by King, R. L.
The Threshold
Copyright ©2012-2015, R. L. King. All rights reserved.
Second Revised Edition: September 2015
Editor: John Helfers
Cover and Formatting: Streetlight Graphics
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To Dan (again).
And to my Dad (1932-2013),
who enjoyed my books
Prologue
Eleanor Pearsall needed a drink.
She glanced at the glowing clock on the top of her dresser: 10:30. A little late to hit the sauce, especially since she had someplace to be. She had to finish the Christmas display at Hillerman’s tonight so it would be ready for the big kickoff sale tomorrow morning. She doubted the owners would appreciate it if she had too much to drink and forgot to put pants on Santa, or posed the elves making lewd gestures at each other.
The thought made her chuckle. She got out of bed and dressed methodically without turning on the lights. Somewhere in the other room she could hear her cat, Crowley, rustling around stalking a mouse or an errant piece of kibble.
The sound reminded her of the dream.
She sat down to slip on her boots. It hadn’t been the first bad dream she’d had recently. Bad dreams normally didn’t bother her. Sometimes she even found them useful, because they gave her insights, or helped her to home in on the answer to some problem that had been plaguing her.
But this one—this one was different. For one thing, the content was always the same. For nearly a month now, every two or three days, the exact same dream.
She’s standing in a dark forest clearing, surrounded by a thick growth of trees. From beyond the trees she can hear the sounds of dozens—hundreds?—of tiny creatures milling around, skittering, testing the perimeters. She has no idea what they are—she has never seen them, and in the dream she isn’t brave enough to venture out of the clearing’s protection to investigate. Some instinct inside her knows that would be a bad idea, just as it knows that the skittering creatures don’t mean anything good for her. She just stands there, turning around and around in place, watching in fear as she waits to see if they break through.
They never do. She can sense their frustration. She can sense their almost palpable compulsion to enter the clearing—but she can’t tell what they want to do when they get there. Kill her? Tell her something? Chase her out into the darkness where something even worse lies waiting?
In her dark room, she zipped up her boots. The odd thing about this dream, aside from its repeat performances, is that it never caused her to do any of those cliché things like waking up in a cold sweat with her heart pounding, or sitting bolt upright in bed—or even waking up at all. After a time, the creatures simply gave up and went away for a while. Like they were regrouping. She wondered if at some point they’d finally just get sick of the whole business and give up for good. While the dream didn’t exactly interrupt her sleep, it certainly played havoc with its quality. She’d been tired and stressed out for the last couple of weeks. That was why she’d grabbed the brief nap before she had to head out to Hillerman’s.
She grabbed her heavy coat, wool hat, and scarf off the chair by the door, shrugged into them, and picked up her purse. Calling out a cheerful, “Back later, try not to get into too much trouble!” to Crowley, she headed out into the night. She didn’t lock her door—nobody in Woodwich ever locked their doors. It just wasn’t that kind of town. And in any case, anybody who tried to enter her home uninvited might find themselves facing a few surprises.
Outside, the moon sparkled on a fresh snowfall. Eleanor loved this time of night: the quiet and peace of a picturesque little town after most of the world had retired behind closed doors and tucked their children in. Sometimes she even enjoyed doing her rituals in the big clearing behind her house—which was nothing like the sinister one in her dream—even if it meant risking discovery. She smiled; most of Woodwich already thought she was eccentric, but in a harmless, dotty-old-aunt sort of way. There were a lot of unusual personalities in this small Vermont town, and they all coexisted with each other in a surprisingly amicable manner, all things considered. But they didn’t know the half of things about her, and it was better for everyone if it stayed that way.
The walk downtown took her about fifteen minutes; she took a shortcut through the woods and never once felt fearful or threatened. The sounds of hunting owls and small prowling creatures comforted her, and when she emerged from the woods a block away from Woodwich’s tiny main street, she was humming to herself in contentment, already going over in her mind what she wanted to do with the display. She planned to try something different this year: instead of the typical Santa and his elves in their traditional red and green outfits, she would dress them up in more earthy, primal garb, turning the North Pole toy factory into a kind of cheery woodland revel. She didn’t know if Mr. Hillerman would approve, but she was pretty good at persuasion, and she did think the tired old display needed something new. The children would love it, she was sure. And it was almost always easier to ask forgiveness than permission.
As she stepped out onto Main Street, snow crunching under her boots, and prepared to cross the street, a figure emerged from the shadows and shuffled toward her. For two or three seconds she did feel a twinge of fear, but then the figure passed under one of the old-fashioned streetlights and she smiled. “Hello, Ted. You startled me. You’re out late tonight.”
Ted gave her a vague nod. Hunched and wild-bearded, he wore a baggy sweatshirt under a shapeless old coat, too-large pants, and a shabby knit cap with a New England Patriots patch. On his back he carried a threadbare green backpack with various items sticking out the top and attached to the sides. “On my way t’the park,” he told her. His voice was scratchy with disuse.
Eleanor nodded. “Is everything all right?” There weren’t many homeless people in Woodwich—it wasn’t that the town discouraged them, but it wasn’t a particularly hospitable place for those who lived on the streets, especially in the late fall and winter, since it had no official shelter. Most of the homeless headed for the larger nearby towns with better services. But Ted was kind of a fixture around here.
He shrugged. “Yeah, yeah. Some guy gave me a five-spot, so I picked up a sammich and...” He grinned guiltily, showing a mouth with as many empty spaces as teeth, and held up something in a paper bag. Eleanor couldn’t miss the whiff of cheap booze. “Runnin’ a li’l late, is all.”
“All right, then. You be safe, Ted. Have a good night.” Eleanor smiled a farewell and continued on her way across the street.
“You too, Miz Pearsall.” He started to shuffle off again, then stopped. “Miz Pearsall?”
Eleanor turned back. “Yes, Ted?”
The grimy face looked troubled. “I...I dunno. Just—be careful, okay?”
“Any part
icular reason?” Her brow furrowed. This was something new. Ted rarely had anything to say to her beyond a greeting and the occasional request for a handout.
“I—” Again he shrugged, a little shudder running through his hunched body. “I dunno. Just be careful, is all.” He raised his bottle in its paper bag and took a swig, swiping his filthy jacket sleeve across his mouth.
Eleanor regarded him for a moment, then nodded slowly. “I will, Ted. I promise. You’d better get going. It’s late, and you need to get yourself somewhere out of the cold.”
Ted made a vague gesture with the hand holding the bag of booze, then trudged off again without a word. Eleanor watched him go, standing there for a moment in the middle of the street, then started off again. She liked Ted, but he wasn’t exactly ‘all there.’ Putting him out of her mind, she crossed the other half of the street and continued to her destination.
Hillerman’s Department Store was as much a fixture in Woodwich as Ted was, a kind of central hub where everyone ran into everyone else while going about their daily routines. It didn’t do the same level of business anymore since the mall had gone up in Helmford a few years back, but the old-timers still did most of their general purpose shopping here, from clothes to hardware to small appliances and kitchen gadgets. It dominated its block on Main Street (which was only three blocks long), the space behind its two large display windows always lit up and decorated for the latest holiday, sale, or local event.
For the past ten years, it had been Eleanor’s job to design and set up these displays, and she was semi-famous around town for it. People were always stopping her at the grocery store or the gas station, slyly asking her what she planned to do next. She never told them; she liked the element of surprise, and she thought they did too. This Christmas display idea she had would be a departure from her usual, but she was sure it would be a hit. She imagined the looks of delighted surprise on the shoppers’ faces as they arrived at the store for the sale tomorrow morning.
She moved around the back of the building to let herself in with her key, pausing as lights appeared in the small alley that ran the length of the block behind Hillerman’s. She waited as they approached to reveal a golf cart driven by a chubby young man in a guard’s uniform and a heavy down coat. She waved.
“Evenin’, Ms. Pearsall,” the man said with a jaunty return wave and a grin. “Here to fix up the display?”
“That I am, Dwight.”
“Can’t wait to see what you come up with. I’ll be around if you need anything—just give me a call on the radio, okay?”
“I’ll do that,” she assured him, and he rolled off with another wave.
Dwight Carsey and his fellow private security guard, Kurt Moreno, cruised around the entire downtown area overnight, once every hour or so, just to make sure nobody was bothering any of the businesses. All the owners chipped a little into a fund to pay them, since Woodwich didn’t technically have a police department. Because Woodwich also technically didn’t have crime (beyond rare broken window or graffiti tagging incidents), Dwight and Kurt usually just spent most of their evenings watching porn and smoking the occasional joint in the back room of the Alpine Chalet Motel two blocks over. Still, Eleanor was glad that they were available should she need them. They always made it a point to check up on her at least once on nights when she was doing her displays, which she found charming even if it was unnecessary.
She slipped inside the store, closed the door behind her, and turned the deadbolt. Even though she didn’t lock her home door like most of Woodwich’s residents, she still didn’t believe in tempting those who might be teetering on the edge of a little midnight acquisition when she was responsible for other people’s property.
The back door opened into a combination storeroom and receiving area; it was full of boxes of merchandise, signage, and display materials, all neatly stacked on shelves or hanging on racks. Eleanor wasted no time getting started: she grabbed a cart and began piling the items she’d need on it.
In less than ten minutes she was walking through the large public area of the single-story store, traversing the dimly lit aisles like she was in her own home. She wished Crowley were here—at least he’d be a little company. The squeaking of one of the cart’s wheels was the only sound in the wide-open space. To anyone who wasn’t used to it, the place would have seemed ominous in the scant light, with the shadowy racks of clothing and looming mannequins, but Eleanor felt at home here. The dark didn’t frighten her; she’d seen far worse things during her fifty-four years on Earth than a few overgrown naked Barbies.
She was taping up a plastic drop cloth to obscure the left-side display window from the street when she first heard the sound.
Stopping with one side of the cloth in place, she listened. She’d definitely heard something, but couldn’t identify it over all the rustling the plastic had been making. She held very still, willing whatever it was to repeat itself.
It didn’t. The store was once again as quiet as it always was this late at night.
Eleanor sighed. It wasn’t like her to hear things that weren’t there—maybe the interrupted sleep from the nightmares was getting to her more than she’d thought. She turned back to her task, and soon had the cloth draped so anyone looking in from outside (not that anyone was, or was likely to be) couldn’t see what she was doing. She stepped back out of the window and moved to the cart, intending to hustle a nude Santa Claus into position so she could dress him in his new back-to-nature finery.
There it was again.
This time she heard it clearly, far off in a back corner of the store.
A footstep.
She froze. She was certain she’d locked the back door, and no one had had a chance to slip in behind her. She hadn’t checked the front, but Mr. Hillerman and his staff were always conscientious about locking up.
“H-hello?” she called. “Is someone in here?” Maybe not the best approach, but it wasn’t like she’d been doing anything to hide her presence. If somebody was in the store, they knew she was here too.
No answer. The dark, cavernous space remained resolutely silent.
Eleanor rubbed the back of her neck. She was hearing things. That had to be it. It was the dream—it was making her jump at shadows. Still, she wished she’d picked up a couple of her “special items” from the bowl on her mantelpiece at home. She didn’t exactly feel vulnerable without them, but having them with her would have made her a lot more comfortable.
Just get the display done and go home. Taking a deep breath to center herself, she gathered up an armload of clothing and Santa, climbed back into the window, and began arranging him into the proper position. Her only concession to caution was that she faced back into the store while she did this, instead of toward the window.
Once she had Santa posed, she threw a voluminous brown “robe” (a bedsheet she’d cut a head-hole in) over his head and belted it with a golden rope she’d borrowed the other day from one of the curtain displays and squirreled away with her other supplies. She finished the look with a braided wreath of twigs, placed on his head like a crown. Standing back, she admired her handiwork. Santa indeed looked very much like a jolly wood-sprite.
Far off in the back of the store, on the opposite side from the one where she’d heard the footstep, something small fell off a shelf and hit the ground with a tiny whoomp.
Eleanor stopped again, her body stock-still, a chill skittering down her spine. She forced herself to attempt to be rational: if something was in here, what could it be? An animal? Maybe another homeless person who had somehow gotten in and was using the store as a place to sleep? A drifter from out of town who’d taken advantage of a normally locked door to slip in and hide until after closing time? None of those were inherently dangerous, but she wasn’t crazy about the idea of being in here alone with any of them.
She had two choices: ignore the sounds and continue with her work, o
r do something about them. The “something” could be anything from investigating the situation herself, to leaving the store, to using the radio to call Dwight and Kurt and ask them to come check things out. She didn’t like either of the latter two options: the first because it would mean leaving a job undone for the first time in her ten years of doing displays, and the second because it felt like admitting defeat. Again, she berated herself for not bringing the items from the bowl on the mantel with her—
Someone giggled.
It was a soft sound, barely audible even in the silence, but it was definitely a giggle. It sounded like a small child, but it had a certain wrongness to it. Not a happy giggle, but a creepy one.
Eleanor’s breath quickened. “All right,” she whispered. “That’s it.” She’d never get anything done while constantly on edge waiting for the next unexpected sound. Retreating wasn’t an option, since she didn’t plan to leave the display undone. Investigating things herself was just stupid: if there was an intruder, she was at a definite disadvantage in her current state. That left the radio—which was in the office off to the left side of the store near the restrooms. She’d have to walk through most of the store’s open area, uncomfortably close to where she’d heard some of the noises, to get to it.
She stepped carefully out of the window and looked around. Luck was with her this time: near the front of the store was a display for the fireplace. She spotted a rack of implements and hefted an iron poker. That might not stop a determined intruder, but it would certainly make him think twice. And if it was a child playing a trick on her—well, she could put the fear of God into him until she could contact his parents and give them an earful about the proper way to raise children.
Though her hand holding the poker shook as she crossed the store, nothing accosted her and no more strange sounds were forthcoming. By the time she reached the door to the office, she began to think she had just been hearing things, and felt almost embarrassed about disturbing Dwight and Kurt for a false alarm. Almost, but not quite enough not to do it. Besides, she rationalized, they were probably bored, and would relish the opportunity to make themselves useful.