Everville

by Clive Barker

The wind threw a scrap of litter against the window and pinned it there for a moment, flapping like a one-winged bird. Then a second gust carried it away.

  She would go soon, with the same ease. That was part of the promise. She would be carried off, and away, to a place where the secrets her father had almost told her were waiting to be whispered, and her loving enemy would never find her.

  EIGHT

  I

  Everville rose early that Thursday morning, even though it had gone to bed later than usual the night before. There were banners to hang and windows to polish, grass to be cut, and streets to be swept. No idle hands today.

  At the Chamber of Commerce, Dorothy Bullard fretted about the clouds that had blown in overnight. The weatherman had promised sun, sun, sun, and here it was, eleven twenty-two, and so far she’d not seen a glimmer. Masking her anxiety with a beam of her own, she got about the business of the day, organizing the distribution of the Festival brochures, which had arrived that morning, to the list of sites that always carried them. Dorothy was a great believer in lists. Without them, all was chaos.

  Just before noon, at the intersection of Whittier and Main, Frank Carlsen ploughed his station wagon into the back of a stationary truck, the collision bringing traffic on Main Street to a virtual halt for the better part of an hour. Carlsen was taken off to the police station, where he admitted to having started celebrating a little early this year; just a few beers to get into the spirit of things. There was no great damage done to the truck, so Ed Olson, who’d brought him in, sent him out again with a simple reprimand. “I’m bending the law for you, Frank,” he told Carlsen, “so stay sober and don’t make me look like an asshole.”

  Main Street was running freely again by twelve-fifteen, at which time Dorothy looked out of her office window to see that the clouds had started to thin, and the sun was breaking through.

  * * *

  II

  Erwin had set out for the creek a little after ten, stopping off at Kitty’s Diner for some apple pancakes and coffee to fortify himself. Bosley was his usual ebullient self, which on some days Erwin found grating but today merely amused him.

  Appetite satisfied, Erwin set off for the creek, parking his car beside the Masonic Lodge on First Street and walking from there. He was glad he’d put on sturdy boots and an old sweater. The warmth of the late summer days, along with the rains of a week or so ago, had made the thicket lusher than ever, and by the time he reached the creek he had scratches on his neck, face, and hands, and enough twigs in his sweater to fuel a small fire.

  Over the centuries the creek had carved itself a deep trench to run in, its shallow, speeding waters overcast with antediluvian ferns. He had not ventured here in six or seven years, and he was surprised afresh at how remote it felt. Though Main Street lay no more than three-quarters of a mile behind him, the whine of gnats around his head was louder than the murmur of traffic, while in front of him, on the other side of the creek, the thickly wooded slope rose up towards the Heights undeveloped and, he supposed, untenanted. He was alone, and that was by no means an unpleasant feeling. He’d take his time looking for the house by the creek, and chew over his future while he did so.

  * * *

  III

  Joe called Phoebe at the doctor’s in the middle of the morning and asked her if she’d be available to meet him at lunchtime rather than in the afternoon. She warned him it’d only give them a few minutes together; it was a ten-minute drive in both directions between the office and home. Longer, most likely, with the streets so busy. He had anticipated this. Come to the apartment, he suggested, it’s just a couple of minutes away. She told him she would. Expect me just after twelve-thirty, she told him.

  “I’ll be waiting,” he said, and she got goosebumps from the heat in his voice.

  She spent the rest of the morning with a twitchy little smile on her face, and at twelve twenty-eight she was gone. She’d visited him at the apartment only twice before, once when Morton had been sick in bed with the flu, and once during his vacation. It was riskier than the house, because there was no way into his building without being seen. Especially today, with so many people out and about. She didn’t care. She parked on the street right outside the building, and defiantly marched up the side steps that led to Joe’s front door almost hoping she was being seen.

  Her knuckles had barely touched the door when it was opened. He was wearing just his shorts, and was running with sweat.

  “The fan’s broken,” he said, ushering her inside. “But you don’t mind sweatin’, right?”

  The place was a mess, as usual, and baking hot. He cleared a place for her on the sofa, but instead of sitting she followed him through to the kitchen, where he poured a glass of ice water for her. There they stayed, with the noise of the street coming in through the open window.

  “I’ve been thinkin’,” he said. “The sooner we come clean about this, the better.”

  “I’m going to see an attorney on Monday.”

  He grinned. “Good girl.” He laid his arms on her shoulders, clasping hands to wrist behind her head. “You want me to come with you?”

  “No. I’ll do it.”

  “Then we’ll just get out of here. As far away as possible.”

  “Any place you like.”

  “Somewhere warm,” he said. “I like the heat.”

  “Suits me,” she said. She put her thumb to his cheek and rubbed. “Paint,” she said.

  “Kiss,” he said back.

  “We have to talk.”

  “We’ll talk while we fuck.”

  “Joe—”

  “Okay, we’ll fuck while we talk, how’s that?” He drew a little closer to her. “It’s too hot to say no.” There was sweat trickling down between her breasts; sweat between her buttocks, sweat between her thighs. She was almost dizzy with the heat.

  “Yes?” he said.

  “Yes,” she said, and stood there, head spinning, while button by button, clasp by clasp, he bared her to the air.

  * * *

  IV

  Erwin had first followed the creek downstream, thinking that the house was more likely to be situated on the flatter land than on the uneven terrain of the Heights’ lower slopes. Either he was wrong in that assumption, he discovered, or else this part of McPherson’s confession was a lie. After an hour he gave up trailing the creek’s southeasterly course and turned round, following his own tracks back to the place where he’d begun. There he halted for a couple of minutes to smoke a cigarette and plot his next move. Bosley’s pancakes would sustain him for another hour and a half at least, but he had quite a thirst after clambering over boulders and thrashing his way through the thicket. Maybe a respite was in order. A cup of coffee back at Kitty’s; then back to the trek refreshed. After a few moments, he decided to forgo the break and continue his search. Once he’d found the house the coffee would taste all the better anyway.

  The terrain rapidly became more problematic as he moved upstream, however, and after a quarter of an hour of fighting his way through the dense undergrowth, his hands stained green with moss, his knees skinned from slipping on rocks, he was about ready to retreat. He paused to pull off his sweater—in which he was now cooking—and as it cleared his face he caught sight of a mysterious shape between the trees up ahead. He started towards it, tugging his arms from the sweater as he went, little sounds of pleasure escaping him the closer he got.

  “Oh . . . oh . . . that’s it! That’s it!”

  There it was, right in front of him. Fire and rot had claimed most of the boards, but the framework and the brick chimneys were still standing.

  He hung his sweater in a branch, then thrust his way through the thicket until he reached the front of the house—though it scarcely deserved the word—shack, more like—and stepped over the threshold.

  There were a few pitiful signs of the life that had been lived here underfoot: sticks of charred furniture, a piece of decayed rug, fragments of some plates, a battered pail. The scene wa
s pitiful, of course, but Erwin was elated. There was now no doubt in his mind that McPherson’s confession was substantially true. He had evidence enough to make public what he knew without fear of contradiction. All he had to do now was work out how to get maximum mileage out of the announcement.

  He went down on his haunches and pulled a shard of crockery out from the tangle of undergrowth, touched for the first time by a tremor of unease. He didn’t believe in ghosts—the dead were the dead, and they stayed that way—but the dripping hush of the place gnawed at him nevertheless. It was time to go back; time to get that cup of coffee, and maybe a celebratory slice of carrot cake to go with it.

  Wiping the dirt from the plate shard, he got to his feet. As he did so he caught a motion in the trees on the other side of the creek. He looked towards it, and his stomach leapt. Somebody was standing there, watching him. The plate shard slipped from his fingers. The hairs at his nape prickled.

  The shadows between the pines were too dense to make out much detail of the watcher’s appearance, but it was plain he was no hiker. He was wearing something dark and full, almost like robes, his face half-hidden by a substantial beard, his pallid hands clasped in front of him.

  He inclined his head in Erwin’s direction now, as if to say: I see that you see me. Then he raised his left hand and beckoned Erwin towards him. The creek lay between them, of course, the humble gorge it had cut for itself deeper here, closer to its source, than further downstream. It afforded sufficient protection should the stranger prove to be a lunatic that Erwin felt safe to obey the man’s instruction, and come a little nearer.

  As he reached the edge of the bank, which fell away steeply four or five feet, the man spoke. His voice was low, but it carried over the rush of water.

  “What place is this?” he said.

  “This is Unger’s Creek.”

  “I meant the town.”

  “It’s not a town, it’s a city. It’s called Everville.”

  “Everville—”

  “Are you lost?”

  The man started down the incline between the trees. He was barefoot, Erwin saw, and with every stride the strangeness of his garb and features became more apparent. As Erwin had guessed, he was indeed wearing robes, of a blue so deep it was almost black. As for his face, it was a curious mingling of severity and ease: the brow knitted, the eyes lively, the mouth narrow, but carrying a little smile.

  “I thought I was lost,” he said, “but now I see I’m not. What’s your name?”

  “Erwin Toothaker.”

  “Erwin, I have a favor to ask of you.”

  “First tell me who you are.”

  “Oh, by all means.” The stranger had reached the opposite bank now, and opened his arms to Erwin. “My name,” he said, “is Richard Wesley Fletcher. And I am come to save you from banality.”

  * * *

  V

  Joe. There’s somebody coming up the stairs.”

  He unglued his lips from her breast, and listened. There were children yelling in the street outside and a radio playing in the apartment below. But no footfall, no creak. He went back to licking her nipple.

  “I swear,” she whispered, her eyes turned towards the door.

  “Okay,” he said, snatching his shorts off the floor and pulling them on, pressing his ever-buoyant erection against his belly in order to do so.

  She ran her fingers over the breast he’d so conscientiously licked, then plucked the nipple between middle finger and thumb.

  “Let me see what you got, baby,” he said, looking back at her from the doorway.

  She let one leg drop off the sofa on which she was sprawled and raised her hips a little. He stared at her cunt.

  “Oh baby.”

  “You like that?” she whispered.

  “You’re going to see how much I like that.”

  She almost called him back to her there and then, but before she could do so he was gone into the hallway. She looked down at her body, grabbing hold of the excess flesh around her waist. He said he loved her this way; but she didn’t. She would shed twenty pounds, she swore to herself, twenty pounds before Thanksgiving. That was—

  “Nigger!” she heard Morton yell. The door smashed against the wall. Joe stumbled back along the hallway, clutching his bare belly.

  She reached for the back of the sofa to haul herself up, but before she could do so Morton was in the doorway, staring down where Joe had stared moments before, disgust on his face.

  “Christ!” he yelled. “Christ, look at you!” and came at her across the room, arms outstretched. He grabbed her splayed legs, and pulled her off the sofa with such violence she screamed.

  “Don’t!”

  But he was past hearing anything. She’d never seen such an expression on his face: teeth bared, lips flecked, veins, sweat, and eyes popping. He wasn’t red, despite his exertion: he was the color of somebody about to puke or pass out.

  He reached down and hauled her up onto her knees.

  “You fucking whore!” he yelled, slapping her face. “Does he like these?” He slapped her breasts this time, back and forth. “I bet he does!” Harder now, back and forth, stinging blows. “I bet he fucking eats your fucking tits!”

  She tried to cover herself, but he was into the sport of it now.

  “Nice tits!” Slapping, slapping so hard tears came. “Nice tits! Nice, nice tits!”

  She hadn’t seen Joe get up, she was too busy begging Morton to stop. But suddenly he was there, grabbing hold of her tormentor’s collar and flinging him back across the room. Morton was a good three or four inches taller, and easily fifty pounds heavier, but Joe was after him in a heartbeat, fists driving him against the wall.

  Wiping the tears from her eyes, Phoebe reached for some article of clothing to cover her nakedness. As she did so Morton—his nose pouring blood—let out a roar and lunged forward again, the mass of his body thrown against Joe with such force they were carried across the room. Joe landed on the television, which toppled off the low table on which it was set, and Joe went down with it, the table cracking beneath him. Morton fell on top of him, but he was up a moment later, returning Joe’s punches with kicks. They were aimed between Joe’s legs, and landed solidly, five, six, seven times, while Joe lay winded and dazed on a bed of splinters and glass.

  Forsaking her attempts at modesty Phoebe got to her feet and tried to pull Morton off him, but he put his hand over her face, pinching her cheeks.

  “You wait your turn!” he said, stomping on Joe’s groin now. “I’ll get to you.”

  Then he pushed her away, almost casually, so as to concentrate on his brutalities. She looked down at Joe—at his body sprawled over the debris, at the bloody patch spreading in his shorts—and realized with a kind of giddiness that Morton would not be done till Joe was dead.

  She had to do something, anything. She looked around the room for a weapon, but there was nothing she could lift that would fell Morton. In desperation she raced through to the kitchen, hearing as she went the terrible dull thud of boot against body, and the moans of Joe, weaker by the moment.

  She pulled the kitchen drawers open one after the other, looking for a steak knife or a bread knife; something to threaten Morton with. But there was only a collection of battered cutlery.

  “You’re fucked, nigger—” Morton was saying. Joe’s moans had stopped altogether.

  In desperation she snatched up an ordinary knife and fork and raced back into the living room, in time to see Morton reach down and pull Joe’s shorts away from his body to inspect his handiwork. The sickening intimacy of this fueled her rage, and she threw herself at Morton, weapon raised. He swung round as she did so, and more by chance than intention dashed the knife from her hand. The fork, however, found its mark, her momentum sufficient to thrust it into the flesh of his upper chest.

  He looked down at it, more puzzled than pained, then struck her a backhanded swipe that had her stumbling back towards the door. Blood was running from the wound, but he d
idn’t waste time pulling the fork out.

  “You fucking slut!” he said, coming at her like a driverless truck.

  She backed out into the hallway. The front door was still open. If she made a dash she might still outrun him. But that meant leaving Joe here while she found somebody to help her, and God alone knew what Morton would do to him in the meantime.

  “Stand still,” he said to her, his voice dropping now to a pained rasp. “You’ve got this coming.” He almost sounded reasonable. “You know you got this coming.”

  She glanced down the narrow hallway towards the bathroom, and as he lunged at her she threw herself through the door, turning to close it before he reached her. Too late. His arm shot through the gap; grabbed hold of her hair. She threw her weight against the door, slamming it on his arm. This time he yelled, a stream of obscenities rising into a howl of rage and pain. He started to push against the door, pulling his bloodied arm out again and wedging his leg in the gap when it was wide enough.

  Her bare feet slid on the tiles; it was only a matter of moments before he had the door open. Then he would kill her, she was certain of it. She started to scream at the top of her voice, her din filling the tiny bathroom. Somebody had to come quickly, or it would be too late.

  His face appeared at the opening now, white and clammy as the tiles.

  “Open up,” he said, pushing harder. “You know how to do that.” And with a final shove he threw the door wide. She had nowhere to run and he knew it. He stood in the doorway, bleeding and gasping, looking her up and down.

  “You’re a whore,” he said. “A fat, fucking whore. I’m going to rip your fuckin’ tits off.”

  “Hey!” Joe shouted.

  Morton looked down the hallway. Joe was up and hanging onto the frame of the living room door.

  “You not dead yet?” Morton said, and strode back towards Joe.