The Dark

by Ellen Datlow

  AFTERWORD

  Favorite ghost story? Short form, Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s “The Yellow Wallpaper,” a masterpiece of understated dread. Long form is The Haunting of Hill House, by the incomparable Shirley Jackson, who, as Stephen King so wonderfully notes, “never needed to raise her voice.”

  LUCIUS SHEPARD was born in Lynchburg, Virginia, grew up in Daytona Beach, Florida, and lives in Vancouver, Washington. His short fiction has won the Nebula Award, the Hugo Award, The International Horror Writers Award, The National Magazine Award, the Locus Award, The Theodore Sturgeon Award, and the World Fantasy Award. His short novel, Louisiana Breakdown, was recently published; forthcoming are a novella collection and a collection of mixed nonfiction and fiction, Two Trains Running.

  LIMBO

  LUCIUS SHEPARD

  “ … limbo, limbo, limbo like me …”

  —TRADITIONAL

  THE FIRST WEEK in September, Detroit started feeling like a bad fit to Shellane. It was as if the city had tightened around him, as if the streets of the drab working-class suburb that had afforded him anonymity for nearly two years had become irritated by the presence of a foreign body in its midst. There was no change he could point to, no sudden rash of hostile stares, no outbreak of snarling dogs, just a sense that something had turned. A similar feeling had often come over him when he lived back East, and he had learned to recognize it for a portent of trouble, but he wasn’t sure he could trust it now. He suspected it might be a flashback of sorts, a mental spasm produced by boredom and spiritual disquiet. Nevertheless, he chose to play it safe, checked into a motel and staked out his apartment. When he noticed a Lincoln Town Car across the street from the apartment, he trained his binoculars on it. In the driver’s seat was a young man with short black hair and a pugilist’s flattened nose. Beside him, an enormous sour-looking man with bushy gray sideburns and a bald scalp, his face vaguely fishlike. Thick lips and popped eyes. Marty Gerbasi. Shellane had no doubt as to what had brought Gerbasi to Detroit. A half hour later, after doing some banking, he picked up a green Toyota that had been purchased under a different name and kept parked in a downtown garage for the past twenty-nine months, and drove north toward the Upper Peninsula.

  At forty-six, Shellane was a thick-chested slab of a man with muscular forearms, large hands, and a squarish homely face. His whitish-blond hair had gone gray at the temples, and his blue eyes were surprisingly vital by contrast to the seamed country in which they were the only ornament. He customarily dressed in jeans and windbreakers, a wardrobe designed to reinforce the impression that he might be a retired cop or military man—he had learned that this pretense served to keep strangers at a distance. His gestures were carefully managed, restrained, all in keeping with his methodical approach to life, and he did not rattle easily. Realizing that assassins had found him in Detroit merely caused him to make an adjustment and set in motion a contingency plan that he had prepared for just such an occasion.

  When he reached the Upper Peninsula, he headed west toward Iron Mountain, intending to catch a ferry across to Canada; but an hour out of Marquette, just past the little town of Champion, he came to a dirt road leading away into an evergreen forest, and a sign that read: LAKESIDE CABINS—OFF-SEASON RATES. On impulse, he swung the Toyota onto the road and went swerving along a winding track between ranks of spruce. The day was sunny and cool, and the lake, an elongated oval of dark mineral blue, reminded Shellane of an antique lapis lazuli brooch that had belonged to his mother. The lake was surrounded by forested hills and bordered by rocky banks and narrow stretches of brownish-gray sand. Under the cloudless sky, the place generated a soothing stillness. A quarter-mile in from the highway stood a fishing cabin with a screen porch, peeling white paint, a tar-paper roof, and a phone line—it had an air of cozy dilapidation that spoke of evenings around a table with cards and whiskey, children lying awake in bunk beds listening for splashes and the cries of loons. Several other cabins were scattered along the shore, the closest about a hundred yards distant. Shellane walked in the woods, enjoying the crisp, resin-scented air, scuffing the fallen needles, thinking he could stand it there a couple of weeks. It would take that long to set up a new identity. This time, he intended to bury himself. Asia, maybe.

  A placard on the cabin door instructed anyone interested in renting to contact Avery Broillard at the Gas ’n Guzzle in Champion. Through a window Shellane saw throw rugs on a stained spruce floor. Wood stove (there was a cord of wood stacked out back); a funky-looking refrigerator speckled with decals; sofa covered with a Mexican blanket. A wooden table and chairs. Bare bones, but it suited both his needs and his notion of comfort.

  The Gas ’n Guzzle proved to be a log cabin with pumps out front and a grocery inside. Hand-lettered signs in the windows declared that fishing licenses were for sale within, also home-baked pies and bait, testifying by their humorous misspellings to a cutesy self-effacing attitude on the part of ownership. The manager, Avery Broillard, was lanky, thirtyish, with shoulder-length black hair and rockabilly sideburns; he had one of those long, faintly dish-shaped Cajun faces with features so prominent they seemed caricatures of good looks. He said the cabin had been cleaned, the phone line was functional, and quoted a reasonable weekly rate. When Shellane paid for two weeks, cash in advance, Avery peered at him suspiciously.

  “You prefer plastic?” Shellane asked, hauling out his wallet. “I don’t like using it, but some people won’t deal with cash.”

  “Cash is good.” Avery folded the bills and tucked them in his shirt pocket.

  Shellane grabbed a shopping basket and stocked up on cold cuts, frozen meat and vegetables, soup, bread, cooking and cleaning necessities, and at the last moment, a home-baked apple pie that must have weighed close to four pounds. He promised himself to eat no more than one small slice a day and be faithful with his push-ups.

  “Get these pies made special,” Avery said as he shoveled it into a plastic bag. “They’re real tasty.”

  Shellane smiled politely.

  “Might as well give you one of these here.” Avery handed him a leaflet advertising the fact that the Endless Blue Stars were playing each and every weekend at Roscoe’s Tavern.

  “That’s my band,” Avery said. “Endless Blue Stars.”

  “Rock and roll?”

  “Yeah.” Then, defensively, “We got quite a following around here. You oughta drop in and give a listen. Ain’t a helluva lot else to do.”

  Shellane forked over three twenties and said he would be sure to drop in.

  “If you’re looking to fish,” said Avery, continuing to bag the groceries, “they taking some pike outa the lake. I can show you the good spots.”

  “I’m no fisherman,” Shellane told him. “I came up here to work on a book.”

  “You a writer, huh? Anything I might of read?”

  Shellane resisted an impulse to say something sarcastic. Broillard’s manner, now turned ingratiating, was patently false. There was a sly undertone to every word he spoke and Shellane had the impression that he considered himself a superior being, that the Gas ’n Guzzle was to his mind a pit stop on the road to world domination, and as a consequence, he affected a faux yokelish manner toward his patrons that failed to mask a fundamental condescension. He had bad-luck eyes. Watered-down blue; irises marked by hairline darknesses, like fractures in a glaze.

  “This one’s my first,” said Shellane. “I just retired. Did my twenty, and I always wanted to try a book. So …”

  “What’s it about?” Avery asked. “Your book.”

  “Crime,” said Shellane, and tried to put an edge on his smile. “Like they say—write what you know.”

  IT TOOK HIM until after dark to settle into the cabin, to order an Internet hook-up, to prepare and eat his dinner. Once he’d finished dessert, he poured a fresh cup of coffee, switched on his laptop and sent an e-mail that prevented a file from being sent to the U.S. Justice Department. The file contained a history of Shellane’s twenty years as a thief,
details of robberies perpetrated, murders witnessed, and various other details whose revelation might result in the indictment of several prominent members of Boston’s criminal society. It was not that effective an insurance policy. The men who wanted to kill him were too arrogant to believe that he could bring them down, and perhaps their judgment was accurate; but knowing about the file had slowed their reactions sufficiently to allow his escape. He was confident that he would continue to stay ahead of them. However, this confidence did not afford him the satisfaction that once it had. It had been many years since Shellane had derived much pleasure from life. Survival had become less a passion than a game he was adept at playing. Lately the game had lost its savor. Apart from the desire to thwart his pursuers, he was no longer certain why he persevered.

  He was about to shut down the computer when he heard a noise outside. He went into the bedroom, took the nine millimeter from his suitcase, and holding it behind him, went out onto the porch and nudged open the screen door. A slim figure, silhouetted against the moonstruck surface of the water, was moving briskly away from the cabin. Shellane called out, and the figure stopped short.

  “I’m sorry,” a woman’s voice said. “I was out for a walk. The lights … I didn’t know the cabin was rented.”

  “It’s okay.” Shellane stuck the gun into his belt behind his back and pulled his sweater down over it. “I thought it was an animal or something.”

  “Aren’t many animals around anymore,” said the woman as she came into the light. “Just squirrels and raccoons. People say we’ve still got a few wolverines in the woods, but I’ve never seen one.”

  She was slender and tall, most of her height in her legs, with long red hair gathered in a ponytail, wearing jeans and a plaid wool jacket. Early thirties, he guessed. A pale Irish country face with a pointy chin and wide cheekbones. Pretty as a morning prayer. Faint laughlines showed at the corners of her olive-green eyes. Yet she had a subdued air and he suspected that she had not laughed in a while.

  “I’m Grace,” she said.

  “Michael,” said Shellane, remembering to use his temporary identity. “Guess you’re my neighbor, huh?”

  She gestured toward the lake. “Three cabins down.”

  Being accustomed to city paranoia, it surprised him that an attractive woman—any woman, for that matter—would tell a stranger where she lived. He had assumed that following the introduction, she would retreat, but she stood there, smiling nervously.

  “How about some coffee?” he asked. “I was going to make another pot.”

  Once again she surprised him by accepting the invitation. As he fixed the coffee, she moved about the cabin, keeping away from the center of the room, touching things and stopping suddenly, like a cat exploring new territory. Now and then she would glance at him and flash a nervous smile, as if to assure him she meant no harm. She possessed a jittery vitality that drew his eye, alerted him to her every gesture. He set a cup of coffee on the table and she sat on the edge of her chair, ready to take flight.

  “I didn’t really want coffee,” she said. “It’s just living out here, I don’t get to meet many people.”

  “You’re not renting?”

  “No, I … no.”

  Her mouth thinned, as if she was keeping something back.

  “What are you doing up here?” she asked. “Vacation?”

  He told the retirement story. Her attention wandered and he had the idea that she knew he was lying. He asked what she did.

  “I … nothing, really. I take a lot of walks.” She came to her feet. “I should go.”

  Maybe, he thought, paranoia just took a while to develop in the Upper Peninsula. He followed her to the door, watched her start toward the lake. She turned, walking backwards, and said brightly, “I’m sure we’ll run into each other again.”

  “Hope so,” he said.

  He stood in the doorway until she was out of sight, sorting through his impressions of her, trying to distinguish the real from the imagined. “Trouble,” he said, addressing himself to the shadows along the shore, and went back inside.

  HIS BRIEF ENCOUNTER with Grace stayed with Shellane all the next day. She had been interested in him, he believed. Because he was interested in her, he questioned whether he might be flattering himself; he was not given to assuming that every woman with whom he spoke was attracted to him. He trusted his instincts. She had to be fifteen years younger than he. It would be foolish to get involved with her—under the best of circumstances, she would be a problem, and these were far from the best of circumstances.

  That evening, however, he went for a walk along the dirt road that followed the shore, half in hopes of running into her. Her cabin, set among the trees high on the bank, was more house than cabin. A deck out back. Satellite dish on the roof. Light sprayed from a picture window, and Grace was standing at it, wearing jeans and a cableknit white sweater. Curious about her, wanting to get closer, he climbed the bank to the right of the window. Her head was down, arms folded. She looked miserable. He had an urge to knock, to say he was passing by and had spotted her, but before he could debate the wisdom of obeying this urge, headlights slashed across the front of the house. Rattling and grumbling, a big blue Cadillac at least thirty-five years old pulled up beside the house and the reason—Shellane suspected—for Grace’s misery climbed out. Avery Broillard. He clumped to the door, knocked his boots clean, and went inside. Grace had apparently retreated into the rear of the house. Broillard stood in the front room, hands on hips. “Fuck!” he shouted, and made a flailing gesture. Then he stomped off along a hallway.

  As Shellane headed for home, a bank of fog moved toward him across the lake, like the ghost of a crumbling city melting up from the past. He was furious with himself. That he had been on the verge of coming between husband and wife, boyfriend-girlfriend, whatever … it spoke to a breakdown in judgment. All it would take to bring the cops nosing around was some asshole like Broillard getting his wind up, and though Shellane could handle the cops, it would be wiser to avoid them. Agitated, unable to calm down, he drove into town, thinking he would eat at a diner; but when he saw the lights of Roscoe’s, a low concrete building with a neon sign that sketched the green image of a snub-nosed pistol above the door, he turned into the parking lot. Inside, he grabbed a seat at the bar and ordered a cheeseburger plate. At the far end of the room was a stage furnished with amps and mike stands and a PA, backed by a sequined curtain. A bearded roadie was engaged in setting up the mikes. All the tables were occupied, and it appeared that more than half the crowd were women. The babble of laughter and talk outvoiced the jukebox, which was playing “Wheel in the Sky,” a song emblematic to Shellane’s mind of the most pernicious form of jingle rock. He nursed a draft and watched the place fill beyond its seating capacity. Apparently Broillard did have a following. People had packed in along the walls and were standing two-deep at the bar.

  He had intended to leave before the live music started, but when the lights dimmed and a cheer went up, people massing closer to the stage, jamming the dance floor like a festival audience, curiosity got the better of him. Five shadows moved onstage from the wings. A spot pinned the central mike stand, where Broillard was strapping on a Telecaster with glittery blue stars dappling its black finish. He flashed a boyish grin and said, “How ‘bout somebody bringing me a beer? I feel a thirst coming on.” Then he turned his back on the crowd and the band kicked in.

  At best, Shellane had expected to hear uninspired songs about beer and dangerous roadhouses and wild, wild women played with rough, energetic competence; because of his distaste for the band’s front man, he hoped for worse. But the Endless Blue Stars had a lyrical sound that was way too big for Roscoe’s, their style falling into a spectrum somewhere between Dire Straits and early Cream. Retro, yet glossed with millennial cynicism. The first song featured a long intro during which Broillard laid down sweetly melodic guitar lines over a four-four with a Brazilian feel that built gradually into a rock tempo. When he s
tepped to the mike, the crowd waved their arms and shouted.

  “Walked out tonight, a frozen blue,

  the moon was dark and shooting stars were dying …”

  The bassist and drummer added harmony on the next line:

  “ … with a cold white fire … .”

  Then Broillard’s throaty baritone soared over the background:

  “ … things ain’t been the same

  since I fell in love with you,

  I’ve been so hypnotized …”

  The mood cast by the song—by all the songs—was irresistibly romantic, an invitation to join in a soothing blue dream of love and mystery, and Broillard’s Byronic stage persona was so persuasive Shellane wondered if he might have misjudged him. But when the band went on break and Broillard came swaggering over to the bar, dispensing largesse to well-wishers, his arm about a pretty albeit slightly overstuffed brunette, caressing the underside of her right breast, Shellane decided this was the thing that made music—all art, for that matter—fundamentally suspect: that assholes could become proficient at it.

  Broillard spotted him, dragged the girl over and said, “Needed a break from all that peace and quiet, eh?”

  Shellane said, “Yeah, you were right,” and then, though he was tempted to dishonesty, complimented him on the set.