Night Things: A Novel of Supernatural Terror (26 page)

Fugate seemed to sense the sudden leap of intensity her fury had taken.

He shook his head with self-righteous indignation. “None of this is my idea. I didn’t want to come up here and do any of this.”

The announcement took her completely off-guard. “Whose idea was it?”

“The Master’s.”

She turned the words over desperately in her mind, trying to wring some sense out of them: “Who’s the Master?”

Puffing with self-importance, Fugate told them everything, about how the Master had first appeared in the form of headaches, and then as a voice at the back of his thoughts, and then finally as an external presence whose purpose it was to change him, to guide and nurture him toward his true destiny of pursuing ultimate evil.

But as chilling as his revelation was, it only steeled Lauren.

When Fugate finished his tale, no one said anything for several seconds, and then suddenly in the distance the house emitted another one of its long, unpropitious creaks.

“What was that?” Fugate asked.

“Just the house settling,” she replied, but suddenly she remembered the doorway. She had been so preoccupied by the immediacy of Fugate’s threat that she had forgotten about it. But now as her memory came flooding back to her she wondered what she should do about the information. Should she tell him about it, tell him the danger they were all in? Or would it only incite him further?

“Hey, how’s the food coining?” Fugate interjected.

“Fine,” she said, pouring some of the potato flakes into a measuring cup.

And then she looked into the boiling water and saw their salvation.

She looked back at Fugate. He was sitting only inches away from Garrett, and from the way he was holding the straight razor she knew that he could slice Garrett to ribbons within a fraction of a second. But if she aimed carefully, waited until his head was turned, and hit him full in the face while he was looking away from Garrett, she felt she might be able to knock him out of commission. It was a long shot. But it was their only hope.

Not wanting to arouse suspicion, she continued cooking. She cracked open an egg and emptied it into a flat-bottomed bowl and then sprinkled in some nutmeg.

And then she got a brainstorm.

“The secret of good instant mashed potatoes is to mix the potato flakes in rapidly,” she said loudly. And then, on seeing that she had Fugate’s attention, she lifted the cup of potato flakes up and started to pour them while she vigorously stirred the water. Only instead of pouring them into the pan, she poured them behind the pan and at an angle she hoped would keep Fugate from seeing where they were really going.

As she did so a few of the flakes spilled into the burner and crackled. She looked quickly at Fugate, hoping he did not detect her deception.

But from the way he was licking his lips she realized he had not.

“There,” she said, stirring the water slower and slower so as to complete the illusion that there were actually potatoes thickening in the pan. “Now... see if these are thick enough.”

She lifted the pan off the stove and started across the kitchen, and when she had approached within a few feet of the table she swiftly tilted it back and flung the boiling water in Fugate’s direction.

Only at the last second, Fugate realized what she was doing and dove away from the table. Although the water caught his arm and the back of his head it did not truly incapacitate him.

“Run!” she shouted at Garrett as Fugate screamed in agony.

Dashing away from the table, Garrett ran out of the kitchen, and Lauren followed after him. But as they tore through the hallway she heard Fugate bellow with rage behind them.

He was following.

Like animals trying to escape from a tiger, they thrashed through the ruby-red dining room, through another intervening hallway, and toward the front of the house. But by the time they had reached the entrance hall, Fugate was right behind them, swinging the razor in wild, crazy arcs and frothing at the mouth like a rabid beast.

Screaming, Lauren tried to propel Garrett even faster to the door, but in her haste she caused him to stumble, and both of them crashed loudly to the floor. Before they could get up again, Fugate was on top of them.

Grabbing Garrett by the hair, he pulled him back and held the razor high up over him. But then, just as he was about to deliver the final blow, someone knocked on the front door.

Fugate looked at the door with alarm.

“Please—” Lauren started to cry, but before she could finish her request for help, Fugate had silenced her by threateningly holding the razor a little higher.

“Answer it,” he whispered, yanking Garrett to his feet and dragging him around to the back of the door. “Tell whoever it is to go away.”

Composing herself as best she could, she got up and slowly opened the door. To her surprise, standing on the other side was Harry Gordon.

As soon as he saw her, he blushed uneasily. “Listen, I’m really sorry for bothering you again and I know this probably sounds really stupid, but while we were talking I got this funny feeling something might be the matter here.” He looked at her penetratingly. “Please, I swear this isn’t a line, but I got so worried I had to come back and make sure you and your son were all right.”

“Of course we’re all right,” she returned quickly, too quickly, and then to try to cover for her blunder she forced a smile. “But it was awfully nice of you to pedal all the way back here just to check.”

Gordon noticed her agitation and became troubled. “Are you sure nothing’s the matter?”

“Yes, of course I’m sure,” she said in the most nonchalant voice she could summon. Inside she was screaming, dying to think of some way to communicate to him how desperately they needed help, but out of the corner of her eye she could see Fugate holding the straight razor against the bare skin of Garrett’s throat, and she did not dare breathe a word.

Gordon looked unconvinced. “Well, listen, I know this is really presumptuous of me, but I’ve got a sleeping bag rolled up in my backpack. Do you think it might be all right if I spread it out down by the lake and spent the night here? It’s getting kind of late, and—”

“No!” Lauren interrupted quickly. “I mean... I’d prefer that you didn’t.”

“Oh...” Gordon said, flushing with embarrassment, and then suddenly the strangest look came over his face and she saw him staring at something out of the corner of his eyes. For a moment she was at a loss as to what had transfixed him. But then she realized. He could see Fugate holding Garrett hostage through the crack between the door and its frame.

Recognizing the danger he was in—they were all in— he started to back off the porch, and Lauren felt a rush of excitement at the realization that now at least he would be able to help them. But with the uncanny perceptivity of a true psychopath, Fugate sensed immediately what was happening and jumped out from his hiding place with Garrett still in tow.

“Stop! Stop now or I’ll kill him!”

Gordon saw the straight razor and froze.

Fugate grunted. “Okay, you come in too. Now I have a real family. A wife, a son, and a guest. You’re the guest.” Gordon reluctantly walked into the entrance hall, and Fugate kicked the door shut with his foot.

For the first time Lauren noticed that some of the boiling water had hit him in the face—his cheek as well as his arm was beet-red.

“So, thought you would stop me, did you?” he crowed. “Well, now we’ll see. Now we’ll see.” He nodded with his head for them to go into the drawing room. “Go in there.”

Lauren couldn’t take it any more and began to cry. “Why? What are you going to do?”

“We’re going to be a family!” he snapped as if the answer were annoyingly obvious. “And what do good American families do? They watch TV. We’re going to watch TV.” She was beginning to feel that with every passing second their chances of getting away from Fugate were diminishing exponentially.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled apologetically to Gordon. “It’s okay,” he returned, glaring at Fugate with an intensity that suddenly proved wrong everything that she had assumed about his character. “It’s not your fault.”

“Shut up!” Fugate roared. And then, just as they were about to walk through the spindlework archway leading to the drawing room, he cried: “No, wait! Stop! Where’s the telephone?”

“In there,” she said, pointing at the coachmen’s waiting room.

“Okay, everyone in there.”

Lauren and Gordon walked obediently into the coachmen’s waiting room while Fugate stood with Garrett at the door.

He looked at the telephone and then at Gordon. “Smash it.”

Gordon looked worriedly at Lauren. “It’s okay,” she said. “It’s broken anyway.”

“Ha! Nice try,” Fugate sneered. He looked back at Gordon. “Smash it!”

Gordon picked up a nearby lamp and, using its base as a bludgeon, smashed the telephone to bits.

Fugate eyed a roll of twine hanging on a hook in the corner. “Bring that also,” he ordered Gordon. He backed away, allowing Lauren and Gordon to walk ahead of him. “Okay, now we watch TV.”

He herded them all into the drawing room and ordered Lauren to sit in a chair. To her horror, he tied her feet to the legs of the chair and bound her hands uncomfortably behind her back.

Then he backhanded her savagely across the face. Outraged, Garrett tried to rush to her protection, but Gordon restrained him.

“That’s for scalding me, you fucking bitch!” Fugate screamed.

He backhanded her again with even more force, and this time it was Gordon’s turn to give a start as if he were going to rush forward. But still he held himself back, smoldering with hatred.

“And that’s for not having my dinner ready when I got home,” Fugate finished.

He turned back to Garrett and Gordon. “And you... you two sit down on that sofa there.”

They carefully complied.

Content that he had things the way he wanted, Fugate pulled a chair up beside Lauren’s and clicked the TV on with the remote control. Then he started to punch through the channels.

Although his blows had profoundly demoralized her, she realized that perhaps their only chance of overcoming him was in regaining his trust. After they had watched television for about twenty minutes she once again summoned the courage to try to engage him in conversation. But Fugate would hear none of it and only screamed at her to shut up. Perceiving what she was up to, Gordon also tried to draw him into conversation, and although he was able to find out Fugate’s name, Fugate rebuked him into silence as well. The three of them could only play Fugate’s macabre game and wait nervously to see what happened next.

On and on they waited while Fugate alternately chortled or cursed at one television show after another, until finally, toward the end of the evening, Gordon dared to speak again.

“Are you going to keep us here all night?”

Fugate jerked his head in Gordon’s direction and regarded him with suspicion. “Why do you ask?”

Gordon formulated his words carefully. “Because it’s getting rather late. I thought maybe you’d allow me to make a suggestion.”

Fugate’s eyes narrowed. “Like what?”

“Well, it’s obvious Garrett here is getting pretty sleepy. It’s also obvious that you have a clear view of the main staircase and could certainly see whether we went up or down. I thought maybe you’d let Garrett and me go upstairs and get some sleep.”

“There are other stairs you could come down!” Fugate snapped mistrustfully.

Gordon offered him a placating smile. “But look, you’ve got the boy’s mother. There are also no doorways behind you, so we wouldn’t be able to sneak up on you. Do you think we’re going to try anything while you’re still sitting there with her tied in that chair and that straight razor in your hand?”

Fugate looked at Lauren and then back at Gordon, and from the doubtful expression on his face it was clear he was still not convinced.

“Besides,” Gordon said, adding the
coup de grace,
“I’ve never really ever met anyone quite as amazing as you. Sitting here with you like this I think I’ve started to see why you’re doing this. You’re really very special. An extraordinary human being. I’ve really started to respect you for what you’re doing.”

Fugate sat up with regal erectness, his face still eerily lit by the multicolored glow of the television. “You think so?” he asked with the tone of one who knew it was true, but wanted to hear it again.

“I know it’s so.”

Fugate looked at the main staircase in the distance. “You’re only going upstairs to get some sleep?”

“Just to sleep.”

“You promise you won’t try anything?”

“I promise.”

He thought about it for a moment longer. “Well, okay. But you’ve got to come back downstairs when I call for you.”

“Fine,” Gordon said, taking Garrett firmly by the hand and leading him toward the door. He stopped. “Oh, by the way.”

Fugate looked at him attentively.

“You’re not planning on doing anything to Mrs. Ransom while we’re gone, are you? I’d kind of like to be present if you decide to do something.”

“Oh, I’m not going to do anything while you’re gone,” Fugate returned earnestly. “We’re watching TV.”

Gordon smiled and continued leading Garrett out of the drawing room.

When they reached the stairs, Garrett suddenly went rigid. “Why did you say those things?” he demanded in a hush.

“I was lying,” Gordon whispered back, continuing to pull him up the stairs. When they reached the landing and were out of sight, Gordon relaxed a little. “I was just telling him what he wanted to hear so he would trust us enough to let us come up.”

“Are we really going to sleep?”

“No.”

“What did we come up here for?”

“Let’s get a little farther away from the stairs and then I’ll tell you.”

But as Gordon continued to lead him down the hallway and in the direction of the bedrooms, suddenly all the lights in the house went out.

“Dammit!” Gordon exclaimed. “What’s he up to now?” A few seconds later the lights came back on.

“I don’t think it’s him,” Garrett returned. “It’s the generators. When no one is watching them they start to do this.”