Phantom (2 page)

There was a funny thump from the hallway, as
if the person out there was unfamiliar with the place and had
bumped into a wall. Then, silence. Ned struggled to wake himself
more. It couldn't be his mother or father; they didn't move like
that. He knew every sound they made in the apartment, the way they
walked, the weight of their steps. This was clearly different. Had
someone broken into their home, a bad person, or, even worse, a
night thing? Were his parents all right, or were they already lying
dead in their room? Why wasn't his father awake and doing
something?

Ned wanted to get up and run as fast as he
could to his parents, but they were at the end of the hallway and
he would have to face whatever was out there before he could get to
them. He could shout—but no, that would reveal his presence for
sure, and besides, his mother and father might not hear or be able
to do anything in time. The best thing to do was to slide way down
under the covers and hope that it would pass with the night.

Ned felt safe in his bed, but there was one
lingering problem.

Cocooned in his blankets, there was no way
he could see anything. The door to his room was always left an inch
or two ajar at night, so whatever was in the hallway could crawl
right in beside his bed without Ned knowing it until it was too
late. Many times he had carefully scattered his toys on the floor,
making a perfect alarm system, but his father always made him put
them away before going to bed, It was too late to move now. But
regardless of the drawbacks, Ned still felt reasonably safe where
he was.

He knew there was only one way out of a
situation like this. You couldn't move. You had to remain
completely covered up and perfectly still. As long as you did that,
you wouldn't be harmed. And, although he had never been foolish
enough to try, Ned also knew that if you violated this rule by
getting up or even just peeking out from under the bedclothes,
then, for sure, someone or something horrible would be standing
there and reaching toward you, and there wouldn't be a thing in the
world you could do to save yourself. At the wrong time, if you
merely poked a hand out to test the air it could be chopped off or
turned to stone.

The noise was so close now Ned was certain
it was at his door. He wanted to jam his fingers in his ears, but
even that limited movement seemed too risky. He must not stir at
all. It was the sound of breathing, but there was nothing at all
normal about it. An open mouth trying desperately to breathe, but
caked with a thousand cobwebs or thickening sand-that was what Ned
heard. He wanted to scream so ,loud the window would fly open and
fresh air sweep in, blowing it away, but now more than ever he had
to keep still and silent.

There. It had turned away from his room. A
few seconds later Ned recognized the change in sound as bare feet
went from the hallway into the bathroom. Then a heavy thud
suggested someone half-sitting, half-falling onto the toilet seat.
Ned thought it must be one of his parents after all. He sat up
sharply in bed, all demons banished for the moment. That awful
gasping sound continued, and then Ned heard a short mechanical
click followed immediately by a tiny gusting noise. Of course-it
was his mother's medicine. He had seen her use the inhaler many
times, and while he didn't know what it was for, he had no doubt
about the sound it made. But could that really be his mother? He
had never heard her breathe like that before.

Ned climbed out of bed and made his way
across the room to the door. He peered through the narrow space.
The bathroom door stood wide open, and as his eyes adjusted to the
dark Ned could dimly see his mother slumped on the toilet seat. Her
nightgown defined her, a pale, white shape in the darkness. At
first Ned was reassured that no phantom or night thing had come to
menace their home, but then another vague fear began to grow in his
mind. What was his mother doing sitting there like that? Her head
was bent forward to her chest and her hair hung like a rough
curtain in front of her face. That was wrong. Had she fallen
asleep? She wasn't making any of the sounds people make when they
use the toilet. In fact, she wasn't making any sound at all. Even
that terrible breathing noise was gone, Ned realized. He was
shivering and his feet felt as if they were glued to the floor.
Fear of a different kind started to fill him from within.

His mother's hand relaxed slightly and the
inhaler clattered on the bathroom tiles. It was shockingly loud to
his ears, and Ned flinched. Something inside was trying to get him
to move, to run to his mother and do whatever he could for her, but
he was unable to budge from the spot. His bones had become iron
rods welded tight and he could only stand there, fixed in one place
like a scarecrow.

Then his mother slid forward off the toilet
seat and crashed to the floor with such force that the walls seemed
to shake. The sound was a bottomless thunder that roared in Ned's
brain. The next thing he knew, the hall light came on like an
explosion and pain stabbed his eyes.

His father, wearing only
underpants, had come into view, but Ned was looking again at his
mother, who lay sprawled face up on the floor, half out of the
bathroom. Her eyes were partially open but they appeared to be
filmed over, like a car window in winter. Her cheeks were
incredibly white and her lips-her lips were turning blue, and then
purple, even as he watched.
She's becoming
a ghost
, Ned thought, and he really
expected her to flyaway from them forever in the next few
seconds.

"Oh, God, no." Michael Covington bent over
his wife and put his ear to her lips. "Breathe, Linda,
breathe."

Michael snatched the inhaler off the floor,
but when he tried to put it into Linda's mouth he found that her
teeth were clamped tight and it was impossible for him to force her
jaw open. He slapped her cheeks lightly, then harder, but it had no
effect. He splashed her face with cold water from the bathroom
faucet, but that too failed to bring any response. Again Michael
pressed his ear to her face. Nothing. If she's not breathing, he
thought, she's dying. Now. Here. On the floor of their apartment.
He grabbed her wrist, but his own hands were shaking and he was
sobbing now, so he couldn't tell whether she had much of a pulse or
not. He turned and rushed to the living room to call for an
ambulance. Somehow, he dialed and got through.

" ... Severe asthma attack .... "

He heard them, but the words meant nothing
to Ned. All he knew was that a phantom had come and done something
monstrous to his mother. Any second now she would disappear before
his very eyes. Then she would be caught, she would be one of them.
and he would never see her again. Then what? Another night, soon,
they would come back and take his father. How could he stop them?
Ned would be left all alone. Until, at last, they came for him, and
he knew that when that happened nothing, not even the borders of
his own bed, would save him.

Michael Covington returned to his stricken
wife. He placed a pillow beneath her head and wrapped her in a wool
blanket. He raised her feet and rested them on the edge of the
toilet seat so more blood would flow to her head. 'Still, she
looked like a dead woman. Michael hurried away to put on some
clothes.

A few feet away, in the darkness of his
room, Ned gazed through the one-inch gateway to hell. Perhaps he
had seen too much; certainly, he had heard too much. Overloaded, he
was going numb, vacating himself to deeper, inner havens. Like
everyone else, Ned lived in two worlds: day and night. But this was
reality of another kind. Bizarre and disturbing as the night, it
was nonetheless the daylight life of his mother and father, now tom
and twisted. Within the space of a few minutes the two worlds had
been thrown together in a way Ned had never experienced before, and
it was a diabolical mixture. That was his own mother out there,
propped against the toilet like a stray plank.

Even now he couldn't move. Rooted. A
scarecrow. Just beyond the light's reach, out of sight, but close
enough to see. His thoughts were like giant amorphous blobs that
collided and drifted awkwardly in his mind. He hadn't moved. He
hadn't done a thing to help his mother. She had been left to
battle, and lose, alone, while he cowered in his room. Now it was
too late.

They had tricked
him
. That was the worst part. Ned could see
now what a fool he had been. You think you understand, you think
you're doing exactly what should be done, and then wham, you find
out you did it all wrong. What was the rule, the one saving
provision? Simple: once you have drawn in beneath the covers and
sealed yourself in the protection of your bed, you must not move
out of it again until morning. If you break that rule, if you so
much as stick out an eyelash, the terror will be there. And that's
what had happened. Ned had popped up out of the blankets like a
jack-in-the-box and gone to see what was happening. Now he was
seeing it, and the terror was real. He would continue to see and
see and see, until it was all over for this time. Because there is
no way back under the covers.

Fully dressed now, Michael returned and
pressed the back of his hand to Linda's forehead. As if by magic,
she stirred and moaned faintly at the touch. Michael was startled,
but a little relieved. Then there was a knock at the door and
things began to happen fast. Ned saw his father admit two men in
white uniforms. One was carrying a folded up canvas chair with
wheels. They both looked older than Ned's father. The three of them
stared at Ned's mother, as if wondering what to do with a big mess
that had been left on the floor. Is she dead, the boy wondered. No,
she just moved and made a noise.

"She's had an asthma attack."

"Has it happened before?"

"Never like this-she never passed out."

"Does she take anything for it?"

"This." Michael held out the inhaler. "I
tried to give it to her but I couldn't get her mouth open."

The two ambulance men studied the object
briefly and then handed it back to Michael.

"Okay, let's take her in."

One of the men started to set up the
wheelchair.

"I don't think she's breathing," Michael
said nervously. "Would you please check?"

"In the ambulance."

"Do you have any oxygen?" Michael asked. "I
think she should have some oxygen. Fast."

"In the ambulance. We got to get her in the
ambulance," the man with the wheelchair said. "That's the first
thing."

His partner was down on the floor, examining
Linda. He checked her pulse, parted her lips, and he held the dial
of his watch to her nose.

"She's sorta breathing," he announced,
standing up with a loud sigh. "Best thing is, get her to the
hospital where a doctor can take a look."

The wheelchair was ready and the three men
tried to lift Linda into it, but suddenly she began to wave her
arms and kick her legs, violently resisting any attempt to move
her.

"Hey, hey, what's this," one of the
ambulance men said. "Linda, honey, just relax and let us lift you
into the chair," Michael said.

"She don't wanna go."

Ned saw that his mother's eyes were wide
open now. They darted about wildly, frantically. It was as if she
was seeing a different world, or some other, unknown dimension. She
showed no signs of recognizing her husband or the apartment.

"Okay, let's go."

"One, two ... "

They lifted again, and again Linda lashed
out with her arms and feet. They couldn't get her off the floor,
where she huddled to herself.

"What's her name?"

"Linda."

"Last name?"

"Covington. "

"Mrs. Covington, we're gonna move you into
the nice big comfortable chair now," the ambulance man said
sweetly. "It's much nicer than where you are now, so just enjoy the
ride and let us do all the work, okay? Ready?"

"One, two ... "

He sounds like a goddamn Lawrence Welk,
Michael thought angrily.

This time Linda pushed one of the ambulance
men away, breaking his grip completely, and her foot caught Michael
on the side of the jaw, knocking him over. The other man, who
hadn't gotten hold of her at all, looked on in disbelief. Linda
curled up on her original spot, half in and half out of the
bathroom. Her eyes danced.

The ambulance men looked unhappy. They
picked up the inhaler and examined it a second time.

"She take a lot of this?"

"She takes it when she needs to," Michael
said defensively. Something was pushing up, trying to break the
surface in his mind. Something ugly.

"You ever seen her like this before?"

"No, I told you. The worst that ever happens
is she gets breathless and a little dizzy. She takes the inhaler
and sits down until she feels better."

"You say it's asthma, but I've never seen
anybody with asthma act like this."

"No way," the other ambulance man added
gratuitously.

"Can't you do something?" Michael begged.
'

"Not until we get her in the ambulance."

"What is that, some kind of law?" Michael
shouted.

"You ask me," the ambulance man went on
calmly, "I think she OD'd on this stuff." He held up the inhaler
like exhibit number one in a court case. "Took too much, you know,
pop, pop, pop. That's why she's acting crazy like. Now she's off on
a little trip."

That didn't sound right to Michael. He had
never heard of an asthma inhalant doing that to a person.

"Will it wear off soon?" he asked. "Should
we wait a few more minutes before trying to move her again?"

"Beats me," one ambulance man said as the
other shrugged. "I suppose you could call her doctor and ask him
about it."