Tales from the Nightside (7 page)

"Take care now," he called from the stoop. "Don't let them monsters get you, hear?" His laugh was a cackling.

Art waved and laughed back, then leaned quickly against the picket fence, swallowing convulsively to keep his stomach from heaving. He spat to rid his mouth of an acrid metallic taste... and saw the sandbox. A hundred years, by God, he thought; it's been a hundred years. He hiccoughed. Belched. Spat again and glanced furtively toward the front door. All the lights were out as far as he could tell, and there was nothing on the road that he could see. Hushing himself, and grinning, he climbed awkwardly over the fence and dropped into a wavering crouch, ran to the house and pressed his back against it. Stupid, he thought; this is really stupid.

He belched.

A few more steps, and he knelt gingerly on the dew-damp grass. The shining red cover was off and folded neatly on the ground. He poked a finger at the grey sand. It was cool. He laid a palm to it. Cool. He plunged his hand under the surface—damp. He piled a handful in the center and jabbed at it, cocked his head and jabbed again. Smoothed. Piled. Angled and smoothed. One last jab, and he hiccoughed. The sound frightened him, and he looked up quickly toward the dark windows overhead, toward the swing set in the backyard.

The plastic seats were moving. All of them. All of them in time.

There was no wind.

He had heard no footsteps.

Moving. In time. Chains creaking faintly.

As steadily as he could, he pushed himself to his feet and hurried to the fence, climbed, swore loudly when a point snagged at his crotch. He shambled off toward home, hoping he would not throw up before he reached the bathroom.

He made it—barely.

Was in bed and pretending deep sleep when Felicity returned.

The next morning she sat with pillows pounded behind her and filled the room with disgust for her sister. When she finally noticed his inattention, however, she glared.

"You look like hell."

He smiled wanly. "I was over at Cal's last night. Damned old man could drink a horse under the table."

"You, I take it, are not a horse."

He fired a finger-and-thumb gun at her.

She sighed. "Do I get the paper, or you?"

He closed his eyes briefly, opened them quickly. "I'd better," he said with a martyr's groan, "or I won't get out until next year."

She kissed him, and he smiled. Five minutes later he was dressed and walking slowly through the early morning haze to the Centre Street luncheonette where the Sunday newspapers were hawked. As he passed Schiller's house he saw Cal kneeling by the sandbox, a small rake in his hand. He called out a greeting, faltered when he saw the dark scowl on the old man's face.

"Trouble?" he asked.

Calvin jabbed angrily at the sand. "This... this is for my little darlin's, Art. They don't like it when someone else plays with their stuff."

He could say nothing. His face tried a series of weak apologies, but there were no words. First there was a rush of shame that he had been seen, then a surge of irrational anger that he had been spied upon. But he decided quickly that neither contrition nor argument was worth the effort—the heat was still simmering, and those so-called little darlin's weren't the only things in town the temperature made restless.

He waved again and moved on.

At the luncheonette he picked up the local paper and the
New York Times
, and stood patiently in line at the counter while the air conditioning helped to sponge clear his mood and his head. Then Ellie Nedsworth waddled past him with a box of chocolates in her hand, saw him and grinned broadly.

“Art!"

“Lovely day, Ellie."

"Crap," she said. “It's too damned hot." She hefted the five- pound box and looked at it sourly. “Tell you the truth, Art, I wish I had a sister or something in Alaska. I'd walk there on my knees just to feel the cool."

“No kidding," he said, distracted by a headline. “Where does she live, then?"

“Nowhere. Don't have one," she told him, fishing in her purse for the price of the candy. “Just the one fool daughter, and she ain't got the brains to come in out of the rain."

He nodded again dutifully, paid for the newspapers, and froze as his hand was still out for his change. “What?" he said, nearly shouting as he turned toward the door. “What?" But Ellie was gone.

“You what?" Felicity said, her eyes wide and disbelieving.

"You heard me. Ellie Nedsworth has no sister and her daughter isn't married, that's what."

She shook her head and slumped into a chair. “I don't believe you actually asked him about that, Art. I really don't believe it."

“What difference does it make, Fel? I mean, the man lied to me. More than once, as a matter of fact." He ignored the sudden stare. “On the way back I checked around a little. Mrs. Heidleman's grandchildren are all grown and live out of state. No one that I talked to has ever sent their kids to play in Schiller's yard. He lied, Fel. The man lied to me."

After a moment's thought she shrugged. “Okay, so he lied. So what?"

He sat opposite her and took her hands in his. Mysteries. Mysteries and... boredom. “Listen for a minute, Fel. I've been doing some thinking."

“It's the heat," she muttered, but said nothing more when she saw the expression on his face.

“Now bear with me for a minute, all right?" He waited for her to nod. "Okay. Now—the setter, the cat, I think there was a sheepdog' too. Those runaways—two of them, at least, not a sign of them. Schiller told me himself, Fel—he told me—that he hasn't lived in any one place for more than a couple of years at a time. That's right. And do you know why? I'll tell you. Because—"

"No!" she said sharply, pulling her hands back, rubbing them lightly against her jeans. "Now that's just plain idiotic, Art."

Art pressed. "Fel, the man is senile. Crazy. I don't know. But you should have seen him when he found out what I'd done to his precious sandbox." He thought for a moment, one hand pulling at the side of his jaw. "Yeah. Right. The sandbox. You know, it's an awfully damned big sandbox, Fel."

She rose with a slap to the table. "This is... he's crazy? No," she said when he opened his mouth to protest. "No, Art. You just sit there and think about what you just said to me. Think about it, and then..." She lifted her hands helplessly. "I don't know. Just don't mention it again."

When she walked out of the room there were tears in her eyes.

They said little to each other for the rest of the day. And he did not blame her. Cal Schiller of the tricycle and Australian beer a sadistic mass murderer? He may be a little strange here and there, he thought, but... but... it was an awfully damned big sandbox.

He couldn't sleep, and he knew he wouldn't be able to.

He called himself an idiot, a man desperate for adventure, or attention, when he slipped out of the bed; an idiot when he stood in front of the redwood picket fence; and a goddamned idiot when he climbed over and crept to the side of the house.

The red cover was gone.

The grey sand was smooth, was cool, and when he finally lost his nerve—what had she called him? the Great White Hunter?—and could not bring himself to do any digging, he looked up and saw the shadows on the swings... and the swings were moving.

Jesus, he thought; Schiller's little darlin's.

“Damned fool."

He did not move when the voice spoke behind him. He could not take his eyes off the shadows, off the harsh glints of red, of amber, that could only be their eyes.

Playing in the sand like some fool baby."

The swinging... slowed.

"I told you, son, you shouldn't have touched what just wasn't yours. They don't like that, you know. They get the scent, they just don't like it."

I know, I know, he thought, his legs bunching to run as he rose from his crouch; the heat makes them restless.

Schiller brushed past him, knelt and plunged a hand into the sand, flung a palmful to one side and dug again. Again. Again. The sand like heavy rain on the grass. Art finally looked down, slowly, reluctant to take his eyes from those shadows, those eyes; he looked down and realized there was far too much sand being dumped on the ground for the size of the box that squatted before him.

Schiller sighed, clucked, spat dryly. "Damned fool, you know that, don't you. Hell. It happens every time. Every time. I find the right place they can get out and breathe a little, stretch their muscles, get themselves something to eat, and some damned fool comes along and tries to spoil it for them. Poor little darlin's."

There was too much sand.

Schiller glanced up at him, grunted, and bent his head again.

"What..." Art put a hand to his throat; it felt as though he were choking. "What are you doing?"

"Got to make room," Schiller said, jerking a thumb in the direction of the swings. "They're too lazy to do their own work in heat like this. Damn!"

Art backed off a pace, but the up-and-out blurred motion of the old man's hands mesmerized him. He kept his gaze on the hands, on the sand... on the hands... on the sand...

"You tell your wife, Art?"

He nodded before he could catch himself.

"Oh, well, no harm done," the old man said. He paused to scratch at his chin. Til call her, I guess. Tell her you fell down. Drank too much. She'll come get you." He looked back over his shoulder and grinned.

The hole was deep. Reaching far below the level of the grass.

"Felicity?" Art said.

There was a chittering behind him. Bark against bark; nails drawn over glass.

He looked up—the swings were still, the shadows gone.

"Well I tell you one thing, boy, I ain't moving again," Schiller said. The sand piled high; the hole blackened. "Too much... trouble." He grunted. "I like this place, y'know. It's home now. And the little ones get plenty to eat when they need it."

The chittering. Teeth against teeth.

Art turned around quickly... and saw them. Red, amber, chittering... massing.

He choked back a scream.

The old man scowled, and tossed aside a bone. "Tell me something, son," he said, "how tall are you?"

And kept on digging.

Fog, nightbreath of the river, luring without whispering in the thick crown of an elm, huddling without creaking around the base of a chimney; it drifted past porch lights, and in passing blurred them, dropped over the street lights, and in dropping grayed them. It crept in with midnight to stay until dawn, and there was no wind to bring the light out of hiding.

Frank shivered and drew his raincoat’s collar closer around his neck, held it closed with one hand while the other wiped at the pricks of moisture that clung to his cheeks, his short dark hair. He whistled once, loudly, but in listening heard nothing, not even an echo. He stamped his feet against the November cold and moved to the nearest corner, squinted and saw nothing. He knew the cat was gone, had known it from the moment he had seen the saucer still brimming with milk on the back porch. Damon had been sitting beside it, hands folded, knees pressed tightly together, elbows tucked into his sides. He was cold, but refused to acknowledge it, and Frank had only tousled his son’s softly brown hair, squeezed his shoulder once and went inside to say good-bye to his wife.

And now . . . now he walked, through the streets of Oxrun Station, looking for an animal he had seen only once—a half-breed Siamese with a milk-white face—whistling like a fool afraid of the dark, searching for the note that would bring the animal running.

And in walking, he was unpleasantly reminded of a night the year before, when he had had one drink too many at someone’s party, made one amorous boast too many in someone’s ear, and had ended up on a street corner with a woman he knew only vaguely. They had kissed once and long, and once broken, he had turned around to see Damon staring up at him. The boy had turned, had fled, and Frank had stayed away most of the night, not knowing what Susan had heard, fearing more what Damon had thought.

It had been worse than horrid facing the boy again, but Damon had acted as though nothing had happened; and the guilt passed as the months passed, and the wondering why his son had been out in the first place.

He whistled. Crouched and snapped his fingers at the dark of some shrubbery. Then he straightened and blew out a deeply held breath. There was no cat, there were no cars, and he finally gave in to his aching feet and sore back and headed for home. Quickly. Watching the fog tease the road before him, cut it sharply off behind.

It wasn’t fair, he thought, his hands shoved in his pockets, his shoulders hunched as though expecting a blow. Damon, in his short eight years had lost two dogs already to speeders, a canary to some disease he couldn’t even pronounce, and two brothers stillborn—it was getting to be a problem. 
He
 was getting to be a problem, fighting each day that he had to go to school, whining and weeping whenever vacations came around and trips were planned.

He’d asked Doc Simpson about it when Damon turned seven. Dependency, he was told; clinging to the only three things left in his life—his short, short life—that he still believed to be constant: his home, his mother . . . and Frank.

And Frank had kissed a woman on a corner and Damon had seen him.

Frank shuddered and shook his head quickly, remembering how the boy had come to the office at least once a day for the next three weeks, saying nothing, just standing on the sidewalk looking in through the window. Just for a moment. Long enough to be sure that his father was still there.

Once home, then, Frank shed his coat and hung it on the rack by the front door. A call, a muffled reply, and he took the stairs two at a time and trotted down the hall to Damon’s room set over the kitchen.

“Sorry, old pal,” he said with a shrug as he made himself a place on the edge of the mattress. “I guess he went home.”

Damon, small beneath the flowered quilt, innocent from behind long curling lashes, shook his head sharply. “No,” he said. “This is home. It is, Dad, it really is.”

Frank scratched at the back of his neck. “Well, I guess he didn’t think of it quite that way.”