Lost (45 page)

She sat on the side of the bed, paralyzed. As if to mock her, everywhere she turned now she saw herself. In the three vanity mirrors, her face looked back at her. On the cold window, her pale reflection swam and shimmied. In her mind, she saw herself utterly isolated in this house, this secret hiding place.
It's him!
The seconds passed in slow, unyielding procession. But who is he?

Mamie! He wants Mamie!
The chill spread through her.
I must go to them! I must get Mamie and … I must protect
… She told herself also that she mustn't give in to her terrible fear, but it had her in its grip.
He's in the house!
She had to get Mamie and the children and go. Go just as fast as they could. Leave everything … Throwing on some clothes, she tried to clench herself back into control, because now her fear had grown too deep within her to allow her to do anything else.
The children!

I have to go out that door
.

Her body was sapped of strength. Trying to move was like struggling through quicksand. And yet, carefully, soundlessly, she crossed the narrow room. Leaning forward, she reached for the doorknob, stopped, withdrew her hand and listened. There was no sound on the other side of the door. Again she lowered her hand to the cold knob and now heard a sound so slight it was hardly audible. Just outside, on the balcony, a board creaked.

And slowly the light in the two bedside lamps dwindled, bloomed softly, and shrank to utter darkness. Beneath the house, the faint humming of the generator had stopped.
He got the lights!

Her fingers on her cheeks were like sticks of ice. With the lights out, the bedroom lost all definition—like a world seen fading through dark water. She was weak to the bone. Now's my chance, Leona thought.
I've got to go now
. He's in the cellar. Still, she turned the knob a hairbreadth at a time before she drew it open and peered out. The dark balcony was, to her eyes, deserted. The house was totally silent now, dead quiet. Staying close to the wall, feeling the grain of the wallpaper slide beneath her fingertips, Leona made her way to the next bedroom. The door was ajar, the room dark, not a speck of light anywhere. She slipped her hand out across the sheet. The bed was warm but empty. “Wal-ter?” Her voice cracked. She swallowed, and licked her lips. “Walter?” she whispered. “Don't be afraid. Where are you?”

No answer.

“Where are you, Walter? Are you in here?”

She pulled a book of matches from her pocket, tore out a match, and struck it.

Walter was gone.

She knew she must force herself to be calm. He must be in with the girls. The outline of a glass lamp shone faintly in the dark. She struck a second match. Very little coal oil remained in the glass well. Cupping the flame in her hands, she lit the wick and adjusted the flame down, small and low. Again she listened, again no sound.

Carrying the lamp before her, she checked the balcony a second time and almost ran to the girls' bedroom. Drab winter light filtered through the one window. The room met her gaze in shifting notches—the tall mirrored dresser, the footpost, the bed. But no one was there. One side of the bed hadn't even been mussed. “Kids?” she said, her voice choking. “Mamie?” She slipped back through the door. Holding the lamp up away from her eyes, she stared down the length of the balcony. No one.
What's he done to them?
Now, from somewhere else, she could just barely hear another noise, a small shuffle like footsteps.

She stopped abruptly where she was. The fear had burrowed into her now; she started at every infinitesimal sound. She stood perfectly still—tense, listening—afraid that even a breath might drown out some telling noise.

“Kids?”

The silence returned and hung poised in the air. She stepped to the railing of the balcony and looked down. The fire in the fireplace was still burning, casting a dull orange glow into half the room. Moonlight poured through the one uncovered window in a long creamy stripe. The couch was rumpled, vacant.

He's taken them! He's got Mamie! He's got them all!

In panic, she whirled, dashing toward the top of the stairs and glimpsed sudden movement in a doorway, very close, a quickening blur at the boundary of her light. The darkness swam around her like a tremulous pool; the lamplight washed over his battered shoes and pants and up, slowly, to his malignant blue eyes. “Who—” she gasped, then swallowed. “Who are you?” She hadn't heard him come up the stairs.

The air seemed to stir like a magnetic field and the boy flew through it. A scream broke from her lips, and at once, before she could properly turn or defend herself, he was at her. She swung the kerosene lamp and struck at him. The blade whispered by her eyes, the fist, whitened by the force of his grip, brushing her cheek. The glass chimney exploded in the dark. A face darted over her, a flash of teeth. His strength was like iron. Leona began to shriek, all the sound her breath would carry, just as his bandaged hand closed on her throat, pinning her to the railing. And the knife flew at her again, the blade coming at unbelievable speed. Trying to wheel and duck, Leona wrenched her head to one side and buried her teeth in his bandages. The stench of corruption and decay assailed her. His body stiffened, thrashed about in agony; the knife dropped away, his mouth opened wide, and the noise he made was so loud and piercing it hurt her ears—a howl and a scream, one contained within the other. Still crying out, the boy yanked his hand from the unwinding bandages and shoved her away. He shouted at her then, yelled something, but she couldn't hear him. She was falling, falling backward.

She struck the wall, the railing, the stairs, and lay in an excruciating tangle on the landing. Speeding points of light converged in her eyes; a horrible ringing ache sank into her brain. Everywhere her body felt jagged with pain. Slowly she opened her eyes and saw nothing but a firelit haze. Dimly, the familiar outlines of the room revealed themselves. She clutched the railing and pulled herself up, wildly searching the gray void at the top of the stairs and then out along the balcony. But the boy had vanished. He's still up there, she thought. He'll come down.

The night silence had returned to the house. “Children!” she tried to shout, but the word broke painfully in her throat. Except for the light in the fireplace, the room was dark. I'll find them. I have to. I'll get a light. She turned, stumbled to the table near the front door which held another kerosene lamp and tried to strike a match.

Her hands were shaking too violently; she couldn't keep the matches burning. One after another, they flared and went out and she threw the smoking ends onto the table. Sulphur corroded the air. Suddenly all the hysteria broke inside her and she felt a resurgence of strength. And then a wave of deadly rage swept through her. She struck a match and held it without faltering. She was calm. Her head was perfectly clear. A light, she thought, would favor him, not her. She shook out the match.

I know this house
.

Slumped against the bedroom wall, Sherman drew a long, staggered breath. He pressed his thumb against the veins in his wrist to ease the throbbing in his torn hand. On the bed, across the room, white pillows gleamed with dull moonlight.

Quickly, with his knife, he cut the pillowcase lengthwise in three horizontal strips, then ripped them loose at the ends. She won't go nowhere without Mamie, he thought. And Mamie won't go with her. Not now that I'm here. He took the first strip of cloth and wound it tight around his hand. Blood soaked through it in an instant. He wound the next strip even tighter, to stop the pain and the bleeding. With his teeth, he tore the end of the third, wound part of it, and tied it with his good hand. He was trembling. He gripped his hand a few times until he could hold it in a fist, then took up his knife and went out the bedroom door.

The house was as still and hollow-sounding as a cave. The front door had been left standing open. Gusts of wind blew through it, snow flying halfway across the room. Where is she? The open door bothered him, the possibility that she'd gone. But she wouldn't go, he told himself, not without the kids. She's still down there. He drew back from the railing and started down the stairs.

The room seemed to rise to meet him. His eyes hurt, his heart was pounding, yet desperately he studied the depths of the room. Things were somehow getting out of control. He was being drawn deeper and deeper toward some place where he had never meant to go. Why had she left the door open? It made no sense. Uncertainty moved inside him like nausea.

Soundlessly he stalked down the stairs and the living room unreeled around him. He took another step. Shadows lay cluttered in his path like bottomless holes. He stood very still, listening, but heard nothing, not even a breath. Her disappearance only doubled his rage.

Where'd she go?

Coldly, like a machine, Sherman analyzed the room. To his left stood a tall wooden secretary filled with books; beyond that was the entrance to the kitchen. Directly ahead of him, twenty feet or so, loomed the open front door, a rectangle of hard blue light, snow blowing through it. Next to the door was the one uncovered window, shot through with faint moonlight. To his right, beyond the chairs and couch, was the stone fireplace. On either side of it were bookcases and windows and cabinets. He glanced back over his shoulder. Behind him, under the staircase, was the linen closet.

He turned on his toes. He wiped his sleeve across his forehead, and then, in a streak, darted to the closet, threw the door open, and raised his knife. Shelves of towels and sheets met him. He stared, took a deep breath, and pivoted. A long, weaving cry of wind blew snow toward him, and running through it a voice—a very cold, very angry voice. Sherman couldn't make out what it said. His skin was tingling and clammy.

It was as if the wind had created the voice. It hung on the air like a lingering shred of sound. He ran a few steps into the room.
It was her! That woman! Her voice!
His mind repeated the sound; he heard it again, like an echo against the back of his brain. He still couldn't make out the words, but the unexpected ominous tone of her voice chilled him. Suddenly he spun, gazing, searching the balcony, all the time knowing it was impossible for her to be there. But she was somewhere. Close. The balcony was dark, empty. Only dead silence drifted back to him. She's watching me, he thought. He could feel her eyes hovering on him, wanted to slash at them. He shrank back into the stairwell, then stepped even deeper in until the protecting shadows surrounded him.

And then the same voice came again, very cold, very hard, ringing against the walls.

“
What did you do to my sister!
”

Sherman swallowed.

He couldn't move. A feeling like ice, like a fine cold spray of ice, spread outward from his chest. The woman was alive with hatred; he could feel it radiating from her voice. Sweat ran into his eyes and he squeezed them shut, dragging his sleeve across his face. He stared through the bannister supports, but he knew before he looked there was no one out there. The living room was empty. Snow blew across it—over chairs, couch, the rug. Where was she? Where was the voice coming from?

Suddenly the voice said, “
You bastard
.” Still hard, iron hard.

Then: “
You murderer!
”

The darkness coiled and closed on him like a fist. He straightened, stood bolt upright, twisting his head toward all the blackest shadow places. The voice had been quieter this time, chilling, spoken under her breath. She's right here someplace. Watchin' me. But why? This is crazy! She had to be right there in front of him, watching everything he did without being seen. It wasn't possible. He could feel his control crumbling away.

Suddenly he ran from the stairwell, tore wildly across the room, past the dark shapes of furniture to the blue rectangle of night. He flew out onto the moonlit porch, and the night wind hit him like a barrage of ice, ruffling his shirt, freezing his sweat. The snow-covered planks had been touched by nothing but his own shoes. I knew it, he thought; she didn't come out here. He hurled back through the doorway, his shadow leaping and disappearing in the room. “Say somethin' now!” he yelled.

He ran through the kitchen doorway, throwing doors open, slamming them shut, pitching out anything he could grab—dishes crashing, exploding on the floor and walls, utensils flying. “Talk to me now!” he yelled. “Say somethin' now!” It seemed to him that somehow she was always behind him, invisible, hovering very close in the dark, whispering, whispering. Still tearing about, he ran past the sink. On the counter, in a neat even row, was a row of kitchen knives—six or eight of them, all laid out. They drew him to a halt. It was very strange, knives laid out like that. She did this, he thought, to rattle me. With a vicious lunge, Sherman swept them off into the air, heard them clatter away. Treading on broken china, gasping for breath, he rushed back to the doorway, his eyes searching the gloom. And the wind blew. And that voice rose through it, not loud, but there, fierce and alive, hard as metal.

“
You can't hurt us. I won't let you
.”

“
THEN STOP ME
!” he yelled. “
STOP ME
,
GODDAM YOU
!” His voice pierced the room, the gusty snow flying around him.

As if the night itself had shifted, something stirred in the fabric of air immediately in front of him. His concentration gathered, grew sharp. Very slowly he lifted his head and turned; his eyes peered through the quivering flashes of firelight. Something was wrong about that door. Two or three steps away, swung back from the opening to the porch, the front door stood, its glass windowpane facing him, thin curtains backing it. Reflected on the glass he could see his own faint image, and there was something else there, too—her ghostly shape, taller than he was, looming over him.
Behind me!
The realization struck him.
She's crept up behind me!
He plunged, twisted sideways, slashed out with his knife.