by T E. D Klein
The other rubbed his chin. 'Well, according to policy, we're not supposed to issue reports unless disturbances get above three, when they may start doing some damage. Otherwise, all you do is scare people.' He looked down at the data once again and frowned. 'Of course, this trend is rather interesting… But with things like this, you never know. It could stay at one point four all year or die away tomorrow. Anyhow, Lewalski won't be coming back till August, and I don't want to make it seem like I'm out to get publicity while he's gone.' Opening a desk drawer, he filed the forms inside. 'Besides,' he added, before turning back to his work, 'people aren't even aware of readings below three. The only things that feel them are animals.'
Back in the outbuilding tonight – my last night here on the farm. Can't help wishing I'd stayed in the farmhouse again, but felt so guilty about cutting short my stay that I wanted to get as far away from the Poroths as possible, amp; now it's too late to change my mind. I don't intend to set foot outside, amp; I'll keep the lights on in here till dawn.
Deborah seemed really disappointed to hear I was leaving. Wonder if I've read her wrong; maybe she's fonder of me than I realized. Sarr didn't seem at all surprised, amp; though he may have been hurt, he's much too proud to ever show it. In fact, he's been extremely nice about the whole thing. Refused to accept the extra week's rent I offered him by way of apology, though I'm sure he's strapped for funds right now. He even lent me his sickle for the night, knowing it would make me feel less nervous. It's certainly better than the axe I had here last time. Hope to hell I won't have to use it.
Immobile in the silence of his apartment, heedless of the streetlights outside, he lies watching through the animal's eyes as, behind the encircling screens, the man sits writing.
He is up late tonight. So far he has shown no signs of ever going to sleep. He is alert, edgy, obviously nervous, jerking his head at every sound. The sickle lies well within his reach.
It will have to be done quickly. There is going to be blood. And even now, with the new strength and speed the animal has gained, even with its infinitely sharper senses and the extra sting it carries in its poisoned claws, killing the man is going to be difficult.
Lying on his bed, the Old One tenses his limbs and ever so slightly trembles.
It will be difficult indeed. It is going to require all his concentration, all the animal's strength, all the ferocity of their combined wills.
But the twitching of the old man's limbs has also been a tremor of exultation. This is, after all, the moment he's prepared for…
Taking a' deep breath, feeling in his city lungs the cool moist country night, he begins.
I suppose that, in one way or another, I'm going to miss this place. It's certainly more peaceful than New York, at least it was in the beginning, amp; I imagine the city's going to seem pretty dirty, hot, amp; sticky when I get back. And for all my rural fears, of course, it'll probably be a lot more dangerous. It would be just my luck to flee in terror from what's really no more than a nasty little house cat, only to get brutally mugged a few minutes after I step off the bus.
Another irony: Just today got a really offensive letter from the folks, reminding me that I'm 'not cut out to be a woodsman' (maybe they think I'm cooking on campfires amp; sleeping in a tent!), with a typically derisive little comment at the end, chiding me for wanting to do 'the old Thoreau bit.'
I'd almost be tempted to stay here for the rest of the summer, just to spite those two. Hate to give them the satisfaction of learning they were right, that I couldn't make it out here…
Still, no sense jeopardizing my safety. And besides, it's impossible to have a good time anymore, with all this Bwada nonsense going on.
I suppose if I'm really going to stay awake I ought to try doing something a bit more useful amp; continue going through the source material. Probably I ought to choose a book that won't Think I hear something in the bushes. Am turning off the light.
Leaves stirring, insect noises, touch of breeze on fur. The animal leaps nimbly from the tree; feet claw the night air, then soft earth as it lands in the undergrowth beneath one of the windows and begins a slow, cautious circle of the building, searching for an opening.
Inside, the man rises and hurriedly snaps off the lamps. Apparently the fool believes that the darkness will make him less vulnerable.
That is his mistake. The darkness will, in fact, make it easier to catch him unawares.
Silent as a shadow now, on velvet paws, it continues to circle the building.
Freirs stood frozen in the center of the room, ears straining for a sound. For a moment he thought he heard the stealthy, irregular crackling of leaves from the direction of the woods… or was it coming from the side that faced the lawn? He turned, trying in vain to follow it. His hand reached out gingerly in the darkness, felt the smooth metallic curve of the sickle, and passed on, grasping the flashlight.
Blindly, eyes not yet adjusted to the moonlight outside, he groped toward the screens facing the woods and stood looking out, seeing, hearing nothing.
Hadn't that been a new sound from the lawn side? He tiptoed across the room, the linoleum cool beneath his bare feet, and paused beside the closest window, listening, feeling against his cheek the faintest hint of breeze.
Was that the sound again? Was it his imagination? He held his breath and listened, pressing his face close to the screen…
Silence. No, there it was again, a tiny rustling in the ivy, not far below him. Silence again. He stood there frozen, still hardly daring to breathe, straining to hear.
A minute passed. At last, patience exhausted, he brought the flashlight to the screen and switched it on.
With a cry he fell back, dropping the flashlight; there was a shattering of glass, then darkness. For an instant, in its beam, he had seen the animal's wide grey face just inches from his own, the yellow gleaming fangs, the two eyes blazing like coals in the light.
Blindly he groped for the sickle, hearing, behind him, a sound that made his blood freeze. It was the slow, methodical tearing of the screen.
It can see the man perfectly now. He is blundering through the darkened room, fingers scrabbling frantically for a weapon.
Beneath its claws the screen wires tear like thinnest silk, strand after strand…
The aged figure on the bed feels the pressure of the wire beneath his fingertips, the successive individual strands giving way, his claws widening the gash…
Suddenly there is another sound. The clank of metal echoes through the halls. At the other end of the apartment, up and down the front door, the locks are being turned.
Feverishly he throws himself back to the countryside. Hurriedly his claws push aside the flaps of screen.
A crash out by the doorway; the sound of the door swinging open; and voices. Voices here in his apartment.
He cannot remain in the country. He must return at once. In an instant they will discover him here naked on the bed…
Looking one last time through the eyes of the animal, he comes to a decision. The animal, alone, may still be no match for the man. The risk of failure is too great. Too much is at stake.
Voices in the hallway. A heavy voice calls out, 'Mistah Rose-bottom?'
He has time for just a single thought, one final command before contact is broken.
Leave the man for now! he screams silently. Go for the easier kill!
A softer voice. 'Hello? Hello? Is anybody – Oh, my God, Rosie!'
It knows itself to be alone now, on its own once more, but it feels neither loss nor regret. There will not be time to kill the man till later, but it is not impatient. All its strength and cunning will be turned, with cold precision, to its new task.
Withdrawing a paw from the rent in the screen, it drops silently to the ground beneath the window. Within seconds it is racing across the moonlit lawn in the direction of the farmhouse.
Quick as a spider it scurries up the gnarled trunk of the apple tree that grows at the rear of the house, pale claws sinking
deep into the bark. Reaching the upper portion of the tree, it darts along one of the limbs and springs lightly to the nearby windowsill. The window is open; the room within stands empty, nursery figures grinning from the wall. All that blocks the window is a screen. With a touch delicate as a surgeon's it rends the wire, then slips inside and drops soundlessly to the braided rug beside the bed.
A new darkness now, new smells. Padding stealthily through the hall, it passes an open doorway and looks in. It is the bedroom. Moonlight falls upon two sleeping forms, the man and the woman entwined in one another's arms, and on the eight wide, watchful eyes of the cats that crowd beside them on the bed.
Deep in the orange one's throat a warning sound begins, a growl of anger and alarm…
Before the sound grows louder the intruder is gone, racing onward through the hall and down the stairs. It remembers the house perfectly; it knows where it must go.
Turning at the foot of the stairs, it passes through the lower hall and stops before a doorway. Then it is gone once more, vanished down the steps into the darkness of the cellar.
July Twenty-third
Freirs fell asleep just before dawn and dreamed he was fleeing down an endless dark passageway from something small and silent and untiring, but that was also huge, bigger than he was, bigger than the labyrinth he struggled through. In the distance someone called his name. He awoke with sunlight in his eyes – and had a moment of terror. A face was studying him through the gash in the screen.
It was Poroth, standing outside on the lawn, a rake in one hand.
'It's almost eleven,' he said softly. 'You asked me to wake you today.' He pointed to the torn screen. 'What's this? Has she been back?'
Freirs nodded sleepily, sitting up in bed. 'It was her, all right. She tried to get in here last night, but for some reason she gave up. I haven't seen her since.'
Rubbing his eyes, he slipped on his glasses and peered through the screen, wondering if the animal might still be nearby. By daylight the farm seemed a completely different place; it was impossible amid the tranquilizing warmth, the singing of the birds, the bright green canopy of maple leaves dancing in the sunshine, that anything terrible could ever happen here.
Poroth gazed gloomily at the damaged screen. Shaking his head, he pulled the two sides closed. 'The animal is cursed,' he muttered, 'or else I am.' He looked down at Freirs. 'Well, maybe she'll stop her mischief once you're gone. I don't pretend to understand the devil.' Shouldering the rake, he turned to leave. 'I'll be out by the barn, for now. Let me know when you're ready and I'll drive you into town.' He nodded toward the farmhouse. 'Deborah'll have some lunch for you before you go.'
Yawning, Freirs watched him move off toward the barn and disappear around the back, returning moments later with a tall ladder. Raising it against one side and hoisting the rake, he began to climb. As Freirs turned to dress, he saw Poroth poking morosely at a network of gypsy moth nests that bulged like white hammocks beneath the eaves.
The bus would be leaving at a quarter to one. Freirs would not have time to dawdle. The thought of leaving prompted an unexpected wave of sadness, but he forced it down. That’s just dumb, he thought. Instant nostalgia! You always feel bad about leaving a place you know you'll never see again. Throwing a towel around his neck and buttoning his shirt, he walked outside and headed for the farmhouse.
The kitchen smelled of baking bread. Deborah seemed in a better mood this morning than she'd been in yesterday. The disappointment at his leaving was still apparent, but it was with her usual energy that she hurried around the kitchen, kneading a yellowy mass of dough, periodically checking a second loaf in the oven. 'If
I'd had more time,' she said. 'I'd've cooked you up a big fat blueberry pie for you to take back to New York. Do you do your own cooking?'
'Some,' said Freirs. 'I eat a lot of meals out. But none of it's as good as I've had here.'
She smiled broadly, wiping her hands on her apron. 'I sure wish I had time to make you something nice for lunch, but there's a million things I've got to do before tomorrow morning.' Taking a loaf of brown bread from the shelf, she sliced off several pieces with the bread knife. 'It's a shame you won't be able to come to worship.' She shrugged. 'But then, you'd probably be bored by it anyway.'
Freirs watched her pour him a small glass of milk. 'I'd give you more,' she said, 'but there isn't much left. There's that trouble at the Verdocks' with poor Lise, and Sarr says Brother Matthew didn't have anything to sell this morning either. His cows haven't been right.' She set a plate before him. The sandwich she'd made was enormous – ham and cheese on thick slices of brown bread. Freirs ate it with a twinge of regret: it was the same as the first meal she'd ever served him.
When he got back outside, he saw that Poroth had abandoned the ladder and was crouched precariously on the lower edge of the barn roof. Freirs winced as the other reached beneath the eaves with bis bare hand and hurled down a writhing clump of caterpillars.
Eventually Poroth looked up, noticed him watching, and nodded in the direction of the road. He called, 'You about ready to go?'
'In a minute. I just have to get the rest of my things together.'
A few bugs, having found their way into his room through the tear in the screen, were now buzzing against the wire trying vainly to find a way out. Nature! he said to himself. He fastened the clasp of his suitcase and strapped on his watch. It was an automatic, supposed to wind itself from the movement of his wrist, but he'd worn it so seldom out here that he now had to wind it by hand. Taking his wallet from the dresser drawer, he slipped it into his pocket, followed by the unfamiliar bulge of his apartment keys, a handful of loose change, and a New York subway token.
Briefly a sound reached him from the farmhouse, a single muffled wail, but it died away in the air. He was tying twine around a final stack of books when, from across the lawn, he heard the thump of something hitting the ground. He looked outside in time to see
Poroth stumbling to his feet; in an instant he was off and running toward the farmhouse. Freirs saw him dash up the back steps and disappear inside, and moments later heard him shouting Deborah's name. Knocking aside the books, Freirs hurried after him.
He entered the house just as the other, with pounding feet, was coming down the stairway from the second floor. 'She's here somewhere,' Poroth said. 'I heard her scream.' Suddenly his gaze fell upon the peg high on the wall where the extra lantern usually hung. The lantern was gone. 'The cellar!' he cried. Rounding the hallway, he paused at the top of the steps and peered worriedly into the darkness. 'There's another lantern in the kitchen,' he called over his shoulder. 'Get it and follow me.' Putting out his hand to feel his way, he started down.
'Wait!'
The voice had come from below them, up through the cracks in the floor. It was feeble, a mere croaking, nothing at all like the voice they knew. 'Wait,' they heard again. 'I'm… all right now. Give me just-' It paused. 'Just one moment.'
There was a slow, unsteady shuffling from within the cellar, then the clump of footfalls on the wooden steps. Gradually the outline of a dark form appeared, advancing slowly toward them up the stairs. Sarr reached down and grasped her arm, and moments later Deborah staggered out into the light. She was clutching her bunched-up apron to her throat. The apron had been white; now it was sticky and red where the patches of blood had seeped through.
Suddenly her eyes rolled up, her legs buckled, and she tilted forward. Sarr caught her before she hit the floor. Lifting her as lightly as if she were a rag doll, he carried her upstairs, two steps at a time, and laid her gently on the bed in their room..
Freirs followed them up. Deborah seemed to be still conscious -her eyes were open and she was staring dully at the ceiling – but her always pale skin was now deathly white save for dark skull-like rings beneath her eyes. Her breathing was labored, rasping deep in her throat and her head lay like a stone upon the pillow, yet she resisted Sarr's efforts to pry away the bloody apron she held pressed to her neck. 'No,' s
he whispered hoarsely. 'Not yet.'
'What happened?' said Sarr. 'Can you tell me?'
Her eyes rolled slowly around to look at them both, but she remained silent. At last, very feebly, she shook her head. Removing a hand from her throat, she pointed to the floor. 'Bwada,' she whispered.
Sarr, who had been leaning over the bed, straightened up, eyes blazing. 'That devil's down there now?' He started for the door.
Deborah grasped his wrist, holding him back. She managed to get out one word.
'Dead.'
We raced downstairs amp; down the cellar steps, Sarr grabbing the lantern from the upstairs hall. Even with the light it was hard to see down there, amp; the ceiling was so low he had to duck his head. Near the foot of the stairs, on the hard dirt floor, we saw an overturned milk pitcher, the lantern Deborah must have dropped, amp; what at first looked like a clump of matted grey fur. It was Bwada. She looked, in death, amazingly small. How could a creature that size have inspired such terror?
She seemed frozen in the middle of an attack: eyes wide amp; glassy, filthy-looking claws extended, mouth agape, the rubbery-looking grey lips pulled back amp; exposing a row of yellow fangs. Even though it was obvious she was dead, I still couldn't hold back a shudder; in the glare of that lantern she looked just the way I'd seen her last night in the beam of my flashlight, her face pressed to the screen.
I saw a small round hole in her side – a puncture wound, from the look of it – bordered by pinkish grey flaps of skin. Nearby, at the foot of one of the shelves, we saw the gleam of Deborah's long thin bread knife amp; began to figure out what had happened…
Later, after she'd had a bit of sleep, Deborah was able to stammer out the rest, though it was clear she still found it painful to speak. Apparently she'd come down to the cellar, after I'd gone out, to see how much milk was left amp; to bring up some things for tomorrow. She'd already been down there several times before, during the course of the morning, but she hadn't noticed anything wrong; the animal must have remained hidden. This time, though, there was no one else in the house upstairs; maybe that's what made the difference. She says she heard a sound just above eye level amp; was suddenly looking at the cat, crouched on one of the shelves No sooner did she see it than it sprang for her throat.