on his feet, wiping the blood away with a handkerchief, and speaking so softly nobody but Ryan could hear him. He’d listened that day, and stopped crying, and ignored the pain in his nose and the stinging of his scraped cheek, and gone back to the game.
And made three runs, too.
So now he listened to his father again, stopped crying, and swung his legs off the bed.
He could hear voices again, but they were different from the ones that came from inside the wall. He went to the door, opened it slightly, and listened.
The voices were louder.
The only one he recognized was Tony’s, and when he couldn’t quite make out the words, he tiptoed down the corridor to the top of the stairs.
“Don’t worry,” he heard Tony saying. “It’ll be all right. Everything will be all right.” Then there was another voice—a woman’s voice—but he couldn’t make out what she was saying. Then Tony’s voice again, louder and sounding like he was getting mad: “Haven’t I always made it all right? Just go home and don’t worry, and let me handle it.”
He heard the sound of the front door closing, then saw Tony’s shadow fall on the foot of the staircase. Whirling around, he scampered back to his room, silently shutting the door, then dashing back to bed, almost forgetting to strip off his bathrobe before getting back under the covers. When the soft rap on the door came, he turned on his side so his back was to the window and none of the light from the street would fall on his face.
He tried to breathe slowly and evenly, the way people did when they were asleep.
He heard a faint click as the door opened, then saw a slight brightening through his closed eyes as the light from the hall spilled into the room.
He felt Chloe stiffen beside him, and heard a low growl rumble in her throat.
He felt more than heard Tony coming over toward the bed.
“Ryan?”
Tony’s voice was soft, which told Ryan that his stepfather wasn’t sure if he was asleep or not. Which meant Tony had neither seen him at the top of the stairs nor heard him running back to his room.