Spellbinder (12 page)

C
ARSON SLIPPED THE PRYBAR
between the door and the frame, gripped the doorknob with his left hand and pressed with his right hand against the bar as he turned the knob. The door shifted, cracked, but still held fast. Had someone installed a bolt on the inside? Uncle Julian?

He glanced over his shoulder as he shifted his feet, working the bar deeper into its slot. Now he leaned with his full weight against the bar. A sudden shift, a sharp splintering, and the door sprang free. As he stepped quickly into the dark hallway he turned, looked out into the street. Except for a car turning the Maple Street corner, nothing stirred. Closing the door, he slipped the prybar down inside the front of his pants, looped its cord around his belt and carefully knotted the cord. From his hip pocket he withdrew a penlight. Holding the penlight close to his palm, he pressed the switch. Yes, the tiny circle of light was bright; the batteries were strong.

He was ready.

Three quick steps took him to the doorway of the small living room. Pale light from the streetlamp outside fell on the familiar shapes: the couch, the armchair, the two straightback chairs, the small coffee table placed in front of the couch. Except for the TV, predictably missing, nothing had changed. Even the odor was the same: musty and rank, the smell of misery—and madness.

He’d always hated it. Standing in the open doorway of the room, listening, he could hear the lost, lonely echo of her sobs, and her shouts, and the small, strange sounds she made in the night, struggling with her demons.

Slowly, he turned away. His bedroom was next to hers. The door of his room was closed. As he turned the knob and pushed the door open, he felt his own demons stirring. The familiar shadow-shapes that crouched in the darkness could have followed him from prison, ready once more to conspire with his memories. With their tops swept clean by some mysterious hand, the desk and the bureau were strange, squared-off sentinels, waiting and watching. The bookshelves were empty. His pictures and posters had been taken from the walls.

It was a stranger’s room, worse than a cell.

Shifting the penlight to his left hand, he drew a knife from his hip pocket. A snap, and the blade came alive in his hand, gleaming in the darkness. He moved to the bed, standing for a moment motionless beside it, looking down.

Then, suddenly, he struck—once, twice, three times. Short, savage slashes ripped open the mattress where his head could have been—his heart—his genitals. Each sweep of the blade—each twisting, tearing slash—could have torn his body open, leaving him alone in the darkness, lying dead in the blood and the excrement that would soak the mattress around him.

It was the waking part of a dream he’d often had, lying helpless on the bed, pinioned, while someone with his face—his knife—killed him.

He held the knife before him now, turning the blade to reflect the pale rectangle of night light from the window.

He’d bought the knife tonight, after leaving his uncle. For more than a week—for nine days—he’d thought about a knife, remembering how a knife would feel in his hand—remembering how it could flash in the darkness—remembering how blood could gleam on the silvery blade.

And remembering, too, that possession of the knife could send him back to prison.

For nine days, deciding whether to get the knife, he’d been incomplete.

But never again.

Never, never again.

His thumb touched the knife’s locking slide. The blade disappeared into the handle. Its magic was sheathed, releasing him. So, moving smoothly now, he returned the knife to his pocket and stepped out into the hallway. The stranger’s room was behind him. Gone.

So, swiftly, he walked to the big hall closet, empty now. Because she’d once locked him in the closet, he couldn’t close the door. But, tonight, it was a meaningless problem. Because he was reaching above his head, firmly pulling on a length of rope suspended from the ceiling. One long, firm pull, and the spring-release staircase came down, extending itself as it dropped to the floor at his feet.

Six steps took him to the attic, smelling sour and stuffy. But there were no demons here—only dirt and dust.

No demons, and no danger.

The trunk was against the far wall, where he knew the pale beam of the flashlight would find it. The trunk was unlocked, as he’d expected. With the penlight held in his teeth he used both hands to raise the old-fashioned curved lid. Rusty hinges creaked, feebly protesting.

Long ago, wearing a bandana wrapped around his head, pretending to be a pirate, he’d raised this same curved lid. He’d peered into the same musty, mysterious interior with the same sense of forbidden adventure and anxious, tremulous excitement that he felt now.

His fingers had slightly trembled then—as they were trembling now.

His breath had come in short, shallow gasps; his mouth had been dry—then, and now.

The trunk’s top tray contained the well-remembered collection of cheap, sentimental junk: old photographs, yellowed playbills, a beaded purse she’d carried to her first dance, bits of broken jewelry and faded mementos from her childhood. Carefully, he lifted the tray and set it softly on the floor beside the trunk. He knew what he wanted—knew where to find it.

The dark interior of the trunk held a tangled skein of gauzy, sequined theatrical costumes, each one a memento of a play in which she’d appeared. Long ago, he’d climbed the retracting stairway to find her crouched beside the trunk, surrounded by the costumes. She’d been dressed in one of the costumes. Her face had been made up for the theater: eyes and mouth enlarged, cheeks darkened, nostrils deepened. But she hadn’t used a mirror, and her face looked as if she wore a grotesque mask that had slipped. When she saw him, she began to cry. In the cramped, airless attic, he’d smelled the strong odor of alcohol. He’d never smelled the odor before, never seen her drunk before.

Quickly, he dipped into the flimsy costumes, trailing their random lengths of satin and gauze from impatient fingers. Soon the costumes were strewn around him, raising clouds of dust.

If she’d poked her head up into the attic now, as he’d done so long ago, she would find him crouched down beside the trunk with the costumes surrounding him—just as he’d found her.

An old fur coat, bedraggled as a dead cat, lay at the very bottom of the trunk. He hurled the coat away from him …

… and lifted out the scrapbook.

The pages riffling beneath his anxious fingers were just as he’d remembered them: the baby on its blanket, the little girl in the ruffled dress, the teen-ager on stage in her first play, the face in the gospel choir, posing in front of a microphone.

And, finally, an 8x10 studio photo of the young woman standing raptly beside an older man. The man was posing in front of a TV camera. His eyes were cast reverently up toward heaven. His right hand was raised high in a gesture of grand supplication. The words,
For Mary, with God’s love and mine, Austin Holloway
, were written in fading ink across the bottom of the photograph.

The rest of the scrapbook, page after page, was filled with newsclippings, all about Austin Holloway.

Turning back, playing the penlight’s beam more closely on the 8x10 photo, he could make out a date written by Holloway in the lower left-hand corner of the photograph:

September 3, 1951.

Less than a year before he’d been born.

Raising his head slowly to window level, he looked inside the garage. Yes, the Buick was gone. Uncle Julian was still at the Elks club. The time was a little after ten. Time remaining, at least an hour. More than enough.

Crouched beneath the line of a hedge that ran along the property line, he moved cautiously toward the house, his feet silent on the thick lawn. Uncle Julian was proud of his lawns. The gardener came at least once a week, all through the year.

As he came closer to the house, he heard the sound of a neighbor’s dog barking. Insects buzzed in the grass at his feet. The distant muttering roar of a jet airliner came from somewhere in the northern sky. The horizon to the east was lightening. The moon was about to rise.

The screen door to the back porch was open, as he’d expected. In Darlington, proud householders often boasted that, in their town, doors need never be locked.

Gently, he tried the back door. The knob turned; the door swung slowly open.

Uncle Julian would boast no more.

As he stepped across the threshold into the darkened kitchen, he felt his stomach shift. His genitals were tightening. His breath was coming faster. His throat was dry.

Here, in this house he hated, windows were lighted. From somewhere upstairs he could hear the sound of music and voices, followed by tinny laughter. A TV was playing, or a radio. Barbara was upstairs. He could sense her presence.

The house was alive.

And he was alive, too.

For four years, locked away, he’d been dead. But now, advancing down the dark hallway toward his uncle’s dining room, he’d come alive. Finally, fully alive.

The dining room was dark, deserted.

The living room, too, was dark. Ahead, on the right, light came through an archway that opened on a small parlor, across the hallway from the living room. As he moved to the wall beside the archway, he was aware that his right hand had slid into his hip pocket. He held the knife in his hand. He hadn’t heard the click, but he knew the blade had sprung out, locked and ready.

With his back flattened against the hallway’s flocked velvet wallpaper, he was inching toward the archway. He held the knife in his right hand, delicately probing ahead, as deadly as a snake’s tongue. Behind him, the fingertips of his left hand slid lightly over the velvet flocking.

Until, beyond the final inch, he could see into the parlor …

… empty.

Instantly, he turned to face the carved walnut door to his uncle’s study, diagonally across the hallway. The door was closed; the crack beneath the door was dark. Three short, light steps took him to the door. His left hand was on the embossed brass knob, turning it. Soundlessly, the door swung open. He was inside the study, with the door safely closed behind.

Standing in the darkened room, he could clearly hear the remembered echo of his uncle’s voice, furiously lashing him:

“
That’s what you are. You’re a bastard.
”

He could clearly remember his uncle’s eyes, too. He could clearly see the hatred, and the old, easy contempt. It was the memory of those eyes that had brought him here.

His uncle’s eyes, and all the others. Always, he could see them. Awake or asleep, they would never release him.

His footsteps were noiseless on the thick carpet as he moved around the desk. The only sound was the ticking of the miniature grandfather’s clock. With the knife in his right hand, he trailed the fingers of his left hand gently over the leather desk top, finally to rest on the clock. He lifted the clock, placed it on the floor, placed his right foot lightly on the clock. Then, slowly, he shifted his weight to his right foot until he heard a cracking, and felt the clock flatten under his foot.

Behind the desk now, he felt for the twin knobs of the desk’s center drawer. The drawer was stuck—or locked. With the knife gripped in his teeth, he used both hands to pull at the knobs. Yes, the drawer was locked.

Confirming that, yes, it was here that Uncle Julian kept his valuables.

He placed the knife on the desk top, withdrew the penlight from his pocket and shone the slender beam on the line where the drawer joined the desk. Yes, there was enough room for his prybar. He placed the penlight beside the knife, neatly aligned. His fingers moved to the cord knotted around his belt. He could …

The door was opening.

Dressed in a sheer nightgown, backlit by the light from the parlor across the hallway, Barbara stood in the open doorway.

He was around the desk. His left hand crashed into the base of her throat. As she staggered back, sagging against the wall, he kicked the door closed. She was struggling to keep her footing, trying to push herself away from the wall. In the dim light from the window behind the desk, he could see her eyes, wide with terror. Her mouth was coming open; her throat was convulsing.

“Don’t scream, Barbara,” he said softly, moving forward until the point of the knife touched her chest between the swell of her small, pubescent breasts. “Don’t scream, or I’ll slit you up the front. I promise.”

“
James.
” Her voice was almost inaudible. Then, in a breathless rush: “
James.
”

“That’s loud enough, Barbara.” He raised his left hand, pointing to an armchair. It was the same chair his uncle had gestured him to so contemptuously, on Thursday afternoon.

“Sit down.” As he said it, he gestured with the knife toward the chair. It was a delicate, elegant gesture, just right. Her eyes were fixed on the knife. She was fascinated, helpless. “Sit down, Barbara,” he repeated softly.

“James. Please. I …”

“Sit down, Barbara. Or you’ll bleed. I promise you, you’ll bleed.”

With a sudden desperate, awkward rush of arms and legs akimbo, she lurched into the chair. The skirt of her nightgown drew taut across slim white thighs. Small breasts strained against the flimsy fabric of the nightgown. Standing over her now, he leaned forward to reach across her shoulder for the penlight, still on the desk. The movement brought his genitals into contact with her shoulder. Instantly, the warm rush of sensation leaped up from his groin to his solar plexus, then to his throat, tight and dry. It was almost a physical pain, leaving him momentarily helpless. He felt her shrink away from him. He turned the penlight on her face, and pressed the switch. Yes, her eyes were wild, fixed on his face. She was terrified, visibly trembling.

So it was beginning. In this small room, where her father had called him a bastard, their game was beginning.

But slowly—slowly.

The small, round spot of white light was moving, beginning its delicate dance. First, playfully, the circle moved down to her throat, where he saw a small droplet of blood. Smiling, he placed the knife on the desk, out of her reach. With his right forefinger, he touched the spot of blood. He held the finger in front of her eyes, for her to see. Then, still smiling, he lifted the finger to his lips, licking the fingertip. From deep in her throat, he heard a retching sound.