F Paul Wilson - Novel 05 (51 page)

 
          
"Come
closer," he says, gesturing to the straight-back wooden chair before his
desk. "Have a seat and we'll play a variation on our little game. You
remember our game, don't you?"

 
          
Trembling,
eyes fixed on the spinning dial of that clock, you approach the desk. And as
you do, you shrink ... or he becomes larger. No, it's you. You're a little girl
again. Four or five years old, and Daddy's going to play the math-quiz game.
You climb up on the seat and glance briefly at him before returning your
attention to the shrinking total on the wall.

 
          
"Pay
no attention to the clock, Julie dear. It will only distract you. Listen well.
Here's how our little game works: When I ask a question, the clock stops. If I
give the right answer first, it starts again and continues until I ask the
next question. If
you
give the right answer first, it stays stopped
until I get one right again. Fair enough?"

 
          
You
have to ask: "What happens when it reaches zero?"

 
          
Nathan
smiles. "You lose."

 
          
"I
lose what?"

 
          
"Your
mind."

 
          
An
icy hand grips your heart. You know this is no joke. You've seen what happened
to Sam.

 
          
Another
glance at the clock. You've lost forty-two seconds already.

 
          
"Can
we start? Now?"

 
          
"Of
course. First question: Compute five thousand seven hundred and twenty-one
multiplied by twenty-one."

 
          
The
clock freezes and so does your mind.

 
          
You
always scored well in the game as a child, but that was simple addition or
subtraction. And who does math in their head anymore? Nowadays you'd probably
use a damn calculator to count your toes.

 
          
Suddenly
Nathan is tapping keys somewhere on his desk-top. A buzzer sounds. The countdown
resumes.

           
"The answer," he says,
"is one hundred twenty thousand, one hundred and forty-one."

 
          
The
number flashes in red across the front of the desk:
 
120,141 .
. .
120,141 .
.
.
120,141_____

 
          
"Let's
try another, shall we?" he says. "How about, oh, I don't know: Why
don't you compute two thousand one hundred ninety-eight times fourteen?"

 
          
God,
you can't think. If you could only see the numbers you might have a chance, but
—

 
          
"Got
it!" Nathan cries and starts tapping his desktop again.

 
          
The
buzzer sounds and the numbers on the clock resume their relentless downward
spiral as
30,772
flashes across the desk front.

 
          
"Julie,
dear," he says in a solicitous tone that sets your teeth on edge. "You've
got to do better than this if you don't want to end up a drooling husk. Let's
try a different type of calculation. Compute one million, eleven thousand,
seven, hundred and fifty-two divided by fourteen."

 
          
The
clock stops again and you try to picture the number in your mind: Fourteen into
one-oh-one is seven... into thirty-one is two ... into thirty-seven is another
two ... you hear Nathan's keyboard
—
No!
. ..
Into
ninety-five is
—

 
          
The
buzzer again
—
that damn buzzer
—
and suddenly
72,268
is flashing across the desk
front.

 
          
And
oh, God, you've got only twenty-one seconds left. A cold, sick sweat is pouring
out of you. This sham of a contest is fixed. He knows the answers before he
asks the questions. It was always fixed. Never had a chance.

 
          
How
can you hope to compete with him? You can't win!

 
          
And
that's the whole point.

 
          
"Time
for just one more," Nathan says. "Let's see
—
"

 
          
Fixed.
. . even as a kid, you didn't know the real game, what was really being done,
as a little girl sitting there, playing the stupid
—

 
          
But
wait. You're not a little girl anymore. . . .

 
          
Nineteen
seconds. Eighteen seconds.

 
          
And
he's not even your real father. . ..

 
          
"Wait!"
you say. "Stop! This isn't your house
—
this
is
my
house,
my
turf. I'm not your little girl, and I don't have
to play your goddamn game."

 
          
"Time
is fleeting, Julie. You know the rules."

 
          
"Fuck
your rules! They don't apply here. In my place you play by
my
rules, and
I don't want to play."

 
          
You
rise from the chair and as you do you grow in size, returning to your adult
height. Your knees feel spongy, barely able to support you. You look down at
him. And you realize that for the first time he looks scared.

 
          
His
mouth moves as though he's trying to ask that last question, but nothing comes
out. With a surge of triumph you realize that you were right. He's not in
control here
—
you
are.

 
          
At
that instant the desk bursts into flame and the heat flash drives you back.
When your vision clears you see that Nathan's jacket is ablaze. The fire
spreads quickly until he's engulfed in flame. You want to turn away but you
can't. You watch in horrid fascination as his flesh bubbles, smokes, and
hisses, his limbs begin to twist and contract.

 
          
A
voice screams from within the flames.

 
          
"Damn
you, Julie! Now you've done it! You wanted to see? You've got your wish! I hope
you enjoy it. And damn you, Julie! Damn you ... to hell!"

 
          
Seconds
later the fire burns itself out and you're faced with a blackened, twisted
corpse, an exact three-dimensional replica of the photo you found in the
coroner's report.

 
          
You
feel your gorge rise, but there's no time to be sick. The fire has spread to
the stone wall behind him
—
and the stone is burning.

 
          
No.
Not stone. Canvas. A trompe l'oeil mural that blazes furiously for a few
seconds, then sputters out, leaving a pall of smoke . . . and an open passage.

 
          
You
stand on the threshold of that passage, aching to flee but knowing it's too
late. You've freed the beast and now you must face it
—
here or in the real world
—
but
you
must
face it. Now. The memory is uncaged and you have no choice.

 
          
A
breeze brushes against your back, billowing the smoke ahead of you. It rises
swiftly to a gale, then a howling tempest, propelling you forward, into the
smoke, into . . .

 
          
...
the front foyer of the
Millburn
house.

 
          
Your
mother is standing in the center, holding you and Sam by the hand. Your uncle
Eathan is hurrying up the stairs. Instantly you recognize the scene. Yes, you
were here only this morning. Eathan and Nathan have just had their fight, and
Mommy's said she's leaving and taking you girls away where Nathan can never get
near you again.

 
          
Suddenly
you're no longer watching the scene
—
you're
part of it. You're little Julie again, just as before.

 
          
As
Uncle Eathan runs up the stairs, little Julie looks up at her mother.
"M-Mommy, are we going on a trip?"

 
          
"Yes.
A long one."

 
          
"And
Daddy's not coming," Sammi says, not sounding too upset about it. "He
and Uncle Eathan don't like each other anymore. I seen them ... I seen them
fighting."

 
          
"Why?"
Julie asks.

 
          
Before
Sammi can answer, Uncle Eathan reappears, struggling with a huge suitcase on
the stairs.

 
          
"What's
in this? Everything you own?"

 
          
"Just
about."

 
          
As
Uncle Eathan lugs the suitcase toward the door, everyone freezes at the sound
of Daddy's voice.

 
          
"Stop!"
he shouts, running from the rear of the foyer. He has a wild look in his eyes.
"Don't take another step!"

 
          
Uncle
Eathan glances over his shoulder, but doesn't break step or even bother to
reply. As he reaches out to push the screen door open, Daddy lurches by Julie
and her mother and sister.

 
          
"No,
damn it!"

 
          
Julie
notices something in his hand. Something with a needle on the end, like one of
the shots the doctor gave her at her last checkup.

 
          
Daddy
leaps on Uncle Eathan and
jabs
the needle into the back of his shoulder.
Uncle Eathan cries out and drops the bag. The two of them begin to struggle,
shouting incoherently, growling like animals.

 
          
"Stop
it!" Mommy cries. "My God, Nathan! Please! This won't change
anything!"

 
          
Julie
is terrified___ Daddy is acting like a crazy man. Uncle Eathan seems to be
weakening, gasping for air. Julie screams as Mommy peels her and Sammi off her
legs and rushes forward.

 
          
"Leave
him alone!" she cries, trying to pull Daddy off Uncle Eathan.

 
          
But
Daddy rears up and grabs her and shakes her like a toy. His bared teeth and
blazing eyes make him look more beast than human as he hurls Mommy across the
foyer with terrible force. She caroms off the wall and tumbles against the
stairs.

 
          
The
back of her head strikes the edge of one of the wooden steps with a loud
thwack,
and she goes limp.

 
          
Julie
and Sammi scream, "Mommy!" as one and rush to her side. Instinctively
Julie cries out to the other most important person in her life.

 
          
"Daddy!
Please, Daddy, help her!"

 
          
But
even as the words pass her lips she knows that Daddy is not going to help
Mommy. Daddy the protector stands panting over his brother, who is now as limp
as Mommy.

 
          
Suddenly
Julie is close to panic. The foundations of her home, her family, her life, are
crumbling. She looks to her sister for help, but Sammi is sobbing
uncontrollably with her face buried between Mommy's breasts. She has never felt
so afraid, so helpless, so alone....

 
          
And
Daddy is coming toward her with murder in his eyes.

 
          
She
screams in terror as he grabs her arm and yanks her away from Mommy. He does
the same with Sammi and pushes the two of them into the dark living room.