The House of Dies Drear (7 page)

He backed away from the house to get a clearer view. Behind him, the land rose to the top of the hill.

There were trees up there—big, ancient trees, dense and wet with rain.

Just trees, he thought. If I climb one, I can see how the house looks from the roof down.

Thomas worked his way up the hill. Closer to the trees, he saw that they were a variety he didn’t know.

“Won’t be able to climb those,” he said eyeing the sharp needles. He looked behind him down the hill and was surprised to find he could see beyond the house to the stream below it. He saw that the house hadn’t been built directly facing the stream, but at an angle to it.

It looks like it faces the stream when you’re standing down there, he thought.

Thomas squatted down to study what lay before him. Then he stretched out on the damp ground with his head propped on his elbow. Slowly he grew calm and tired. After what had happened under the house, he was content to be where he was.

“The house doesn’t look so scary from up here,” he said. “It’s not pretty though, but that flat roof makes it look more graceful.”

Thomas stared a long time at the house and landscape, thinking of nothing in particular. He must have dozed. When at last he started and sat up, his legs were stiff. He got up, and his arms and face were cool.

He felt strange all of a sudden. He looked around him. The trees held darkness; below him, lights were on in the house. It seemed as though night had risen from the earth.

Thomas was ready to start down the hill as fast as he could go, when something rooted him where he was. He must have been hearing the sound for some time.

He couldn’t move now if he tried, for the sound was dreadful, there in the dark trees.

“Ahhh, ahhh. Ahhh, ahhh.”

It came from behind Thomas. The night was still; he could hear the sound clearly. Moving ever so slowly, he turned toward the trees. He listened for a long time, and, standing there, he became hidden by night.

Thomas was afraid, but it wasn’t the first time today he had been afraid.

It’s my birthday, he thought.

Papa, don’t turn out the lights. Please don’t.

He slipped through the trees, so used to walking in woods he could calculate where the pine boughs would touch him and have his hands in position to push them away. He walked on his toes, with one foot in front of the other. Indian scouts had walked that way so they could be ready to run in an instant if they had to.

Thomas followed that steady sound. His eyes darted blindly. Soon he was over the crest of the hill and moving downward on the other side. He didn’t look back. He knew that by now the trees and hill blotted out the lights of the house.

“Papa, just keep them on,” he said to himself. “I don’t need to see them.”

“Ahhh, ahhh,” the thing went.

Thomas was getting closer to it. It was louder; there was something else—a crackling, sighing sound running beneath the ahhhing. The new sound was like dry leaves breaking under foot.

A lot of leaves, Thomas thought. A lot of them breaking together, with a wind coming up to blow them away.

The trees grew thicker. Thomas used his shoulders to get through them. He had the feeling he was moving too fast, and he tried to slow himself down.

You won’t see anything quicker if you hurry than if you don’t. You can’t see anything anyhow.

His heart beat hard. As long as he didn’t allow himself to think what the ahhhing might be, he could keep moving. Holding his mind as blank as possible made him less afraid. Finally he was able to slow himself down, but by then he had made his mistake.

The springy, slippery bed of pine needles Thomas had been walking on was no longer beneath his feet. His shoes clomped loudly before he could silence them.

“Boards!” he said. He was walking on wood. He still couldn’t see anything.

The wood moved. Thomas began to slide. He was standing on a platform of some kind and the thing was rising. With his body off-balance, he had no chance to run.

Thomas slid to the ground in a crouch. He could see light coming from below the platform. The ahhhing had grown loud, with the crackling, sighing, under it, trying to catch it.

Then there was no sound. The light from the platform reflected an eerie red and orange in the trees. There was the smell of smoke. Thomas hugged the earth.

Ever so slowly, two doors in the platform opened. Thomas saw two hands and bright fire, which turned the trees a slippery gold. Out of fire and out of the ground rose a huge head, huge shoulders. Up and up the thing rose, with a head full of hair that was red and yellow with light. The hair hanging mosslike from its jowls bristled and tumbled gold and orange.

“Who’s that? What’s that!” called a harsh, loud voice.

The frightful head looked down. Thomas saw its angry face. The eyes of it caught the firelight and glinted emerald and wet. The eyes of it found Thomas holding on to the earth.

“What demon walks on Pluto’s house!”

“Devvvvil!” Thomas cried out shrilly.

He was breaking through the trees.

Devil!

Branches whipped at him; needles stung him. He fell twice. Once he got turned around, heading toward the fiery light again. He tripped and somersaulted, barely missing a tree. But he picked himself up and ran again toward his own house, up and over the hill. He was sure that the devil waited for him somewhere in the trees ahead.

“I’ve got to run,” he told himself. “It’s the nightmare! It’s just like the dream in the car!”

It seemed to him he was moving ever so slowly. “I’ve got to run and hit it hard!”

When he ran into it, he would hit it with his full force. That way, he would cause it to pause long enough so that he could get around it and away.

But the man or devil, that Pluto, whatever he was, had fooled Thomas. He had not moved fast enough to get in front of Thomas. He caught up with him from behind.

He caught Thomas in mid-stride. Thomas’ legs were still running when Pluto’s arms tightened around his chest and, with ease, swung him into the air.

It happened so suddenly, Thomas had the notion that time had stopped. His mind went blank. Then it began to function almost reluctantly again, as did his struggle to free himself. One endless thought clawed its way into and out of his head: No old man who was lame, who was like any old man anywhere, even if he weren’t lame, could ever catch him from behind. No, nor lift him off the ground and hold onto him.

Devil! Devil!

“Let go! Let me go!” Thomas whispered.

The man, that Pluto, heard Thomas and laughed. It was a mean laugh, like a snarl.

“You rounders,” he said, “think you can come scare me out of my wits! You want to know? I have found it before you, and you ought to see it!”

Something bright exploded inside Thomas. He had no time to put away carefully and remember what Pluto had said. Now he was awake, when a moment ago he had felt inside a dream. He lashed back with his elbows, in a motion that was swift and unexpected. Pluto let out a grunt, and his body sagged just enough for his arms to relax.

Thomas ran free.

That devil was coming also. Thomas could hear him, and he was not running, but striding swiftly through the trees.

Thomas was over the crest of the hill. Below him were lights in the new house. The house was sweet to see. Thomas laughed—it was no better than a cry—and he ran faster once he had cleared the trees.

Thomas burst open the kitchen door, tripped over the threshold and slid across the linoleum on his stomach. He hit the table; dishes crashed to the floor. He lay there, trying to breathe. Someone bounded down the stairs. It was his papa. He heard his mother calling, “What is it? What’s happening?” Somewhere above, the twins let out a tired wail.

Mr. Small was shocked by the scene that greeted him. Thomas lay sprawled half under the kitchen table, with broken dishes around him. There was mud on his trousers and a lone, dirt skid mark across the linoleum. The kitchen-door lock had been pulled completely out of the molding and hung, useless, by one screw. Mr. Small couldn’t think why he had locked the door in the first place, since he knew Thomas would be returning by way of it. But he had, and now he couldn’t imagine what force had pulled out the lock.

Mr. Small kneeled beside Thomas. “Thomas. Son,” he whispered. He didn’t touch the boy, but absently picked away bits of splintered glass from Thomas’ shirt.

Mrs. Small came in and kneeled down. “Who did this?” she said. “Is he bleeding? Thomas! Please get up!”

“Lock.” Thomas managed to say. He tried to keep his voice from trembling.

“It’s … he’s coming … lock.” He was too tired to bother with making sentences. All he wanted his mother to do was lock the back door so Pluto—that devil, whatever he was— wouldn’t be able to get him.

There was the sound of heavy feet on the rear veranda. A loud knock on the door caused it to slowly swing open. And framed by night stood that massive, black and bearded man some souls called Pluto.

Chapter 7

A MOVEMENT OF
cool air from the open door fanned springy curls tucked behind Mrs. Small’s ears. She’d never seen old Pluto. Her hands clenched, as some instinct to defend her family made her stand boldly in front of him. When the loud knocking started, she had moved forward. She stood there, not menacing but watchful and strong.

Pluto stepped over the threshold in a direct but courteous manner. He had thick, white hair and a full white beard, just as Mr. Small had described. And he was tall, taller than any elderly man Mrs. Small had ever seen. His broad shoulders drooped forward with age, causing his huge head to seem as untamed as that of a white gerfalcon.

What Mr. Small hadn’t done was put the whole picture of Pluto together for Mrs. Small—his beard and hair against the dark brown skin of his face, out of which peered glassy, green eyes. He was somehow larger than dream or nightmare. She studied him from head to foot and did not think about him being lame. It was something other than his fearful head that caused her face to tighten. The way Mr. Pluto dressed seemed out of place and out of season, although there was no one thing that was wrong.

Too well ordered, Mrs. Small thought. Yes! Just too well groomed for a country man!

The idea came to her that maybe Mr. Pluto had planned with great care some particular effect.

But why? She wondered. She carefully wiped her damp palms on her apron and extended her hand to this stranger.

“You are Mr. Pluto.” Her voice was uncertain. “I shouldn’t sure … my, gracious, I
was
staring at you. I’m awfully sorry!”

Mr. Pluto walked near and politely took her hand. He wore heavy hide gloves; they looked new, and he did not remove them. He said nothing. He retreated to a place just within the open door, where there was least light.

“This is Thomas, my son,” Mrs. Small said. She turned slightly in Thomas’ direction, where he still lay half beneath the kitchen table. There was an awkward silence in which Mrs. Small tried not to notice the mess Thomas had made. For it was Thomas alone who had caused the dishes to crash down upon his head. Mrs. Small slowly freed herself from the shock of Mr. Pluto, and, in the silence of the kitchen, she understood clearly what must have befallen her son.

Quickly Mrs. Small spoke again. “And this is my husband. I believe you two already know one another.” Looking at Pluto, her features tensed. Her eyes darkened, as though shadow passed over her vision.

“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Small,” Pluto said. He was boldly cordial. “I’m afraid I mistook your boy.” He cleared his throat.

Thomas, still shivering, watched Mr. Pluto secretly from beneath his arm.

“There are strangers … every once in awhile …” Pluto said darkly. “They come out here and they mean no good. I chase ’em off. I thought your boy was one… .” He nodded at Thomas by way of apology. His eyes flicked toward Mr. Small and quickly away before they could make contact. He did this several times.

Now why is he shifty? Thomas wondered. And he’s a speechmaker, but he doesn’t seem to know his speech, or else he hasn’t written all of it yet.

Thomas shot a glance at his father. He couldn’t have been more surprised by the look on his face.

Mr. Small stood stock still, in a pose of deep concentration. His arms were rigid at his sides. He stared so hard at old Pluto, his whole face seemed caught in a terrible spasm.

Thomas whistled silently through his teeth. Secretly he looked at old Pluto to see if he had noticed. But Pluto was staring into some neutral space above the table, as if waiting agreeably for what was to come next. Thomas had another look at his father, only to find him his usual self. Whatever had caused him to become upset no longer showed in his expression, nor in the way he stood there.

Was I seeing things? Thomas asked himself.

“Nice to see you again,” Mr. Small said. He picked up his pipe and walked around the table to shake hands with Mr. Pluto. “I want to thank you for taking care of things. You did well putting the rooms in order—saves me a lot of time and energy. You’ll work yourself too hard though.”

“Why, the big moving van came at the beginning of the week. I took my time,” said Pluto. “I hope it’s all right”

“Couldn’t be better,” said Mr. Small. “Everything is fine just the way you arranged it.” He watched Pluto as though he had been struck, suddenly, by some new and strange idea of him. Again Pluto would not meet his eyes, but appeared to pull back from him as far as he could without moving physically.

Mr. Small took a step toward Pluto and shifted the conversation without warning.

“How’s the black doing, and the bay?” he said matter-of-factly. “I remember you were working on their shoes.”

The question startled Pluto; there was no place for him to back up to without going out the door. “Oh …” he stammered. Mr. Small took another step forward. “Yes … yes, sir!

“The bay is fine, just fine.” Pluto was talking fast, and Mr. Small did not move. “But I had to hobble that black,” Pluto said. “He’s got the chill, but he won’t stay still. He tries to run all night to get away from it. I had to hobble him, had to tie his feet to keep him from bursting his heart.”