And afterward, before eating, they touched his body with their own special kind of trembling and silent gratitude for the offering he had made of himself.
Night
"T
he TV says the storm should end pretty soon, Miles. Maybe you could come home then."
She heard him sigh. "There's another storm right on top of this one, Jan. We'll get a breather of maybe an hour or two, then it'll start all over again. I'm going to have to stay put at least until morning. Just make sure everything's closed up tightâ"
"I've got all the windows and doors locked, Miles. And I've been packing the baby's things, too. We had some boxes left over from when we moved."
"Aren't you jumping the gun a little?"
"Uh-huh. A little. It's good therapy, though."
"Therapy?"
"Keeps my mind off . . . other thingsâ" She didn't want to elaborate for fear of a lecture. She got one, anyway.
"Janice, this storm, and you being alone there, is perfect for this . . . delusion you're preoccupied with. Why don't you just read, or listen to some music, or watch TVâ"
"I could talk to you for the rest of the night, Miles."
"I wish you could, but I can't tie up Jenner's phone." He paused. She heard Jenner say something to him. He came on the line again. "Jan, he wants to call his parents. They live on some little out-of-the-way farm, apparently, and were supposed to call him every hour on the hour. They missed their last call, so I'll have to say goodbye for now. I'll call you again when I get the chance. I love you."
Janice began, "I love . . ." But he had already hung up.
She scowled a little. He was right, of course. For her own peace of mind she had better occupy herself with
something
.
She went into the kitchen, opened a drawer, fished around in the confusion of electrical parts, solder, old kitchen knives, thread, and other essentially useless things, until she found a small screwdriver.
She'd take the crib apart now. That's what she'd do.
N
orm Gellis had heard the soft tapping at the front windows, the scratching noises at the doors. He thought that Joe had wandered back and wanted to get in, so he'd checked, but had found nothing. And now, in his La-Z-Boy, with the .38 in his lap, and the TV on, but the volume off, he could feel that he and Marge were not the only living things in the house. He liked that feeling. He grinned hugely. Confrontation, at lastâit was just around the corner.
He heard a dull thump from aboveâfrom the guest bedroom. His grin, huge as it was, broadened even more. Let the little bastards come to him!
He was ready for them.
P
ills
, of course, Marge decided. Because they would carry her off gently. Because they could soothe her into death, could cradle her into it.
In the downstairs bathroom there were pills. Lots of them. There were sleeping pills, and diet pills (which Norm used on occasion), and pain pills (if you had the right kind of pain) . . .
Dear Norm,
I am going to take some pills.
She crossed it out, wadded the paper up, put it into the pocket of her housedress.
She listened. She wished Norm would stop moving around outside her closed door. She wished he would go back downstairs. She didn't want to see him, not even one last time.
W
hen Janice first noticed the faint odor of woodsmoke, and the noxious smell of burning hair, she tried to tell herself that she was smelling nothing more, perhaps, than the odor of her perfume mixed with her own sweat.
She was in the upstairs hallway, on her way to the baby's room (what would have
been
the baby's room, she corrected herself); the two overhead lights were on; the hallway was brightly lighted, and she clutched the small screwdriver very tightly in her hand.
She heard a woman's voice. Though faintly, as if water were clogging her ears, and the woman was whispering, "No, Janice, not here, not tonight."
She stopped walking. She heard the screwdriver clatter to the floor. She said "Rachel?" tremblingly.
The smell of woodsmoke and burning hair grew stronger, until it turned her stomach and brought bile into her mouth.
"Rachel?" she said again. She waited. She heard nothing.
The sudden grip on her shoulder was very light, as if she had walked under someone's outstretched hand. "Rachel?" she said again, and she saw that the baby's room was directly to her left, that, in the light from the hallway, she could see the crib against the north wall.
And something was in the crib, she sawâsomething was crouching in it.
She gasped.
The touch at her shoulder strengthened. The odors of woodsmoke and burning hair moved around her like a fluid and made her eyes sting.
Then, through it all, she saw the thing in the crib straighten, and stand. "I could talk to you for the rest of the night, Miles," it said.
And at the same time, the strong hand on her shoulder pushed her violently from the room, down the hall, to the top of the stairs. "No," Janice murmured. "No, Rachel, please . . ."
It was a cold grip, and firm, and the awful smells that accompanied it were like a physical presence. It held her at the top of the stairs; and the woman's voice whispered urgently, "Run, Janice! Run from here!"
She heard the flames, then. From behind her. From the baby's room.
She turned her head. She saw the flames. They danced hotly and quickly around the door to the baby's room.
Then they leaped forward into the hallway.
Janice screamed. And heard again, through the scream, "Run, Janice! Run from here!" The grip on her shoulder stopped; she felt a soft, cold hand on her back coax her firmly down the stairs.
She stopped screaming. Very stiffly, in disbelief, and in awe, she descended the stairs, one hand on the wall for support, because the smoke from the fire in the hallway above was curling around her, cutting off her vision, and her air, and she was beginning to feel faint.
She began to cough. Softly at first, as if in a denial of what was happening, then loudly, from deep within her chest, because the smoke had thickened and blackened. Then, at lastâthough futilelyâthe smoke and fire alarms sounded, their bright, mechanical squeals barely audible beneath the loud rushing noises of the flames.
She found herself in front of the hall closet. She pulled the door open, reached in, yanked out one of her winter coats, wrestled it from the hanger, threw the coat around herself.
She looked to her right. Up the stairs.
And saw through the smoke, against the bright backdrop of the flames, that Rachel Griffinâtall, dark-haired, prettyâwas smiling at her. As if pleased.
Janice's mouth opened. She could say nothing. She thought, with deep affection,
Thank you
.
And in sudden panic, she fled the house.
The night was very clear, and very still, and very cold.
She ran to her right, through varying depths of drifted snow, over lawns, and driveways, and backyards, toward Granada's gate.
N
orm Gellis had a mental image of himself surrounded by his guns. He liked the image. It made him feel somehow like a whole man, and worth something. Not just to himself, but to Marge as well, and to all the others who couldn't admit that a danger really did exist.
The Weatherby 20 gaugeâretrieved long before from the spot where Malcolm Harris had dropped it was leaning barrel up against the right arm of the chair. The Remington 760 leaned against the chair's left arm. He held the pistol in his lap. All the weapons were loaded.
Marge had appeared a half hour earlier, headedâfor reasons she had not sharedâto the large downstairs bathroom. On her way back, something clutched in her left hand, he had told her, "Ever heard of a siege, Marge? Well, this is a siege. And I'm ready for it."
"Yes," she whispered, and went back upstairs.
"Damned spook!" he said now. Shit, it was way past time to cut her loose, wasn't it? To let her drift. It was at moments like this, he thoughtâwhen a man's life peaked, really, because he had to concentrate hard on what threatened itâthat he found out who was with him, and who wasn't.
And of course he realized he was all alone. Except for the others. Those who talked and giggled and screeched, but at a distance. As they were doing at that moment. As they had been doing for a long while.
He listened. He tried again to understand individual words and sentences. But he couldn't. There were so many voices, so many pitches, and so many inflections. As if all the inhabitants of Granada had pushed into the house, into its walls and floors, and under the furniture, and they were all trying to tell him something.
He was alone except for them.
And he knew they were biding their time. Waiting for his resolve to slip. For sleep to overcome him. Then they would come out of the walls and floors and from under the furniture. And they would take him.
"Do it!" he hissed suddenly. "Bastards! Do it! Show your damned selves!"
And one did.
Sam Wentisâthe creature which had once been Sam Wentisâreached out and touched him very gently and wonderingly.
Norm Gellis raised the .38. He aimed it. He fired.
The bullet passed cleanly through the creature's heart.
Reflexively, the creature ran to the front door, pulled it open. And collapsed there, the life gone from it.
The others in the house quieted at once.
Norm Gellis stared silently at the crumpled, naked form in the doorway. He wanted to know what he had done. What he had killed. And why. He put the .38 on the floor beside the chair. "Marge?" he called. "I got him. Through the heart. Beautiful!"
He stood. Quietly and quickly he crossed the room to where the body lay. He put the toe of his shoe into the creature's belly and rolled the creature over.
The creature's mouth fell open. Some blood bubbled out of it.
"Jesus God!" Norm murmured.
And then he heard, "You son of a bitch! You've killed him, you've fucking killed him!" And he felt himself being pushed heavily away from the body to the floor.
He looked up. Dick Wentis, one arm in a sling, his head bandaged, stood quivering over him, his one good hand clenched into a tight fist, spittle around the edges of his mouth.
"No," Norm started. "I didn't . . . I mean . . ." And he felt Dick's foot connect hard with his back. He screamed in pain and pushed himself backward, in a twisted kind of crabwalk, toward the La-Z-Boy. Dick followed stiffly, and silently, his anger too intense for speech.
Norm, groping blindly with his left hand, found the butt of the .38 far sooner than he'd hoped.
He hesitated. This man above him had a right to be angry, he told himself. This man had a right to kick him into the middle of next week!
"Dick," Norm breathed, "Jesus, I'm sorry, Dick."
And in the span of that breath, he flipped the .38 around. And fired it.
Very quickly, Dick Wentis crumpled to the floor. Dead.
And, at the front door, over the body of her adopted son, Trudy Wentis screamed.
"No," Norm Gellis whispered. "It'sâ" And he fired the gun once more. Trudy's hand quivered at her throat. She looked very surprised. Then the surprise left her; she let her hand drop; she lowered herself slowly, and placed her body protectively over Sam's body.
His name gurgled from her mouth. And she died.
"Y
ou shoulda seen it, Marge. You shoulda been there. I was quick, Marge. Split-second quick." He paused; Marge lay very quietly. The pills had long since done their work. "Blam! Blam! Blam! It was Dick Wentis, Marge. And his wife. And their kidâwhat's his name? Their kid, Sam. He had a disease or something. He must've. He was all covered with sores. A social disease, I'll bet, the way kids carry on." He paused again; he heard that the others in the house had come back. And they were louder, closer. He glanced toward the door. He saw two of them there. A boy and a girl. Waiting. Anotherâa boyâstood near the closet. "Time," Norm said. "Just a few minutes." They said nothing. He turned back to his wife. "It always happens that way, don't it, Marge? The ones you never suspect, the ones you think are your friendsâ"
He saw the note Marge had left for him on the bedside table. He picked it up.
Dearest Norm
, it read.
I need
And that was all.
He let it flutter to the rug.
He lowered his head. He thought he was going to cry.
He felt a small warm hand on the back of his neck, another at his stomach, another at his chest. "Yeah," he murmured. "Okay, if you gotta."
And they took him very quickly. And very gently.
From
The Rochester Democrat and Chronicle
, December 15: