You must have wondered many times what happened to me on that dreadful night. Even now, these months later, I find it almost impossible to explain and believe me, that hasn’t happened very often in the course of my professional career.
I should have died that night. I should have fallen off that balcony, and all the world would have believed that I was a suicide. Somehow, that never happened. I don’t know if it was luck or some inner strength that I never knew I possessed.
Why was I up there, teetering on that ledge? That’s a logical question, but I have no logical answer. All I can tell you is that it began with my secret fear—that down deep, I was afraid, terrified, that I would succumb to Alzheimer’s, just like my mother.
I began to believe that it was happening to me. It was so real, Su Ling, I can hardly tell you. I experienced all the symptoms, and trust me, I know them well. I forgot details, forgot arrangements, began to wander with no memory of where I’d gone.
Eventually, it was more than forgetfulness. I began to imagine myself somewhere else; the same facility where my mother died. It had the same smell, the same touch, the same methods for keeping patients controlled and restrained.
I knew I had to escape. It wasn’t the balcony; it was the door to my cell; a way out.
I know what you’re thinking, my friend. You’re thinking that old Dr. Knaster has finally lost her marbles. Believe me, I thought that too, for awhile. But I know madness, Su Ling. This was something different. How else to explain that the minute I left the Exeter, everything dissipated. The illusions were gone. Most important, so was the fear.
And how to explain what happened to that poor couple, the lawyer and his wife; to Mr. Brown; to that poor young man who used to throw the parties?
How to explain what happened to that television psychic? I read all about it. I was shocked, but not surprised.
It was fear, Su Ling. Pure, terrifying, horrifying, soul-searing fear. Our worst fears. Our deepest fears. Our most secret fears.
Yes, there was illusion in my case, and I’m sure in all of the others too. But the fear was real, and the results . . . well you already know enough about those.
My dear Su Ling, I feel—no, I know it to be true—that the Exeter is the source. It holds fear within itself, it breeds fear, it amplifies fear.
Ghosts? Hell if I know. Spirits? Your guess is as good as mine. I’m a woman of science and I’m not sure if I believe in any of that crap.
But I do know that you and Anna are at risk, and Mr. Cantrell too, whom I believe you have begun to care about. You need to get out of there, now.
I don’t know if I can be any more direct than that. Please take my words seriously, like you always did before. And know that the three of you remain very dear to my heart, and always will.
Love,
Sharon
Su Ling carefully folded the letter and returned it to its envelope.
“There’s no return address.”
§
They were sweating from their sex, resting from its exertions, but they were having a difficult afterglow.
Su Ling rose from the messed bed and quickly covered her nakedness with a gown. It wasn’t like her. Usually, she liked to linger beside him in bed, to cuddle and feel their skin touching.
“What’s wrong?” Cantrell asked.
“What do you mean?” There was an uncharacteristic sharpness in her voice.
“I don’t know . . . when we made love, it felt different,
distant
. Like you were thinking of something else.”
She sighed and ran her fingers through her long black hair.
“I’m sorry, Alex. You’re right. It’s this building. It’s so empty, so quiet . . . ”
“And?”
“I just don’t feel comfortable anymore. And it’s getting worse. Have you noticed how this place is starting to look, I don’t know, different?
Crooked
.”
Cantrell couldn’t hide his reaction.
“You
have
seen it. It feels like we’re walking on the deck of a ship. The angles aren’t right. The walls don’t seem straight anymore, but when you look a second time, it’s all back to normal.”
He could think of nothing to say.
“And it’s more than that,” she resumed. “I feel like a blind person, who develops super-hearing or something. It’s so
quiet
here, so empty . . . I can hear the trash going down the chute, all the way to the basement. I can hear a leaf dropping from the tree in the foyer. When we make love, I think it can probably be heard three floors away. Like I said, empty. The place is like a tomb.”
Cantrell felt his anger flare.
“It’s not a tomb, for God’s sake. It’s our home. It’s my dream.”
Now the edge was in
his
voice.
“It’s a tomb,” she said, looking him directly in the eye. “And you know it.”
“All right, so it’s
my
tomb. And I’ll be buried in it if I have to.”
She smiled sardonically. “Stop it, Alex. I’m trying to be serious.”
“Okay, so what exactly are you trying to say?”
“We need to listen to Sharon. I don’t want the same thing that happened to everyone else to happen to us. You have to realize that we’re not immune. It’s going to be our turn, sooner or later. Can’t you see that?
He sat up in bed and took her hand in his.
“Of course I can, Su. That’s why I’ve made a decision. I want you and Anna to leave. Not for good. Only until I can figure out how to deal with this.”
“And how do you plan to do that? By sacrificing yourself like Cross did?”
“No. I don’t know what happened to Cross, but I know that he was on the wrong track. He didn’t know how to approach . . . whatever it is that’s going on here.”
She chuckled.
“And you do?”
“Not right now. But I will.”
“You’re a very brave man Alex, after all you’ve seen here.”
“All I’m saying is that I’m not going to back down. I’m going to face it, whatever it is. If Sharon is right, and this is all about fear, then that’s what I’ll have to fight, and I’ll do it as hard and as long as I can.”
She brought her other hand to his. They looked into each other’s eyes.
“Why, Alex? That’s what I don’t understand. Why won’t you come with us, and let this place rot in hell?”
He suddenly rose from the bed and slapped his fist against his open hand.
“I just can’t! This place, as you call it, is more than a building, Su. It’s more than a pile of blueprints and old bricks. It’s my life, damn it! I put everything I have into this dream—my money, my time, my hopes, my soul. And whatever lies in wait for me, I can’t walk away from it. I can’t just give it away to whatever it is that lives here.”
“And you won’t,” she said quietly. “Will you?”
He shook his head, sitting back on the bed, taking her hands.
“But Su, it’s important that I do this alone. You and Anna have to go, just for a while. Just until this is settled.”
She paused before she spoke the next sentence, knowing that it was something that should remain unsaid.
“Is it worth so much to you that you’re willing to die for it?”
“Yes,” he replied without hesitation.
“Good,” she said, taking her hands away from his. “You helped me make up my mind.”
“So you’re willing to leave?”
She laughed again.
“Not exactly. In fact, just the opposite. We’re staying. How about that?”
“No. That’s not an option. There’s no way . . . ”
She put her finger to his lips.
“Listen to me, Alex. That detective was right. You are a very stubborn man. And I am a very stubborn woman. I’m staying, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”
They remained quiet for a minute, merely looking at each other.
“You have to understand something, Alex,” she began at last. “I love you. Anna loves you. You are our family now. We’re not just going to leave you here alone. Whatever it is, we’ll fight it together . . . as a family.”
The defiant expression on Cantrell’s face finally melted into a smile. “Okay. You win.”
“And you’re right,” she added. “This
is
our home.”
They found themselves, once more, in each other’s arms.
§
He woke with a start, at some unknown time, deep in the pitch black of early morning. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he felt her presence before actually seeing her.
Anna stood immediately next to where he slept. Her face, as always, revealed no emotion. He saw a plume of breath issue from her mouth, suddenly realizing that the room was ice cold.
Her eyes made direct contact with his, holding them. Through the fog of waking, Cantrell realized it was the first time she’d ever done that; the first time she’d ever communicated with him on any level.
Anna extended her arm, pointing at the wall across the room.
It was also the first time he had seen her make such a deliberate gesture. It was unmistakably a conscious act.
Su Ling stirred beside him, and slowly rose. She looked in astonishment at her daughter, and then followed Anna’s pointing finger to the wall.
Cantrell and Su Ling gasped in simultaneous astonishment.
The long, even wall was dissolving before their eyes, its off-white drywall being replaced with what appeared to be white tiles, their glossy surfaces streaked with long red smears.
The pictures hung on the wall also dissolved, and in their place other images rapidly congealed into focus, harshly lit by some unknown luminescence.
From somewhere unseen, carcasses were being pushed into view, hung on large hooks suspended on a rusty rod. The hooks screeched in metallic protest as the hanging flesh was shoved into position. The carcasses were fresh, blood still dripping onto an unfinished concrete floor. Steam rose from the sides of beef into the icy air.
Unable to look away, they saw that the carcasses were still throbbing, still reacting to whatever violence had killed their original owners.
The scene was hyper-realistic, luridly vivid, the perspective fully three dimensional.
They could smell the coppery stench of blood, feel the eye-burning intensity of industrial disinfectant. The cold was tangible, their ears tingling with pain.
From the same direction as the hanging meat came a new sight—a boy, young, dressed in denim overalls and a striped flannel shirt. He had unruly, sandy hair and wore battered, blood-spattered tennis shoes.
They could see the terror in his eyes and in the way he ran, frantically, as if fleeing something unspeakable behind. They saw his breath in the frigid air, coming in quick bursts.
He was visible only for a few moments, dashing along the length of the wall before disappearing.
The episode couldn’t have lasted longer than a few seconds, but to the observers, it seemed more like hours. The duration of time, like the angles of the building itself, seemed distorted.
Neither Anna nor Cantrell made any sound as the transformation faltered, the wall slowly returning to its previous condition.
17
Su Ling’s scream subsided at last, replaced by sobs that gradually became quiet tears and trembling.
Cantrell had never held anyone as tightly as he held her now, clutching her until the terror faded. He stroked her hair, but said nothing. He tried hard not to show it, but was every bit as terrified as she was.
It was real
: The smells, the cold, the sights—all of them
real
. It was still too fresh for him to even attempt to make sense of.
Su Ling finally raised her head and opened her eyes. She reached out and touched his face, as if to make sure that he was not an illusion.
And then she started.
“Where’s Anna?” she demanded, no trace of the old fear in her voice. A new one had replaced it.
The girl was gone.
They ran, Su Ling heading in one direction, Cantrell another.
“In here!” Su Ling cried. “The bedroom.”
Anna sat on her bed. There was no trace of trauma or panic on her face. She held her notebook and pencil, drawing furiously.
“Thank heaven,” Su Ling gasped, unconsciously grabbing Cantrell’s hand. He squeezed hers in response.
They watched the young girl draw, fascinated by her deliberate motions and strokes. It was Cantrell who first took a good look at what was appearing on the white paper:
An eye.
More than that: a portion of a face, sharply angled, incorporating most of an eye and a portion of upper cheek. The expression was unmistakable: Pure terror.
But there was still more than that:
“Look at what she’s drawing,” he said to Su Ling. “Do you see what I’m seeing?”
She leaned over, examining the drawing.
“Oh my God,” she whispered. “It’s the boy . . . the one we just saw. I’m sure of it.”
There was no mistaking it, nor was there any denying the remarkable skill with which it had been rendered. They’d never before seen such coherence in Anna’s drawing. It looked like the work of a professional artist.
“How could that be?” he asked. “The whole thing couldn’t have lasted more than two seconds. How the hell did she learn to draw like this? She’s only five years old, for Christ’s sake.”
“I have no idea, Alex, but listen: I don’t know if it’s possible, but what if these drawings aren’t just random? What if they never were?”
“What are you saying?”
“What if they’re pieces of . . . something; a puzzle, something bigger . . . ?”
Even before she finished speaking, both of them realized that the solution was right before their eyes, and had been since the beginning. It lay somewhere in the pile of notebook pages that Anna had been accumulating for months.
They headed for the pile, but something stopped them. They didn’t know immediately what, but realized soon enough.
The clock on the wall.
A Crazy Cat model, black with spangle decorations; eyes that moved left to right, and a swinging tail that served as a pendulum.