Shadows 7 (28 page)

I poised the stake above his chest where I imagined the heart to be. I feared to touch him with it until the final instant, for fear the touch would wake him from his temporary sleep.

I poised myself, forced myself to keep my eyes open, rested the tip of the stake against his skin, sobbed "Robert!" and slammed the mallet against the head of the stake.

In the same instant, the bloodless face beneath me, a moment ago so deeply at rest, was transformed. It flushed red—red that I could see even in the dark—and the eyes flew open, burning at me in venomous hatred. His fingers curled and the hands twitched upward, but the stake had been driven through the heart and he could not rise up to stop me.

Sobbing, my face wet with tears, I took the ax and braced myself once again. My knees threatened to topple me, but I somehow found solid footing. It was so difficult, standing deep in a grave. This was the worst part of all I had dreaded.

I swung the ax as best I could. It sliced into his shoulder and the whole body surged beneath me. I swung again, this time cutting into the neck where I had aimed. The darkness and my tears prevented me from seeing clearly. I swung the blade again and missed entirely. I was crying out loud now. His eyes kept rolling and spewing hatred at me. The hands clutched feebly at my legs and made my flesh crawl. In the end, I had to stop swinging and hold the handle of the ax near the blade, chopping and chopping madly until Robert Clairthorpe's head was entirely severed from his body.

And then, at the instant of true death, I saw my friend's kind face again for just a moment. The hatred faded from the eyes, which seemed to cloud over, then grow clearer again, and look at me as they had in life, filled with kindness and warmth, perhaps even with love. And then they clouded once again, the features relaxed, and my friend was gone forever.

I bent down and reversed the head, finding that touching the body was not nearly so bad as what I'd done already. Then I settled the sheet once again and climbed out of the hole. I was so exhausted that it took almost as long to fill it in again as it had taken me to dig it.

When I reached home, Mrs. Williams called out from the kitchen that she'd be glad to fix a little dinner for me. I called back from halfway up the stairs that I was going to bed and did not wish to be called for breakfast.

In my room, I went at once to the window. I thought I could see the very place where my friend's body lay in the earth. Then I went to bed and slept until noon the next day.

I am still here. I have been here ever since, except for one brief trip to London.

I accomplished a great deal that day. I contacted a solicitor and gave him instructions for dealing with my own attorney at home, whom I instructed to dispose of all my property in the United States, my bank accounts, everything. I had already visited the bookshop and found everything intact, and the London solicitor was given instructions about that too. I am moved now again when I report what I found in the shop. On a shelf, in the very spot where the
Dracula
volume had rested, was a white envelope. It contained Robert Clairthorpe's last will and testament, dated the morning of that terrible Saturday, and left the shop and all its contents to me. No mention was made of the showcase, which was careful thinking on Robert's part. Had it been mentioned there specifically, I could not have removed it that very day, as I intended. I made arrangements for that too, and rode all the long way to Whitby in the lorry, never once letting the showcase out of my sight.

It is here with me now in my room. Its wood still gleams as it did before. I keep the glass covered, as Robert did. Inside it, I keep the book, open to the page.

I am staying here with Robert. I can see his grave from the window. I think he would be glad to know that I am here. His grave might have been my own, so, in a way, I share that with him.

Mrs. Williams cooks my meals and looks after me a bit, and my room is filled with books, so the time goes by for me. It will not be so very long. I am old, and growing older.

I think sometimes that it would be nice to see my old home again, the places where I grew up, where Elizabeth and I lived, even the house where I lived so very briefly. But the feeling passes. This is my home now. This is where my friend is. I shall not leave England now.

I cannot.

Charles L. Grant is one of the most respected writers and editors in the fields of horror and fantasy. He is the winner of two Nebula Awards for science fiction writing, a World Fantasy Award as the editor of the original
Shadows
anthology, and at the most recent World Fantasy Awards he emerged as the winner in the categories of Best Novella and Best Collection (for
Nightmare Seasons,
an anthology of his own horror fiction). His most recent novel is
Night Songs.
In addition to the popular
Shadows
series, he is also the editor of the anthologies
Terrors
and
Nightmares.
He lives in New Jersey.