Sweet Dreams (23 page)

A ripping burst of pain tore through him as Claire jabbed the point of the knife into his back and jerked it downward, cutting through thick pads of muscle. Chuck's blood gushed from the deep cut.

She rammed the point of the blade into his left buttock, then his right, the pain almost driving Chuck into unconsciousness. Instead, he crawled toward the closed door of the closet.

Claire howled as she drove the point of the knife into Chuck's buttocks, deeper and deeper. Her wild laughter was hideous and hollow sounding. Her breath was awful.

From the grave! Chuck managed to think the words. It smells like an open grave.

The deputy was almost blind from the pain in his body. He left a thick smear of crimson as he crawled toward the door. He put his hand on the doorknob and turned it.

The lights suddenly went out in the den.

Chuck opened the door.

He screamed in shock and fright and disgust.

The closet was illuminated by a strange glow; a pencil-thin line of light that was as brilliant as sunlight lit up the small enclosure, filling Chuck's eyes with horror.

Scott Haswell—Chuck assumed it was Scott—was sitting up in the closet. He had been skinned. Long flaps of flesh hung like bloody ribbons from his body. His nose had been cut off, his lips cut away. He was covered with blood. He was naked. He had been castrated. The deep cuts that covered his skinless body still leaked blood.

No
way!
Chuck thought despite the horrible pain in his body. The guy has got to be dead after all that, and dead people don't
bleed
!

Chuck felt his remaining clothing and boots and socks ripped from him. The coolness of air conditioning touched his agony-wracked flesh. He screamed as Claire began to skin him alive, peeling his flesh from him in bloody strips. Time after time he passed out, only to be brought back to consciousness by the water she poured on him. He howled with pain as the woman worked the bloody knife, hacking off his penis and ball sac. Then he blacked out, tumbling into the darkness of oblivion. Claire's wild laughter followed him into the darkness.

When Chuck awoke, he was sitting up in the brilliantly lit closet, looking at Scott, who was looking at him. He felt no pain.

Scott held open his bloody, skinned arms in a welcoming gesture.

“Hello,” he said hollowly.

 

The drumming had stopped, leaving the area in almost total silence except for the sighing of a very light breeze. The leaves on the trees rustled at the touch of the wind.

Jerry listened for a moment, looked around them, then observed, “No birds singing, no crickets, no noise at all. That's very odd.”

“There is nothing here,” Bud informed the group of travelers. “Life as you all know it cannot exist in a void.”

“A time-warp?” Vickie asked.

“One way of putting it.”

“Can we ever get out?” Maryruth asked.

“Oh, yes. All of you can.”

“What do you mean?” Voyles asked. “Are you leaving yourself out of that?”

“Perhaps. There are things none of you need to know.”

“Strange that no dogs are barking,” Jerry said. “We'll get used to that. No dogs.”

“As you know them,” Bud corrected.

All eyes swung toward him. Maryruth said, “Then if there are dogs, they . . .” She paused.

“. . . Are caught between two worlds,” Bud told her.

“I didn't think animals went to heaven,” Heather said. “That's what I've been taught ever since I was little.”

Bud only smiled at the girl.

Leo spoke for the first time. “I sure could use a drink.”

“Yeah,” Vickie said, getting painfully to her feet. “A double Harvey Wallbanger.” She walked to a surrey and stood for a moment, trying to figure out how to get into the old-style dress.

“It will be many, many years before those are invented,” Bud informed her.

That brought them all back to reality.

A ship's bell sounded, ringing clearly through the quiet night.

“A steamboat on the river,” Vickie said, jerking and pulling at the bustle of her dress. “What a sight that must be.”

“Do not approach the river,” Bud warned them. “The small levee you see over there is one side of our boundary. To pass over that is forbidden. The larger levee you are all accustomed to seeing has not yet been built. That is still some years in the future. You all know Sanjaman's area of control; stay within it. For to go beyond—and you will all probably be tempted to do just that—will mean either instant death, being trapped forever between two worlds, or enslavement for eternity by Sanjaman. And believe me when I say, death is the more merciful.”

“You mean,” Heather asked, her youthful curiosity overriding caution, “we can visit Good Hope as it was—however many years ago?”

“If you live through the night,” Bud replied, his words chilling the adults. To the kids, this was still a game. Nothing really bad had happened so far—right?

“Wow!” Marc said. “When can I get out of this stupid sailor suit?”

Bud smiled. “I think you look charming.”

“I think he looks icky,” Heather countered.

“You look like you're wearing a grocery bag,” Marc responded, with all the charm, grace, and tactfulness of a ten-year-old.

Heather stuck her tongue out at him.

Laughter came from the three-story mansion, rolling out the open windows. But it was not the wild, mad taunting laughter of the Manitou; it was the joyful sound of adults and young people having fun. The delicate sound of a piano drifted across the front yard of the huge estate.

“Mozart,” Jerry said. “That is part of
The Marriage of Figaro.
Whoever is playing certainly is an accomplished pianist.”

“Doctor Maryruth Lancaster,” Bud said. “Her maiden name was Benning.”

Maryruth thought for a few seconds she might faint.

Bud looked at the woman, his face impassive as stone. “Yes. You are she.”

“How? . . .” Vickie started to ask, then bit back the question.

“Do not question,” Bud said. “You are in no position to do so.”

“Let me guess,” Voyles said. “The twins' names were—are, whatever—Marc and Heather.”

“That is correct.”

“And what part do we,” Jerry indicated the others of the group, “play in all of this?”

“I cannot tell you your fate. I do not wish to anger my Gods. But all will be made very clear in time.”

“You were aware of this all along,” Maryruth said. “Yet you chose to remain silent about it. I'm curious as to why.”

“I did not know, for certain, whether the Manitou would bring any of this into play. I suspected he would, but could not be sure. I saw no point in unduly alarming anyone.”

“What do we do now?” Janet asked, once more tugging at her dress.

“There is a party in progress,” Bud told them. “You are all invited. You must attend. You have no choice in the matter.”

“What do we do once we're inside?” Jerry asked.

“Learn your roles. The parts you will have to play in order to survive the ordeal that will soon confront you all.”

“But . . .”Voyles stammered.

Bud smiled. “They will not know you are there. How could they? Most of them are not real.”

“Not real?” Heather said.

“Most will be figments of your imagination. Some are caught between worlds—many in punishment for sins they have committed. The others? . . .” He shrugged in the night.

“Now I am confused,” Voyles complained.

Bud smiled, although he silently confessed that there was precious little any of them had to smile about. “You will all see. Now go. Leo and I will tend to the horses.”

A fancy carriage pulled up in the drive. A man and a woman got out. Both were dressed in the evening attire fashionable in the late 1880s and early 1890s. They were chatting about the new agricultural-political movement that was just gaining strength among the farmers of Missouri.

“Eighteen-ninety,” Jerry said, struggling to remember his Missouri history.

“Close enough,” Bud said. He knew the exact date and time, but saw no point in further alarming the unwilling and frightened travelers.

The man secured the team to a hitchrail and together they walked past the group, continuing to chat brightly.

“Hey, you!” Voyles called. “You with the stupid-looking suit. Look around at me!”

The man and woman walked on past without acknowledging Voyles's presence, or the existence of any of the others.

“As I stated,” Bud said. “They cannot see any of you. Now go. Follow them inside.”

The drumbeat began anew, its rhythmic cadence more oppressive and heavy than before.

“That thing is getting on my nerves,” Voyles said irritably.

“Yeah,” Vickie added. “Mine, too. What is that thing anyway?”

“You are listening to the Manitou's heart. The pulse of evil.”

“That, I will certainly agree with,” Janet said.

“Well,” Jerry said, trying his best to maintain a brave front, “Maryruth, is your dance card all filled up, my dear.”

She took his offered arm. “I know you're trying to cheer us all up, Jerry. But please, cool it with the jokes, huh?”

“Come on, Rhett,” Janet tugged at Voyles. “Let's go show these folks how to boogie-woogie.”

“There is only one small problem with that,” Voyles said.

“Oh?” She looked up at his hat and stifled a giggle.

“Yeah. I don't know how to dance.”

“You have to be kidding!”

“Nope.”

Heather looked at Marc.

“You ain't getting me out on any dance floor,” Marc informed her.

“God,” Leo said. “I wish I had a drink!”

The summer evening had turned out to be rather cool and pleasant, but the heat from the many lamps and candles and chandeliers inside the Lancaster house quickly brought beads of perspiration to the foreheads and faces of the outsiders.

“A tribute to modern living,” Jerry observed, wiping his forehead. “We're so used to air conditioning.”

“Give me modern living anytime,” Maryruth said.

But they were all impressed by the lushness of the mansion. Velvet drapes hung in thick, magnificent splendor from the tall windows. The rugs were Persian; expensive even at that time. Many paintings were hung in the large room, more than a few of them signed originals, and the chandeliers were beautiful, the glow of the flickering candles highlighting their natural beauty. The furniture was of the best quality available at the time, the wood polished and gleaming, the fabric spotlessly stitched and sewn.

Maryruth could but stand in open shock and near horror as she spotted the woman playing the piano. It was like looking into a mirror that spun time backward.

“Jerry,” she breathed.

“Yes, I see her, Maryruth. It's . . . it's eerie. Look over there,” he said, pointing to a group of young people.

The group all stared in amazement at a boy and girl standing with some other children near the base of the beautiful curving stairs.

They were mirror images of Heather and Marc.

“This is totally wild,” Heather said.

“Ditto,” Marc whispered.

Except for Bud, everyone was in a state of mild shock, not really wanting to believe this was happening. It would take something much more shocking to jerk them back to full awareness.

That would take place soon enough.

Meanwhile, Heather said, “Well, I'm going over there.” She grabbed Marc's hand and pulled at him. “Come on, Marc.”

Before he had time to protest, they were halfway across the large room.

“I feel like an idiot in this stupid costume,” Marc complained.

“How do you think I feel,” Heather fired back, “dressed in this silly sack?”

They walked up to the young group.

“Hi!” Heather said brightly.

No reaction.

“You got a bugger hanging out of your nose,” Marc told a boy.

They might as well have been attempting to converse with a wall. None of the boys and girls so much as glanced at them. Marc reached out to touch Heather's counterpart on the shoulder.

His hand went clear through her, almost throwing him off balance.

Then it came home to him. This was no game; this was not something out of a bad dream; he was not going to wake up in a warm safe bed. This was
real.

“You all right?” Heather asked, taking note of Marc's pale face.

“Give me a minute.”

“Let's see what happens if we sit on the steps,” she suggested.

Still shaken by his experience, Marc asked, “What do you mean, Heather?”

“You look like you need to sit down.” Marc agreed with that; his legs were shaky. “And” she continued, “let's see if people go around us, over us, or through us—what?”

They sat at the base of the curving stairs and watched the people and the party. Champagne flowed freely. It was served by expressionless black people dressed in dark clothing. There was lots of laughter, and Heather observed several whispered secret assignations being arranged between men and women who were obviously not married to each other. She pointed that out to Marc.

“I noticed,” he responded glumly. He sighed. It was obvious to her he was thinking about his parents. “I guess nothing ever changes, does it?”

“Guess not,” she agreed. “Marc, you know I didn't really tell the whole truth to Lieutenant Voyles, don't you?”

“Yeah, but neither did I,” he admitted. “My Mom had a boyfriend before we moved . . . wherever we were. And my Dad, I guess, has always had his . . . girls.”

“He's looked at me kind of funny more than once,” Heather said. “Gives me kind of a creepy feeling. You know what I mean?”

“Yeah. I don't doubt it.”

“My Mom and Dad were not faithful to each other. I mean, they've had some real knockdown and dragout fights about it, too.”

“I can dig it. It's been the same with my Mom and Dad. He's hit her a couple of times.”

“I don't think being grownup is all it's cracked up to be,” she said, a sour note in her voice.

“Well, I think it's what you make out of it,” Marc said. “Heather? This is stupid.”

“What do you mean?”

“We're sitting here talking about our folks running around on each other, and we don't even know if we're going to get out of this mess alive. That's what I mean.”

“I'm talking to keep from thinking about it. To tell the truth, Marc, I really feel like crying.”

“Yeah, me too,” he admitted. “But neither of us can afford to do that. It won't help any. Look! Here comes somebody.”

A man approached the young people. He stopped at the base of the stairs and put an arm on the highly polished bannister. He lit a long slender cheroot, and stuck it between wide cruel lips. The man was stocky, not from fat, but from thickly padded muscle. His eyes were small and mean looking. He smelled of expensive cologne.

Suddenly he turned his head and looked directly at the kids.

Both Heather and Marc held their breath.

The man began smiling. But it was evident to both he was not smiling at them.

“He can't see us,” Heather said. “But I get the feeling that's not going to last.”

“I feel the same way. How come we know these things?”

“I don't know.”

The man paid no attention to their words.

Heather reached out to touch the man on his forearm. Her small hand went right through him and came to rest on the polished wood of the bannister. She removed her hand. Marc noticed it was trembling.

“The house is real,” Marc said. “I think most everyone else is ... dead.”

“Yeah,” Heather said. “Dead.”

They both shivered as a damp chill touched them. They felt as though a bony hand from the grave had run fleshless fingers over their skin.

Then the kids saw why the man had smiled. A very lovely young woman, no more than sixteen or seventeen, walked to his side and smiled at him. When she spoke, her voice had a hollow sound—and another quality that Marc could not identify.

“Wormy,” Heather said with a shiver.

Marc felt something evil clutch at him with slimy fingers.

“I feel it, too,” Heather said. “Try to fight it off.”

“I can't wait much longer, Clint,” the young woman said.

Marc looked at the young woman through decidedly male eyes. “She sure is stacked,” he said.

“Won't be long for you,” Heather said, annoyance in her tone.

“I can't help it.”

“This conversation should be interesting,” Heather said.

“Yeah. Juicy.”

“God, Marc! Girls may mature earlier than boys. But boys must be born with sex on the brain.”

Marc grinned at her.

“Don't get icky,” Heather warned him.

“Later tonight,” Clint told her, his voice containing that same hollow, wormy quality. “In the basement.”

“I need to be punished, Clint. I've been a bad girl.”

“I will see to it,” he promised.

She licked her ruby lips. “What about Maryruth?”

“Don't worry about her,” Clint assured the teenager. “It's over between us. All I have to do is come up with some way to get rid of her and those damned kids.”

Heather and Marc looked at each other. “Did you just hear something strange?” Heather asked.

“Voices,” Marc said. “Tiny voices.”

“Yeah. Like someone calling for help.”

The young woman licked her lips again, the moisture shining in the flickering light. “I never knew it could be like that,” she said. “It hurt so good. I want you now.”

“Contain yourself, Charlotte. It won't be long. I don't see your parents here this evening. Never knew them to miss a party.”

“They had to go to Memphis on business,” she said with a smile. “They left this morning on the
Delta Queen
. They won't be back for several days.”

Clint returned the smile. “How convenient for both of us. Until later, my dear?”

“Yes.”

Charlotte walked away. After a few seconds, Clint followed, angling off in another direction.

“What a stupid conversation,” Heather said.

“Don't you know what she was talking about?” Marc asked.

“I'm not ignorant, Marc. But I certainly don't want to discuss
that
with
you.”

“Excuse me,” Marc said, not really sure what his friend was talking about and not certain he knew what
he
was talking about.

The drumbeat began, even louder and stronger than before.

The adults came to the children's side, gathering around the base of the stairs.

Heather told them what they had seen, done, and heard.

Maryruth looked at Dick. “A little perversion in the town, huh?”

“It would appear so.”

Voyles grunted.

Heather and Marc wished the adults would elaborate on the subject; but they did not.

“Look!” Vickie said, pointing.

The men and women and the young people at the party were beginning to fade in and out of sight, their forms sparkling in many-colored hues. They no longer moved about, but they did seem to be struggling with some invisible force which held them captive between two worlds.

Someone in the depths of the great house suddenly screamed out in anguish, the hideous sound startling the travelers.

“No, daddy. No!” a young voice cried out, it was filled with pain and horror. “Oh, God, Daddy! It hurts.”

“I can't breathe!” another young voice joined in. “Please—let me out, let me out!”

The voices ceased.

The forms of the people at the party vanished.

Only the tinkling of the piano filled the otherwise silent house.

The melody was unfamiliar to the reluctant visitors from another time.

Jerry walked over to the piano. He stared in undisguised horror. The ivories were being pressed down to produce sounds, but no one sat on the bench.

 

Claire opened the door to the closet and stood for a moment, gazing at the naked, tortured, skinned, and emasculated men. Flaps of flesh hung from their bodies like tattered rags from a beggar. She held out her hand.

“Come,” she said. “It is time.”

The men rose stiffly from the floor of the still-lit closet and followed her outside. They limped along, their severed tendons supporting their weight. They lurched more than walked, and their arms flapped at their sides. They got into the back seat of her car. She backed out of the drive and soon connected with highway 61, heading south, toward Good Hope.

 

“I can't reach Chuck,” the dispatcher told the chief deputy.

“When was the last contact?”

“Over an hour ago. I'd say closer to two hours. We got busy all of a sudden and I forgot all about him.”

“Was he ten-ninety-eight last time you talked to him?”

“Yes. Worked a thirty-seven. He called in, but didn't tell me where he was going.”

“Shit!” the chief deputy cursed. “He knows better than that.”

“Want me to keep trying to reach him?”

“Yes. I'll be there in fifteen minutes. No! I won't. I'm heading out to the Bolling house. Chuck may have gone out there and run into some kind of trouble. I'll keep in touch.”

“Ten-four.”

The chief deputy, Bob Vanderhorn, nearly broke the sound barrier getting out to the Bolling house. With a cop's sixth sense, as soon as he pulled into the drive, he knew he was about to walk into something awful. Chuck was a newly married man, and basically a good Christian boy, so women—other than his bride—had no place in his life. Chuck was too busy at home.

Bob spotted Chuck's patrol car. He walked over to it and put his hand on the hood. The metal was cold to the touch. He used Chuck's radio to call in.

“I've found Chuck's car,” he told dispatch. “At the Bolling house. I've got a bad feeling about it. Stand by on your end and alert all rolling units to begin a swing in this direction. I'm not going to wait. I'm going in.”

“Ten-four.”

Bob Vanderhorn was an old experienced hand. He'd been a street cop in St. Louis for ten years before moving back to Sikeston and joining the Sheriffs Department as a patrolman. He'd worked his way up to the chief deputy position. He was a savvy old hand.

He ran to the back of the house and began edging his way along. By the time he reached the front porch, he had listened intently to the natural sounds of the house, one ear to the wood, at several locations. Before he stepped onto the porch, he was ninety-five percent certain nothing alive was inside.

However, that remaining five percent caused him to pull his .357 from leather. Bob knocked on the door for a full minute before trying the doorknob. He didn't want some slick lawyer building a case for illegal entry. Once he got in there, he intended to touch nothing, pick up nothing, and see just enough to call for a warrant.

The doorknob turned easily under his palm. Stepping to one side, Bob pushed open the door.

“This is the Sheriffs Department!” he called out. “Everything all right in there?”