Shivers (5 page)

“No. No police.”

“I won’t leave until you agree.”

“I can’t.”

“Just say yes. I’ll take care of the details. They’ll be in touch with you.”

“It’s not necessary. I’ve told you everything.”

“Yes. I’m sure you have. But the police will want to, will
have
to, speak to you anyway. Please say you’ll agree.”

She looked at him miserably. “I have no choice, do I?”

“No.”

“Then you can give them my name. I’ll talk to them, I promise. But I’ll only do it if you leave now. It was a mistake to have you here tonight.”

“All right. I’m going. But the police will be in touch, I can promise you that. There’s a lot you have to answer for.”

They said good night at the door. Steven gave her an imploring look, a silent prayer that she’d break down and tell him what had happened to his brother. She turned away and closed the door.

As Steven walked to the elevator, he could hear her crying. Real waterworks. She was sobbing so strenuously that the sound of it came through the door she’d collapsed against and drifted down the hallway. Who was she crying for? Steven wondered. Herself or Joey?

The elevator came. Vivian would have to comfort herself tonight.

Steven wasn’t up to it.

TWO

P
HILIP
R
EGINALD
H
AUPSTER
had been born over fifty years ago in a small Pennsylvania town, son of the richest man in the state. When the family’s considerable assets were wiped out during the Depression, his mother ran off with a philandering married neighbor and his father blew his brains out with a pistol. From then on things went steadily downhill.

He’d stayed with his Aunt Sarah until he’d reached manhood, upon which he was cast out to have his way with the world. The world fought back. He made a reasonably secure living as a door-to-door salesman in New York, but found himself unable to sustain personal relationships. He had always been thought of as a “creepy kid,” and in adult years continued to upset people by his presence. This was not due to his appearance, but to his manner, the odd way he had. of “psyching” people out. Of knowing their innermost thoughts before they did. Of suddenly going into trances in the middle of a dance or conversation. He didn’t realize that he had a
gift,
and neither did his acquaintances. Those who did suspect stayed away from him completely.

He met a young woman while still in his thirties, and they fell in love. They seemed to understand each other perfectly. She died in a horrible bus accident, and Philip lost his reason for living. His work suffered, what few friends he had shunned him. He found himself utterly unable to deal with life, to take care of himself. His appetite for alcohol subsequently increased.

He had always been an alcoholic, but had somehow been able to keep it under control, until the death of his lover gave him the excuse to drink that he’d been searching for all his life. He was haunted by strange dreams and ambiguous visions. He heard ghostly voices and picked up people’s thoughts with such frequency and clarity that it was enough to drive him mad. His mind finally went, and he consumed more and more quantities of alcohol. It was only a matter of time before he was making the street his home.

Had he been born later in the century, people would have more easily understood what the man was all about. He could have received help, met people who were willing to show him how to control his gift, how to deal with the realities of being extra-sensitive, having perceptions beyond his comprehension. Though there were those among his contemporaries who had known of and experimented with ESP, the belief in the “sixth sense” was not as prevalent as it is today. In some ways, Philip Reginald Haupster was a victim of his time.

He had been a nice-looking man in his youth. He hardly had a face anymore, it was so lined and shriveled and hollow. He survived by going now and then to shelters for food and warmth, but when people tried to reach out to him their disgust would emanate from their minds and envelop him, forcing him to cry out in despair, to ultimately run away from any form of salvation. He had been down in the Lower East Side for some time now, taking comfort in the fact that there were others like him all around, their minds too numb to invade his consciousness, and their thoughts too scrambled and inwardly directed to disturb his sleep. They did not find him disgusting; they could hardly have cared less.

He’d made friends with some of them—if you could call what they had friendship—knew them by name. Randy, the defrocked minister. Eddie, the deaf-mute. Paul, the artist who couldn’t pay his rent. His favorite was Ronnie, who’d once sung with Philip’s favorite swing band. Drunks, deadbeats all.

But then they started leaving—no—being
taken away
by the things, those creatures that lived in the sewer. He had wanted to run away before they came for him, but something had compelled him to stay. It hurt just to think of the desolation, the cold, paralyzing fear that enveloped him now that he was alone. There was no one he could explain it to.

Until tonight.

That man’s thought had sliced into his as clearly as the high-pitched scream of a siren cleaves the night. The stranger had been wondering about the disappearances, blindly offering his thoughts to anyone who had the power to perceive them. Philip had sensed that this man could read
his
thoughts too, with great clarity; so he had run after him, exposed himself to the merciless eyes of another—something he normally
never
did.

But though the man had been like him in that special, uncanny way, he had not responded favorably. Philip had watched the train depart, thinking then and there that his last hope had gone with it, his last chance to find true peace and solace, to understand himself. His last chance to determine where the others had all been taken.

Now he crouched in the alleyway, on top of a discarded mattress, listening with all his senses to the night as it surrounded him. Once more he was picking up those hideous thoughts, the chanting of a thousand condemned souls crying out in desperate supplication. The words he heard and the images he saw were too mind-boggling for him to bear. It took all his power to suffocate the anguish. That left him no strength to resist the strange force that had forbidden him to leave the area.

And so they came for him.

First there was a clanking sound, like a manhole lid being forced open from below. It clattered against the pavement. The noise was so loud it filled the streets. There were no other sounds, save the pounding of Philip’s heart. There were no cars at this hour, no pedestrians.

Only Philip and that thing from the sewer.

It had pulled itself up completely from the hole, and it waited there, sniffing the air, its glaring red eyes searching, searching. It had an odor, both foul and sweet, like perfume-covered excrement. It moved away from the spot where it had surfaced and moved down the street toward the alley where Haupster was hiding.

Haupster sensed the thing’s approach, and knew that it was
his
turn to be carried away into oblivion. He heard more noises now, and trembled with fear. The thing was not alone. There were others of its kind even now emerging from the underground. No matter where he ran, one of them would
pounce.

He was overwhelmed. The psychic emanations were repulsive and his quivering body was drenched in his own sweat. He got up and bolted out of the alley, darting past broken chairs and scattered bottles. He almost tripped on a torn box spring, but managed to stay upright until he was again in control of his movements. Somehow he was able to operate despite the alcoholic haze that forever permeated his being. It was as if he possessed a new strength which allowed him to clear his mind and shake off the deadening effects of countless quantities of booze. His brain had a new opponent to conquer—sheer, paralyzing fright.

The thing that had been stalking him lunged out as he neared the exit from the alley. He felt a claw rake his skin. Then came sharp pain, the warmth of dripping blood. He continued to run, overturning a garbage can filled with jars and newspapers.

Another thrust—the claw dug into his back, scraping away nuggets of flesh. Philip cried out, his screams as high as those of the thing that was attacking him. He kept on running, crossing the street and heading for the relative safety of the subway.

Hunched over awkwardly on all of its four appendages, the creature pursued. Haupster grabbed another garbage can. Surprised at the ease with which he lifted it, he almost dropped it back on the ground. Regaining his grip on it, he held the can in front of him. A smelly goop dripped out of the top and plopped down onto his feet. The thing battered at the can with its claws and teeth, trying to get at him. For the first time, Haupster saw clearly what it was.

“Ronnnieeee!”
Haupster cried.

Haupster dropped the can and shielded his eyes with his hands. Within seconds a row of teeth had grabbed his arm, biting the flesh nearly down to the bone. Haupster cried out. Something—another one of his pursuers—came up from behind and lunged at him, knocking Haupster’s body to the ground. The odor was unbearably fetid. Haupster could feel the breath of the creature as its mouth found his neck, the hungry teeth digging into his skin.

Pummeled into near insensibility by a rain of heavy blows, Haupster felt himself being dragged back down the street. Slowly the things were making their way back to their hole with their burden. Haupster’s chin was scraping against the sidewalk painfully, so he twisted his head and let his cheek absorb the impact of the concrete. As they crossed the street, his face and body swept up all the dirt and dust and urine, the discarded cigarette butts coating the roadway. He was pulled up onto the curb on the other side, and taken down the block with nary a struggle.

Soon they reached the manhole. Haupster was thrown down into the yawning abyss.

By the time he hit bottom he had died of fright.

Steven made himself some scrambled eggs when he got home. Anything more elaborate would have been indigestible. Still, it might soak up the bourbon he’d consumed—not that he’d had that much. He didn’t know where his appetite had suddenly come from; maybe from seeing how the other half lived—namely the wealthy and crazy Vivian Jessup. Joey—killing himself over
her?
Ridiculous! He quickly drank a cup of strong coffee, following it with two more. Drinking liquor too fast always gave him a headache.

Well, tomorrow the police would question Mrs. Jessup, and they would find out about any mysteries she might have in her closet. The rich, neurotic lady would certainly break down in front of the stern, no-nonsense Detective Albright if she had to face
him.
She would crack into a million pieces. It would all come tumbling out of her mouth, and his brother would be saved.

What if she was telling the truth? he wondered. What if she really knew nothing? What if she was really just a poor, deluded creature whose hold on her own self-worth was so tenuous she’d had to cast herself in the role of heartbreaker, a middle-aged temptress driving boys to suicide?

Or what if she was
right?

He piled the cup and dishes in the sink, and went soberly into the living room. He had lived in this place for seven years, moving here when his marriage to Denise had dissolved after two. He’d been too young and immature; she’d been too disillusioned with the realities of marriage. Both had wanted freedom. They were still friends, but Denise had moved to the West Coast and they didn’t see much of each other. She would not appreciate his bothering her with this. She barely knew Joey and, in any case, he hadn’t the right to ask her to be concerned. Joey had—as Albright kept repeating—only been missing a little over a day.

He picked up the phone and dialed Andrea’s number, even though he had promised himself he would not give in. He’d planned to let her make the first move, let her call him if she was of a mind to.

The phone rang and rang without answer. She was probably still out of town at that booksellers’ conference.

Joey, where are you?

When his “little brother” had asked if he could stay with him until he got settled in New York, Steven had hesitated before saying yes, feeling a bit guilty that he hadn’t suggested it himself in the first place. He did need his privacy. But after a week or so, he’d started to relish Joey’s company, even missed him when he went out and didn’t return till the following day. His kid brother. They’d always been friends.

He sat down in the easy chair, with the lights out. The light from the full moon and from the streetlamps outside came into the room and provided illumination. It was a warm and cozy room, cluttered with books and magazines that were on shelves, the floor, and a small rectangular coffeetable in front of the couch. The wallpaper was dark, with a green leaf design. The carpeting, though old and graying, was soft and comfortable for naked feet. The black-and-white TV had belonged to his parents —a very old set, but it still worked perfectly. There were a couple of plants around the place, mostly ones that Andrea had given him. He really didn’t care for plants.

He thought about his parents again. They had both died while Joey was in college; the memory still hurt. Mrs. Everson had died of cancer, theoretically. Steven was the only one alive who knew that she had really killed herself not long after hearing the diagnosis, preferring an artificial descent into unending sleep to months of agony and torment. He had never blamed her. Her kind of cancer hadn’t been treatable then as it was today. He could not have stood to see her wither away, locked up alone in a hospital ward waiting to die.

Steven’s father had successfully circulated the story that her illness had been bothering her for years—which was not quite true—and that it had been a miracle she’d lasted as long as she did. Of course, some people wondered about it, and others knew outright that the fabricated story didn’t quite hold up, but no one was tactless enough to confront him with it. She died in her sleep, a painless death—that much was true.