Shivers (26 page)

Andrea was fidgeting uncomfortably on the couch, staring down at her twisting, intertwined fingers. She had news, he knew. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him.

“Steven, perhaps this isn’t the time to tell you . . .”

No, Andrea. Not now. For God’s sake, not now.

“I don’t know
how
to tell you. But I can’t wait any longer.”

She was going to tell him it was over. She was going to tell him she’d found someone new.

“Steven—I’m getting married!”

“What?”

“It’s—you met him,
saw
him—Donald. We’ve been seeing—a lot of each other. He
insisted—
when he saw you—said it was
cruel
to delay any longer. . . .” She kept rattling on like a warped record skipping every other chorus.

Steven couldn’t believe his ears. This woman beside him had once been his girlfriend, his
lover,
the person he went through life with, sharing and caring each moment. Now?
When
had they drifted apart?

“But
how,
Andrea? We were—seeing each other—going together—”

“It’s been
months
since we were ‘going together,’ Steven. Really, how often have we seen each other in the past few weeks,
spoken
to each other? I didn’t ask for it to happen, it just did.

“But we’re still friends,” she added.

Steven let out a humorless laugh. Could it be possible? Had he been so self-involved—in his books, his job, his assorted literary endeavors— that he’d failed to see what was happening? Had Andrea met and fallen in love with, agreed to marry, another man behind his back? Was she right—was this not a sudden thing, had the breakup started many months before? Could it be possible?

“I’m sorry, Steven. I—”

“This is quite a shock.” He inhaled deeply, exhaled. “Donald, huh?”

“We met . . .”

“No. No, I don’t want to know.”

“We have to talk it out.”

“Not now, Andrea.”
Next she’ll be inviting me to the wedding.

“Steven, if I could have held off—till this thing with Joey—”

“This thing. Joey’s disappeared, may be dead—”

“That doesn’t change anything between us. I feel awfully sorry about Joey, but Donald—he insisted—”

“Does Donald tell you what to do now?”

“Steven!”

He got up, finished his drink. Seems he was always gulping his bourbon lately. “Look Andrea, I’d better go.” In an instant of clarity he saw how right she’d been, how large the gulf between them had always been. Part of him felt relief. Had he really loved her, or had he only
needed
someone, needed someone to keep loneliness away?

“I have an appointment to keep.”

“Steven, I—”

“I’ll let myself out.”

To hell with her. His brother was still missing, and somebody on Long Island had information.

He told himself
that
was all that mattered.

Vaguely Eric could hear the sirens screaming. Their horribly loud screeches were tearing through the night, coming closer and closer, then abruptly fading out. Then booming on again louder than before. Funny how sirens were that way. One minute it was as if they were right outside; then the next it seemed as if they were far away in the other side of town.

The cold air came through the shattered window. The drapes fluttered inwards, now and then brushing against his face. Their embrace was like that of frigid fingers, tracing a macabre outline upon his brow. He felt alone again; horribly alone. Hammond had left him, was lying even now in a bloody pool of flesh and blood seventeen stories below. Eric had chanced one look out the window after he’d recovered from the shock, had cried out in horror and disbelief, then fallen to the floor, waiting, just waiting for his body to stop quivering. It seemed as if it would take forever.

Then it hit him. That icy, numbing feeling of fear and despair. Of total submission. It was that force again, that uncanny power that had taken him on Wednesday evening, that had taken him again on Wednesday evening, that had taken him again on Friday night, and had tried to overcome him earlier. He tried to repel it again, but was unable to muster enough strength to prevent the outside force from overwhelming him, from taking control of both his body and his mind. He lost all desire to call the police, to pick himself up, to put his life back in order. He just let himself drift on and on into a netherworld of light and dark, shadow and fog.

He felt that vibrating sensation again—he was swaying to and fro, back and forth, gently, gently, swaying ever so slightly, back and forth. His whole body seemed to tingle. He was rushing forward through some sort of tube, suspended in mid-air, traveling onward and onward, without bearing, without any feeling of
destination.
Then he saw that rectangular door coming closer and closer. That huge steel door with the strange writing. H.G.C. H.G.C. HCGHGCHCGHCGHGCHGC

H.G.C.

What did it mean?

Then, through the mist of the darkness, Eric got a fix; a sudden, but perfect, unmistakable fix.

He knew where that door was!

If someone had asked him, had been able to ask him then, just
where
it was, he could not have told them—not in so many words. But he knew just the same. He knew that he would be guided there by an “instinct” planted in his mind. He had only to rise, put on his hat and coat, and take the elevator down to the lobby. He knew where to go! He
knew!

The sirens had faded now, his head had cleared. He could hear doors opening, excited shouts, lots of talking and an occasional gasp. It was as if it was all taking place right outside the door instead of outside the window seventeen stories down. What were they doing? He tried to focus on the evening’s events, but couldn’t. He was obsessed with only one desire—to find the door, to reach it, before it was too late.

He had to be there when it
opened.

Donning his jacket on the run, he went into the corridor and pressed for the elevator. It came quickly; empty. He did not get off at lobby level, but the second floor instead. He then walked down to the basement, and went out the exit through the laundry room. He wanted to avoid the crowd that was surely collecting out front—the morbid, manic horde of bloodthirsty vultures.

He went through what seemed to be a veritable maze of back alleys, laundry lines, and snow-spattered alcoves before he reached the street. It was cold out, and the city was filling up with the still-falling snow. Eric wished that he had remembered to bring his gloves. He thrust his hands into his pockets, glad for the warmth. In the back of his mind he knew that what he was doing was not rational—he should stay and wait for the police—but he was under the spell of a terrible compulsion that he simply could not dispel. He knew that Hammond’s strange behavior and subsequent death had been
his
punishment for resisting, repelling his opponent’s psychic assault. It had tried to use Hammond as a weapon. Hammond had killed himself rather than murder his friend.
Oh, God, Ham. Ham, you sacrificed yourself for me.
He owed it to Hammond to see this through, to give in to the terrible compulsion running through him and let it take him where it may. He tried not to think about what would come later, how he would explain his absence and those signs of a struggle in his apartment. Would they accuse
him
of hurling Hammond out of the window? All the more reason to get to the bottom of this. But he mustn’t think about that now. He must only think about the task at hand.

He was relieved to discover his wallet in his pocket. He hailed a cab, got into the back seat, and sat there flustered, the cabbie waiting impatiently, while he tried to put his destination into words. Finally he said: “Just drive downtown. Stick to the East Side. When we arrive, I’ll let you know.”

They had driven leisurely for about ten minutes when Eric directed the driver to get down to the Lower East Side as quickly as possible. The cabbie gave it an honest try, but the traffic was much thicker in midtown. He leaned on the horn, shouted a few curses, swerved this way and that, but they made only moderate headway. In the back Eric was quite distraught, constantly holding his hand to his brow, squeezing his eyes shut. The driver didn’t know what to make of him.

Twenty minutes later they pulled up to the subway station at Delancey and Essex Streets. The area was crowded now, with shoppers, gangs of kids, people coming out of stores and restaurants. Eric pushed open the back door and threw several bills in the cabbie’s lap through the open front window. The driver didn’t have a chance to give him his change— Eric had disappeared into the crowd.

Brie climbed down the stairs and entered the station, a confusing miasma of people, small underground shops, and food stands with orange drink and hot dogs. He went to the change booth, bought a token, and walked down the platform to where the tunnel led to the BMT line. The presence was stronger than ever now; his head was throbbing from its force. Then he saw what he was looking for.

Over to one side, out off from the rest of the station by a gate, was some sort of abandoned access corridor. Eric looked around—people were walking briskly past him in either direction, no one paying him the slightest attention. There were no police in the vicinity, and the change booth was hidden from view.

He started to pull at the gate, watching as its whole structure shook back and forth from his efforts. It must have a weakness somewhere! The padlock was rusty—with time he could work it open, but he’d have to wait until it was late and the corridor was empty. He
couldn’t
wait! He went to the right side of the gate, and saw that there it had been partially pried away from the wall. Kids, probably. It hardly mattered. There was just enough room for him to get through.

He pushed the metal fence away from the wall, gently squeezing his body through. A few people looked at him, curious, but no one made a move to .stop him. It wasn’t as if he was breaking into a store.

Part of the gate clipped him on the side of the nose. He winced, cried out, stifling it before he could alarm anyone. There were fewer people about now, most of
them
preoccupied in their own private worlds. He finally pushed himself all the way through, using his hands to keep the gate from snapping back on his left leg.

Success.

The dark, dank passageway loomed ahead of him. It looked impenetrable, unwilling to let anyone explore its inner recesses or fathom its grim and unknown secrets. The air was thick, foul. Eric cautiously advanced, holding up his lighter to provide illumination. The noises of the people and the trains gradually receded into the depths of his consciousness. Now and then he would hear the rumbling of a train, but eventually even that failed to register.

He was all alone. Just him and the darkness.

The passageway seemed to go on forever. He wondered why it was there and for what reason it had originally been built. As far as he knew there were no abandoned subway stops in the vicinity. Perhaps they’d started a platform for a different subway line at some point. Well, he’d find out what this was used for
now
when he got there.

The width of the passage stayed the same— always several yards across, like most tunnels which connected the subway lines to one another. The ceiling was quite high. Several times he would find himself stepping into puddles. His foot tripped on an old sneaker. And the tiny glow from the lighter revealed a copy of a torn and wet magazine lying in his path. He stepped over it and continued.

The passageway now seemed to be slowly descending to a level that was probably just below the one he had entered on. He had lost all sense of direction, though he was seemingly in control of his senses. He had never imagined that he could have been this brave. He looked back toward the entrance with its gate and shivered. It was no longer in sight. All he could perceive was a very dim splotch of light that seemed far, far away. He was surrounded by nothingness.

Still, that compelling feeling persisted. He was frightened, but not paralyzed. Something seemed to be assuring him, leading him on,
insisting
that he proceed. Nothing could have made him turn back now, didn’t his opponent realize that? He
had
to see this through to its conclusion.

He went further and further into the passageway, walking steadily, both anxious and afraid to reach the end. Then just when he was planning to stop and rest, he saw it. The door. Huge. Formidable. Massive.

There were the letters, just as he had seen in his vision. H.G.C. What did they mean? He reached out to touch the door. It was made of metal. Steel. It glinted in the light from his hand. It stood at least eight feet high, six feet across. A line ran down its center, denoting where its two parts divided. Eric leaned against the door, resting. Then he played the light all over it, searching for some way to make it open.

He couldn’t find any knob, any button, any way whatsoever to gain entry.

Then, just as he was pondering what to do next, the fluid was all burned up, and his light went out.

Utter darkness.

And then from the door came a
creak.

Gregory Olsen was staring at his clock.

He watched the small metal hand count off the seconds, and tried to catch the nearly imperceptible movement of the minute hand as it made its slow, steady trek toward the bottom of the clock face. He sat there like that until nine-thirty. Then he rose, went into the bathroom, and washed the perspiration off his face with a wet wash cloth.

He looked at the haggard, pale complexion in the mirror. His hair, which had once been so flamingly crimson, was now gray and sparse. He’d managed to keep himself in shape by sticking to a proper diet. Still, the strain of his ordeal was stamped on his face and body. It seemed as if every nightmare was etched in lines on his face. The puffy collections of flesh beneath his eyes were grim reminders of the price he’d had to pay. Sleepless nights, days awake by the fire, just watching. Waiting and watching.