Darkroom

by Graham Masterton

  Jim looked up at the painting of Robert H. Vane. Maybe, after all, he wasn’t in mourning. Maybe he was hiding his face, for one reason or another. Maybe he hadn’t been able to show it in daylight.

  He switched off the television. He had made his mind up: he would take the painting down again, first thing tomorrow morning, and drive it to the auction house. If it had belonged to him, he would have carted it out to the nearest patch of waste ground and burned it.

  How could Bobby’s and Sara’s deaths have had any connection with his moving into the Benandanti Building? Yet the prime suspect in Bobby and Sara’s killing was a man with a black face and white hair, like a living negative. And here in this apartment was a painting of Robert H. Vane, who had spent his life working with negatives, and who had once been accused of burning people to ashes, just like Bobby and Sara had been burned to ashes.

  And what about the brilliant flash of light, and the photographic image of Bobby and Sara on the wall, and the way that Tibbles had been burned? What about the daguerrotypes that Robert H. Vane had taken, and the Dagueno tribe, and the Negative Man? What about the misshapen shadow that had lurched across his curtains?

  There didn’t seem to be any logical reason why any of these occurrences should be related. Robert H. Vane had lived more than a hundred and fifty years ago, and so he was long dead. The Negative Man had escaped justice, but that was nearly a hundred years ago, and so he was long gone, too.

  Half of what Jim had discovered was history, and half of it was psychic claptrap, and all of it seemed like coincidence. Yet he couldn’t help feeling that it all fitted. It was like sitting in a darkened room, with somebody handing him the pieces of a broken vase, one by one, and expecting him to stick them all back together. The question was: who was giving them to him, and why? And why him?

  He showered and put on a pair of shorts with a faded sepia T-shirt that had a picture of Charles Dickens on it, which Karen had given him more years ago than he cared to recall. Wearing it tonight, after meeting her again, seemed especially appropriate.

  He sat up in bed and read for a while – a travel book about North Africa. He had never managed to get beyond the second chapter, because the writing was so soothing and hypnotic, but that was part of the reason he read it. Under the dark blue skies of the Sudan he could forget all about Special Class II, and what had happened to him in Washington, and the painting of Robert H. Vane.

  Far, far to the south lie the broad savannahs, the shimmering grasslands where naked black men of infinite beauty and dignity herd their lyre-homed cattle. Beyond begins the bush and the forest throbbing with drums; the jungle through which broad, calm, dangerous rivers can float you right out to the sea.

  He began to doze, and the book gradually slipped from his hand. After less than ten minutes, however, something woke him up. He looked around, blinking. Tibbles had settled herself close beside him, and she was rattling loudly. The clock on his nightstand said 12:03 A.M.

  He lay back and listened for a few minutes, but all he could hear was the soft teeth-chattering of the air-conditioning unit, and the low thunder of planes taking off from LAX. A woman was shouting in the street. ‘You’re crazy, do you know that? You’re out of your mind!’

  He switched off his bedside light and closed his eyes. The shimmering grasslands whispered all around him, and the wind blew south toward the forest. He could almost hear the cattle as they tore at the grass all around him.

  Suddenly he was jerked awake again. He heard a noise in the living room, a heavy thump, and then a clatter. There was silence for a moment, but then he heard a tapping noise, like somebody trying to negotiate their way around the room with walking sticks.

  He sat up. The tapping continued, but then it was accompanied by a clicking sound, and then a complicated bumping.

  ‘OK!’ Jim called out, switching on his bedside lamp. ‘Whoever you are, you’d better get the hell out of here, quick!’

  He swung his legs out from under the covers and scrabbled under the bed for his baseball bat. He just hoped his intruder didn’t have a gun. He didn’t want to be too confrontational. After all, nothing in this apartment was his, and a few pieces of somebody else’s second-hand china weren’t worth getting himself killed for.

  He stood up, slapping the baseball bat into the palm of his hand. But as he walked around the bed, the bedroom door slammed open, so violently that it shuddered on its hinges. Into the room stalked a creature like nothing else Jim had ever seen or imagined, and he let out a shriek of terror.

  The creature was so tall that it almost touched the ceiling. A construction like a huge spider, long-legged and awkward, except that its legs were the legs of a photographic tripod, made out of polished mahogany, and its body was the black, hunched body of a badly deformed man, with a black cloth folded over his head. Its shadow on the walls was equally terrifying, a nightmare assembly of stilts and crutches and tattered black fabric.

  Jim stumbled back, colliding with his nightstand so that his clock tumbled on to the floor. The tripod spider took another lurching step into the room, almost overbalancing, and then another. It uttered a harsh metallic noise. Ker-chikkk! And then Ker-chiikkk!

  Tibbles suddenly woke up and screamed like a horrified child.

  Ten

  Jim backed up against the wall. He couldn’t believe what he was looking at, but the camera creature was there, hanging right over him, its feet sliding on the polished wood floor like a horse trying to find its footing on an icy road. Its black bulk was unsteadily swaying from side to side, as if it could all collapse on top of him at any second. It reeked of chemicals, so that Jim’s eyes were crowded with tears and his sinuses were stung raw.

  He edged back toward the window. He had almost reached it when the creature started to walk toward him, its joints creaking. Jim hefted his baseball bat. He didn’t know if hitting this apparition would do anything to deter it, but he could try. Its legs looked precarious enough, and it didn’t seem to be able to keep its balance.

  He wrenched back the dusty velvet drapes and retreated into the window bay. The creature took another clattering step nearer, and then it stopped. He could hear it breathing, high and harsh, like a very old man struggling for air; and its breathing was punctuated every now and then by slow, mechanical ker-chikk.

  As far as Jim could see, there was only one way for him to escape, and that was to dodge between the creature’s legs and try to reach the door. Tibbles would have to fend for herself. He could see her cowering underneath the bed and he reckoned that was probably the safest place for her to be.

  He edged cautiously out of the window bay, weighing his baseball bat in both hands. ‘OK, whatever you are. Let’s see what you’re made of, shall we?’

  He brandished his bat as if he were going to strike the creature on one of its jointed knees. He glanced up at it, to see if it was going to react, but all he could see on top of its tripod legs was a ragged black coat, and that black, all-covering cloth. Underneath the cloth, it looked blacker still. As black as a coal cellar. As black as your very worst nightmare.

  Jim could hear his blood thumping in his ears. He took another step forward, and raised the baseball bat higher still. ‘You hear me?’ he screamed. ‘I’m walking out of here, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me!’

  The creature hesitated, and then took one defensive step backward. Jim immediately jinked sideways, to the right, and then rolled on to the floor, commando style.

  He rolled again, and again, gasping with fear and exertion. As he rolled over the third time, his left ankle became entangled with the table lamp wire, and as he rolled over yet again, he pulled the plug out of the wall, and the bedroom went totally black.

  He struggled up on to his feet. With his arms thrashing in the darkness, and the table lamp still bouncing along the floor behind him, he blundered his way toward the door.

  Just as he reached it there was a dazzling flash – so bright he felt as if the world had been turned
inside-out. For a split second he saw the creature standing at the end of the bed, its cloth half-lifted in its arms, and he thought that he could see its face, although it might have been nothing more than shadows and distorted fabric. A cadaverous face, as white as death, with a huge single eye. A face that was beyond evil, beyond any feeling, like a poisonous spider. Robert H. Vane.

  Without warning, there was a second flash, even more intense than the first. A blast of heat scorched his cheek and blistered the paint on the door beside him. The bed caught fire, instantly and ferociously, as if it had been doused in gasoline, and the bedroom was filled with flames and sparks and choking smoke. Jim could hardly see anything but after-images, orange and green blotches, but he saw Tibbles scampering out from under the bed as if all the demons in hell were after her, and rushing into the living room.

  By the dancing, lurid light of his burning bed, he saw the camera creature walking unsteadily across the room toward him. He froze for a moment, uncertain if he ought to attack it or run away. But then the creature clumsily started to lift up its cloth again, and he went after Tibbles, slamming the bedroom door behind him.

  ‘Come on, let’s get the hell out of here,’ he told her, and they stumbled over Vinnie’s uncle’s shoes, and out through the front door into the corridor.

  Tibbles went scampering off toward the elevators. But Jim said, ‘Wait up! I’d better call nine-one-one before the whole damn building burns down!’

  He turned to go back into his apartment, but just before he could reach it the front door slowly clicked shut, locking him out. ‘Shit! Tibbles, will you wait up a minute? I can’t just leave my apartment on fire!’

  He went across the corridor and jabbed Eleanor’s doorbell, again and again. She didn’t answer, so he hammered on the door with his fist. ‘Eleanor! I need to use your phone! Eleanor! My apartment’s on fire!’

  He heard locks being unlocked and chains being drawn back and bolts being unbolted. At last Eleanor stood, blinking, in front of him. She was wearing a black headscarf, a shiny black satin negligee, and her face was utterly white with face cream.

  ‘I’m so sorry, I have to use your phone. My bed caught fire.’

  She opened the door wider and pointed to the antique-style telephone on the hall table. ‘Your bed caught fire? You know that smoking isn’t allowed in this building.’

  ‘I wasn’t smoking.’ He picked up the receiver and dialed 911. ‘Something came into my room – a thing, a creature. It was like Robert H. Vane all mixed up with a tripod.’

  ‘What? What are you talking about?’

  ‘Hallo, emergency? I need the fire department. The Benandanti Building, fifth floor. My apartment’s on fire. I don’t know. The door’s locked and I can’t get back in.’

  He gave his name and his telephone number and then he put the phone down. Eleanor said, ‘I have a key. Mr Boschetto left it with me, in case I needed to let anybody into his apartment when he was away on vacation.’

  ‘That’s great. Look, there’s a fire extinguisher down the end of the corridor. Maybe I can put out the fire with that.’

  He hurried down to get the fire extinguisher, while Eleanor went in search of the key. By the time he got back, she was already inserting it into the lock. Smoke was pouring out from the under the door, and there was a strong smell of burning in the air.

  ‘Careful,’ he warned her. ‘That thing’s still in there.’

  She looked at him out of her white face mask. ‘Do you know what it was?’

  ‘A thing, that’s all I can tell you. It looked like a man walking on stilts, only he was all bent over. There was a flash, a really bright flash, but I think I saw his face. One of my students managed to find a picture of Robert H. Vane, and brought it into class today, and that was exactly what he looked like.’

  ‘He’s come looking for you, then,’ said Eleanor. ‘He’s come looking for you, before you can go looking for him.’

  ‘You believe me?’

  ‘Of course I believe you. What do you think the presences were warning me about?’

  Jim pulled the safety pin out of the fire extinguisher and then quickly touched the door handle with his fingertips to test if it was hot. It was quite cool, but he pressed his hand flat against the door panel, just to make sure. He had seen too many movies in which unsuspecting people flung open doors in blazing buildings and whoosh! they got themselves incinerated on the spot.

  He eased the door open. The apartment was foggy with smoke, but there was no sign of flames, and there was no sign of the camera creature either. He went through to the living room. The painting of Robert H. Vane was still hanging over the fireplace, although he could have sworn it was slightly tilted, which it hadn’t been before. Eleanor, who was close behind him, said, ‘I told you, didn’t I? He’s right inside it. And tonight, he came out.’

  Jim thought of the thumping that he had heard, and the clatter that had sounded like walking sticks. It was impossible, right? People didn’t climb out of paintings. People didn’t climb out of paintings. So what was it that had entered his bedroom? What was it that had set fire to his bed?

  He switched on the light in the small hallway between the living room and the bedroom. The bedroom door was still closed, so maybe the camera creature was still in there, waiting for him. He looked quickly at Eleanor but she said, ‘It’s up to you, Jim. You can wait for the fire department, or you can face it yourself.’

  ‘So what are you telling me? I have to hunt this thing down, whether I want to or not? I don’t have any choice in the matter?’

  ‘I don’t think you do – do you? Once your quarry starts to come after you, the decision is taken out of your hands. It’s kill or be killed, isn’t it?’

  Jim gingerly touched the door handle. It was hot, but not hot enough to burn him. He listened, and he thought he could hear a faint crackling sound, but that was all.

  ‘All right,’ he said, and pushed the door open.

  The bedroom was thick with dark brown smoke, so that he could barely see. The flames had died down, but the mattress was burned to the springs, and the wooden headboard was charred. The pale green wallpaper was covered with a thin film of greasy soot, and the spiderwebs around the chandelier were fluttering like long black flags.

  The camera creature had gone. Jim went over to the window, but it was still locked closed, and there was nothing hiding behind the curtains. He looked under the bed, but there was nothing there either.

  ‘Well, I don’t know where it came from, and I don’t know where it’s gone, but it’s certainly not here any longer.’

  ‘If it came from the painting, maybe it went back to the painting.’

  ‘You really believe that?’

  ‘If you’re telling me the truth, and you really did see a creature like you say, what else am I supposed to believe?’

  ‘I don’t know. I can’t understand any of this. Everywhere I look, there are clues about photographs and negatives and people being burned. I turn on the TV and there’s a program about the Negative Man, whose face was black and whose hair was white, and who was supposed to have burned people alive. And all of these clues come from different times, and different places, and different sources, and there’s no reason for them to fit together, yet they all …’ He interlocked his fingers, like cogs.

  Two firefighters appeared in the doorway, their waterproofs rustling and their rubber boots wobbling, carrying axes. They were closely followed by Mr Mariti, the super, with his shiny black hair and his neatly clipped moustache, wearing a maroon satin robe.

  ‘Mr Cook? You called nine-one-one?’

  ‘It’s Rook, not Cook. My … uh … my mattress caught fire. It’s OK now, it’s pretty much out.’

  The firefighters inspected the ruined mattress, prodding it with their axes. ‘You sure cooked it good, Mr Rook. We’ll just heave it out of here and dump it for you. What were you doing? Smoking in bed?’

  ‘I … ah … no.’

  ‘We have to rep
ort a cause, sir. In case any building regulations were being ignored – you know, like wiring or ventilation or something.’

  ‘This building is one hundred per cent,’ put in Mr Mariti. ‘No – two hundred per cent!’

  Jim said, ‘I lit a candle. I guess it must have fallen over. I went into the kitchen and when I came back the bed was alight.’

  ‘You lit a candle?’

  ‘A votive candle. To St Agnes.’

  ‘Who’s she?’ asked one of the firefighters. ‘The patron saint of arsonists?’

  ‘Assholes, more like,’ muttered the other.

  Once the firefighters had gone, Jim opened all of the windows, to let out the smoke. Mr Mariti said, ‘I have to report this, you know, sir, for the fire insurance.’

  ‘Listen, Mr Mariti, it was an accident, it won’t happen again.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know.’

  ‘I’ll see you in the morning, OK? I’m sure we can sort something out.’

  Mr Mariti understood at once what Jim was suggesting. ‘I suppose so. It’s only a little smoke damage, after all. A hundred should cover it.’

  Jim saw him to the door and closed it behind him. ‘Bloodsucker,’ he muttered.

  ‘What are you going to do now?’ Eleanor asked him.

  ‘Get rid of that painting, for starters. I was lucky tonight. Tomorrow night, I could end up barbecued.’