This time you really did it to yourself, he thought, you and that gruesome story Sears told. Eyes! It was something out of an old Peter Lorre film. The Eyes of . . . of Gregory Bate? Hell. The Hands of Dr. Orlac. It’s very clear, Ricky told himself, nothing at all is going to happen, we’re just four old coots going out of our minds. To imagine that I thought . . .
But he had not thought the eyes were behind him, he had known it. It had been knowledge.
Nonsense, he almost said aloud, but let himself in his front door a little more quickly than usual.
* * *
His house was dark, as it always was on Chowder Society nights. By running his fingers along the edge of the couch, Ricky skirted the coffee table which on other nights had given him a half dozen bruises; having successfully navigated past that obstacle, he groped around a corner into the dining room and went through into the kitchen. Here he could turn on a light without any possibility of disturbing Stella’s sleep; the next time he could do that was at the top of the house, in the dressing room which along with the horrid sleek Italian coffee table had been his wife’s latest brainstorm. As she had pointed out, their closets were too crowded, there was no place to store their unseasonal clothes, and the small bedroom next to theirs wasn’t likely to be used ever again, now that Robert and Jane were gone; so for a cost of eight hundred dollars, they’d had it converted into a dressing room, with clothes rails and mirrors and a thick new carpet. The dressing room had proved one thing to Ricky: as Stella had always said, he actually did own as many clothes as she did. That had been rather a surprise to Ricky, who was so without vanity that he was unconscious of his own occasional dandyism.
A more immediate surprise was that his hands were shaking. He had been going to make a cup of camomile tea, but when he saw how his hands trembled, he took a bottle out of a cabinet and poured a small amount of whiskey into a glass. Skittish old idiot. But calling himself names did not help, and when he brought the glass to his lips his hand still shook. It was this damned anniversary. The whiskey, when he took it into his mouth, tasted like diesel oil, and he spat it out into the sink. Poor Edward. Ricky rinsed out his glass, turned off the light and went up the stairs in the dark.
In his pajamas, he left the dressing room and crossed the hall to his bedroom. Quietly he opened the door. Stella lay, breathing softly and rhythmically, on her side of the bed. If he could make it around to his side without knocking into the chair or kicking over her boots or brushing against the mirror and making it rattle he could get into bed without disturbing her.
He gained his side of the bed without waking her and quietly slipped under the blankets. Very gently, he stroked his wife’s bare shoulder. It was quite likely that she was having another affair, or at least one of her serious flirtations, and Ricky thought that she had probably taken up again with the professor she’d met a year ago—there was a breathy silence on the phone that was peculiarly his; long ago Ricky had decided that many things were worse than having your wife occasionally go to bed with someone else. She had her life, and he was a large part of it. Despite what he sometimes felt and had said to Sears two weeks before, not being married would have been an impoverishment.
He stretched out, waiting for what he knew would happen. He remembered the sensation of having the eyes boring into his back; he wished that Stella could help, could comfort him in some way; but not wishing to alarm or distress her, thinking that they would end with every new day and thinking also that they were uniquely, privately his, he had never told her of his nightmares. This is Ricky Hawthorne preparing for sleep: lying on his back, his clever face showing no sign of the emotions behind it, his hands behind his head, his eyes open; tired, uneasy, jealous; fearful.
2
In her room at the Archer Hotel, Anna Mostyn stood at a window and watched individual snowflakes drift down toward the street. Though the overhead light was off and it was past twelve, she was fully dressed. The long coat was thrown over the bed, as if she had just come in or was just going out.
She stood at the window and smoked, a tall attractive woman with dark hair and long blue eyes. She could see down nearly the entire length of Main Street, the deserted square to one side with its empty benches and bare trees, the black fronts of shops and the Village Pump restaurant and a department store; two blocks on, a traffic light turned green over an empty street. Main Street continued for eight blocks, but the buildings were visible only as dark shopfronts or office buildings. On the opposite side of the square she could see the dark façades of two churches looming above the tops of the bare trees. In the square a bronze Revolutionary War general made a grandiose gesture with a musket.
Tonight or tomorrow? she wondered, smoking her cigarette and surveying the little town.
Tonight.
3
When sleep finally came to Ricky Hawthorne, it was as if he were not merely dreaming, but had in fact been lifted bodily and still awake into another room in another building. He was lying in bed in a strange room, waiting for something to happen. The room seemed deserted, part of an abandoned house. Its walls and floor were bare planks; the window was only an empty frame, sunlight leaked in through a dozen cracks. Dust particles swirled in these stark rays of light. He did not know how he knew it, but he knew that something was going to happen, and that he was afraid of it. He was unable to leave the bed; but even if his muscles were working, he knew with the same knowledge that he would not be able to escape whatever was coming. The room was on an upper floor of the building: through the window he saw only gray clouds and a pale blue sky. But whatever was coming was going to come from inside, not out there.
His body was covered with an old quilt so faded that some of its squares were white. Beneath it, his legs lay paralyzed, two raised lines of fabric. When Ricky looked up, he realized that he could see every detail of the wooden planks on the wall with a more than usual clarity: he saw how the grain flowed down each board, how the knotholes were formed, the way the nailheads stood out at the tops of certain boards. Breezes filled the room flicking the dust here and there.
From down at the bottom of the house, he heard a crash—it was the noise of a door being thrown open, a heavy cellar door banging against a wall. Even his upstairs room shook with it. As he listened, he heard some complex form dragging itself out of the cellar: it was a heavy form, animal-like, and it had to squeeze through the doorframe. Wood splintered, and Ricky heard the creature thud against a wall. Whatever it was began to investigate the ground floor, moving slowly and heavily. Ricky could picture what it saw—a series of bare rooms exactly like his. On the ground floor, tall grass and weeds would be growing up through the cracks in the floorboards. The sunlight would be touching the sides and back of whatever was moving heavily, purposefully through these deserted rooms. The thing downstairs made a sucking noise, then a high-pitched squeal. It was looking for him. It was snuffling through the house, knowing he was there.
Ricky tried again to force his legs to move, but the two lumps of fabric did not even twitch. The thing downstairs was brushing against walls as it passed through the rooms, making a scratchy noise; the wood creaked. He thought he heard it break through a rotten floorboard.
Then he heard the noise he had been dreading: it shouldered through another doorway. The noises from downstairs were suddenly louder—he could hear the thing breathing. It was at the bottom of the staircase.
He heard it hurl itself at the stairs.
It thumped up what sounded like a half dozen stairs, and then slipped back down. Then it went more slowly, whining with impatience, taking the stairs two or three at a time.
Ricky’s face was wet with perspiration. What most frightened him was that he couldn’t be sure if he were dreaming or not: if he could be certain that this was only a dream, then he had only to suffer through it, to wait until whatever it was down there got up to the top of the stairs and burst into the room—the scare would wake him u
p. But it did not feel at all like a dream. His senses were alert, his mind was clear, the entire experience lacked the rather disembodied, disconnected atmosphere of a dream. In no dream had he ever sweated. And if he was wide awake, then the thing banging and thundering on the stairs was going to get him, because he couldn’t move.
The noises changed, and then Ricky realized that he was indeed on the third floor of the abandoned building, because the thing looking for him was on the second. Its noises were much louder: the whining, the slithery sound as its body rubbed through doors and against walls. It was moving faster, as if it smelled him.
The dust still circled in the random beams of sun; the few clouds still drifted through a sky that looked like early spring. The floor rattled as the creature thrust impatiently back onto the landing.
Now he could hear its breathing very clearly. It threw itself at the last staircase, making a noise like a wrecking ball hitting the side of a building. Ricky’s stomach seemed packed with ice; he was afraid he would vomit—vomit ice cubes. His throat tightened. He would have screamed, but he thought, even while knowing it was not true, that if he did not make any noise maybe the thing would not find him. It squealed and whined, banging its way up the staircase. A stair rod snapped.
When it reached the landing outside his bedroom door, he knew what it was. A spider: it was a giant spider. It thudded against the door of his room. He heard it begin to whine again. If spiders could whine, that was how they would do it. A multitude of legs scrabbled at the door as the whining grew louder. Ricky felt pure terror, a white elemental fear worse than he’d ever experienced.
But the door did not splinter. It quietly opened. A tall black form stood just beyond the doorframe. It was no spider, whatever it was, and Ricky’s terror decreased by an unconscious fraction. The black thing in the doorway did not move for a moment, but stood as if looking at him. Ricky tried to swallow; he managed to use his arms to push himself upright. The rough planks rubbed against his back and he thought again: this isn’t a dream.
The black form came through the door.
Ricky saw that it was not an animal at all, but a man. Then another plane of blackness separated off, then another, and he saw that it was three men. Beneath the cowls draped over their lifeless faces, he saw the familiar features. Sears James and John Jaffrey and Lewis Benedikt stood before him, and he knew that they were dead.
He woke up screaming. His eyes opened to the normal sights of morning on Melrose Avenue, the cream colored bedroom with the graphics Stella had bought on their last trip to London, the window looking out on the big back yard, a shirt draped over a chair. Stella’s firm hand gripped his shoulder. The room seemed mysteriously absent of light. On a strong impulse he could not name, Ricky jumped out of bed—came as close to jumping out of bed as his seventy-year-old knees would permit—and went across to the window. Stella, behind him, said, “What?” He didn’t know what he was looking for, but what he saw was unexpected: the entire back yard, all the roofs of the neighboring houses, were dusted with snow. The sky too was oddly without light. He didn’t know what he was going to say, but when he opened his mouth he uttered: “It snowed all night, Stella. John Jaffrey should never have had that dadblasted party.”
4
Stella sat up in bed and talked to him as if he had said something reasonable. “Wasn’t John’s party over a year ago, Ricky? I don’t see what that has to do with last night’s snow.”
He rubbed his eyes and his dry cheekbones; he smoothed down his mustache. “It was a year ago last night.” Then he heard what he had been saying. “No, of course not. There’s no connection, I mean.”
“Come back to bed and tell me what’s wrong, baby.”
“Oh, I’m okay,” he said, but returned to the bed. When he was lifting the blankets to get back in, Stella said, “You’re not okay, baby. You must have had a terrible dream. Do you want to tell me about it?”
“It doesn’t make much sense.”
“Tell me anyhow.” She began to caress his back and shoulders, and he twisted to look down at her head on the dark blue pillow. As Sears had said, Stella was a beauty: she had been a beauty when he met her, and apparently she would be a beauty when she died. It was not a plump chocolate-box prettiness, but a matter of strong cheekbones, straight facial planes and definite black eyebrows. Stella’s hair had gone an uncompromising gray when she was in her early thirties, and she had refused to dye it, seeing long before anyone else what a sexual asset an abundant head of gray hair would be when combined with a youthful face: now she still had the abundant gray hair, and her face was not much less youthful. It would be more truthful to say that her face had never been precisely youthful, nor would it ever truly be old: in fact with every year, up nearly to fifty, she had come more completely into her beauty, and then had pitched camp there. She was ten years younger than Ricky, but on good days she still looked only a blink over forty.
“Tell me, Ricky,” she said. “What the hell is going on?”
So he began to tell her his dream, and he saw concern, horror, love and fear cross her elegant face. She continued to rub his back, and then moved her hand to his chest. “Baby,” she said when he was through, “do you really have dreams like that every night?”
“No,” he said, looking at her face and seeing beneath the superficial emotions of the moment the self-absorption and amusement which were always present in Stella and which were always joined, “that was the worst one.” Then, smiling a little because he saw where she was going with all this rubbing, he said, “That was the champ.”
“You’ve been very tense lately.” She lifted his hand and touched it to her lips.
“I know.”
“Do all of you have these bad dreams?”
“All who?”
“The Chowder Society.” She placed his hand on her cheek.
“I think so.”
“Well,” she said, and sat up and, crossing her arms elbows-out before her, began to work her nightdress over her head, “don’t you old fools think you ought to do something about it?” The nightdress went off, and she tossed her head to flip her hair back into place. Their two children had left her breasts sagging and her nipples large and brown, but Stella’s body had aged only a little more than her face.
“We don’t know what to do,” he confessed.
“Well, I know what to do,” she said and went back down on the bed and opened her arms. If Ricky had ever wished that he had remained a bachelor like Sears, he did not wish it this morning.
“You old sexpot,” Stella said when they were done, “you would have given this up a long time ago if it hadn’t been for me. What a loss that would have been. If it weren’t for me you’d be too dignified to ever take your clothes off.”
“That’s not true.”
“Oh? What would you do, then? Chase after little girls like Lewis Benedikt?”
“Lewis doesn’t chase after little girls.”
“Girls in their twenties, then.”
“No. I wouldn’t.”
“There. I’m right. You wouldn’t have any sex life at all, like your precious partner Sears.” She folded back the sheets and blankets on her side of the bed, and got out. “I’ll shower first,” she said. Stella demanded a long time by herself in the bathroom every morning. She put on her long white-gray robe and looked as if she were about to tell someone to sack Troy. “But I’ll tell you what you should do. You should call Sears right now and tell him about that awful dream. You won’t get anywhere if you won’t at least talk about it. If I know you and Sears, you two can go for weeks at a time without saying anything personal to each other. That’s dreadful. What in the world do you talk about, anyhow?”
“Talk about?” Ricky asked, a little taken aback. “We talk about law.”
“Oh, law,” Stella said, and marched off toward the bathroom.
When she returned nearly
thirty minutes later he was sitting up in bed looking confused. The pouches beneath his eyes were larger than usual. “The paper isn’t here yet,” he said. “I went downstairs and looked.”
“Of course it isn’t here,” Stella said, dropping a towel and a box of tissues on the bed, and turned away again to go into the dressing room. “What time do you think it is?”
“What time? Why, what time is it? My watch is on the table.”
“It’s just past seven.”
“Seven?” They normally did not get up until eight, and Ricky usually dawdled around the house until nine-thirty before leaving for the office on Wheat Row. Though neither he nor Sears admitted it, there was no longer much work for them; old clients dropped in from time to time, there were a few complicated lawsuits which looked to drag on through the next decade, there was always a will or two or a tax problem to clarify, but they could have stayed home two days of every week without anybody noticing. Alone in his part of the office suite, Ricky lately had been rereading Donald Wanderley’s second book, trying unsuccessfully to persuade himself that he wanted its author in Milburn. “What are we doing up?”
“You woke us up with your screaming, if I have to remind you,” Stella called from the dressing room. “You were having problems with a monster that was trying to eat you, remember?”
“Um,” Ricky said. “I thought it looked dark outside.”