“I’ll see that you get there,” Saunders said. “Only this time you stay put.”
“Scout’s honor.” Russ held up three fingers.
Saunders watched him without amusement. “And when you get there, you can help fill out a report. Tell us if anything’s missing.”
“Missing?”
“Somebody’d broke into your house right before we got there.”
*
X
Mandarin had a bottle of Percodan tablets for pain—contraindicated, of course, in the presence of recent head injury—and he prescribed himself a couple and washed them down with a medicinal glass of Jack Daniel’s. He supposed he should sue himself for malpractice. After all, he’d only been permitted to leave the hospital after signing an “against medical advice” form. A fool for a physician.
Was it possible for a head to ache any worse than his did? He had a gash above his forehead where the bullet had grazed his scalp, a lump across the back of his skull from his fall, and a terminal hangover.
Russ almost wished his assailant had aimed lower. Saunders’s people hadn’t turned up any brass, and Saunders was of the opinion that Russ’s attacker had got off a lucky shot with a junk .22 revolver— probably one of his hippie dope-fiend patients. Typical of the times, Saunders judged, and with our boys dying in Vietnam while scum like this dodged the draft.
Three breakins in one night—not to mention the burglary of Stryker’s office the day before—hardly seemed random, Mandarin had argued. Saunders had pointed out that these were only a few of the dozens of breakins that took place each night, and that it was all due to drugs, and that if certain psychiatrists would stick to shrinking heads and let the police go about their business, a lot of this sort of thing would be stopped.
Russ promised to go to bed.
But neither the Percodan nor the bourbon could ease the pain in his skull. And the thoughts kept running through his brain. And every time he closed his eyes, she was there.
I dream of that night with you,
Darling, when first we met…
Mandarin realized that his eyes weren’t closed. She was there. In his room. And she whispered to him…
*
Mandarin screamed and sat up. His drink, balanced on the back of the couch, fell over and spilled melted ice cubes onto his lap.
The dancing image faded.
Never, thought Mandarin, never mix Percodan and alcohol. He was shaking badly, and his feet seemed to float above the floor as he stumbled into the kitchen for another drink. Maybe he ought to take a couple Valiums. Christ, he was in worse shape now than when Alicia died.
Could a poltergeist direct a bullet?
Russ noticed that he was pouring bourbon over the top of his glass. He gulped down a mouthful, not tasting it. His hands were steadier.
Could a poltergeist direct a bullet?
Either he was succumbing to paranoid fantasies and alcoholic hallucinations, or maybe he should have stayed in the hospital for observation. Was he going over the edge? What the hell—he hadn’t been worth shooting since Alicia died.
Someone thought he was worth shooting.
Could a poltergeist direct a bullet?
Was he haunted?
It wasn’t random; Saunders was wrong. There was a pattern, and it had all started that afternoon when Gayle Corrington told them about her poltergeist. A ghostly lesbian who dabbled in the occult and who liked blue. The stuff of one of Stryker’s pulp thrillers, but now there were two people dead, and someone—or something—had broken into the homes of everyone involved and scattered things about like a vengeful whirlwind.
Mandarin decided that a walk in the early dawn would do him good. He just might be sober by the time he reached the clinic and his car.
Could a poltergeist deflect a bullet?
*
XI
This one ends on a bright summer morning, and a fresh dew on the roses that perfume the dawn.
Russ Mandarin eased his Jensen Interceptor into the driveway and killed the engine. All at once it seemed absurdly dramatic to him. He really should have phoned Gayle Corrington before driving over to her house at this hour.
Or maybe he shouldn’t have.
He closed the door quietly and walked up to the carport. The white Corvette was parked there as before, only before there hadn’t been a scraping of maroon paint along its scored right front fender. Fiberglass is a bitch to touch up.
Russ tried the doorbell long enough to decide that Gayle Corrington wasn’t going to answer. Either not at home (her car was still there) or a sound sleeper. Russ pounded loudly against the door. After a time his knuckles began to hurt. He stopped and thought about it.
Nothing made sense. Mandarin wished he had a drink—that was always a good answer to any crisis.
He ought to call Saunders, tell him about the maroon paint on Gayle Corrington’s white Corvette. Maybe just a fender-bender, but it might match up with the crease on the left side of Stryker’s Buick. And so what if it did? Curtiss was a terrible driver—he might well have paid Gayle a second visit, scraped up against her car in parking.
Nothing made sense.
Just this: Gayle Corrington had told Stryker something in the course of the interview—while Mandarin had been out of the room. Stryker had been excited about it, had written it into his account of the haunting. And someone had gone to a lot of trouble to make certain that whatever Stryker had discovered would never be published.
Only Gayle Corrington had freely asked Stryker to investigate her haunted house.
Nothing made sense.
Mandarin thought he heard a television set going. Maybe Gayle was around back, catching some early morning sun, and couldn’t hear his knock. Worth trying.
Russ headed towards the rear of the house. As he reached the patio, he saw Prissy lying beside a holly bush. At first he thought the little border collie was asleep.
Not random. A pattern.
The sliding glass door from the patio was curtained and at first glance appeared to be closed. Russ saw that the catch had been forced, and he cautiously slid the glass panel open, stepped inside.
Gayle Corrington was wearing dark slacks and a black sweatshirt. She was hog-tied with her wrists bound back to her ankles, her body arched like a bow upon the couch. Her lips were taped with adhesive, but the cord knotted tightly into her neck would assure that she would never cry out.
Russ stared at her dumbly. He knew there was no point in searching for a pulse.
“Hello, Russ,” said Stryker. “Come on in.”
Russ did as he was told.
Curtiss Stryker was straightening out from where he worked over the brick hearth. The hearth had been lifted away, revealing an opening beneath the floor.
“Used brick hearth on a mountain stone fireplace. Should have tipped me off from the first—an obvious lapse in taste.” Stryker was holding a Colt Woodsman. It was pointed at Mandarin’s heart.
“Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated,” said Stryker.
“You son of a bitch,” said Mandarin.
“Probably. But you just stand still where you are.”
Russ nodded towards Gayle’s body. “Your work?”
“Yes. While you were ringing. Just not quite in the nick of time, Doctor. But don’t waste any tears on our Mrs. Corrington. She tried to kill both of us, after all—and I gather she was certain that you, at least, were most decidedly dead. This is her gun, and she would be disappointed to learn that her aim was not as infallible as she imagined.”
“I don’t get it,” Russ said. “What are you doing?”
Stryker glanced towards the opened hearth. “Just getting a little social security. Maybe you can understand.”
“I don’t understand a goddamned thing! I came here to ask Gayle what it was that she told you while I was out of the room that day. Seems that a lot of people are interested.”
“You might as well know,” Stryker decided. “She wanted me to pe
rform an exorcism.”
“An exorcism?”
“Or something to that effect. She’d read my books on the occult, decided I was a better ghost chaser than a priest would be. Maybe she’d already tried a priest.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Then I’ll make it short and snappy.”
“Is this the point in your story where the villain always explains everything to the hero before he shoots him?”
“It is. I’m afraid this story won’t have a happy ending, though. After all, an author has his privileges.”
“I wept for you.”
“I know. I’ll weep for you.”
Stryker kept the Colt Woodsman steady in the direction of Mandarin’s chest. Russ recalled that Curtiss had always bragged about his marksmanship.
“Our Mrs. Corrington changed a few details, and she changed a few names. She played the part of Cass in the highly revised account she gave us of this house. She and her Libby were medical secretaries. They had access to patients’ records, and they knew various prominent citizens who had certain sexual quirks. Knowing their particular weaknesses, it was simple enough to lure them out here for an odd orgy or two—black magic, S&M, any sort of kink their secret selves desired. Then there were the hidden mikes and camera, the two-way mirrors. Made for some lovely footage. Here’s a respected publisher who likes to dress up in women’s clothing and be whipped; here’s a noted doctor who prefers to give enemas to submissive girls. Maybe just a Baptist preacher who can’t get a blow job from his wife. They knew about them, and preyed on them.
“But they needed another girl—another feminine one for their fantasies-delivered orgies. So they brought in a third girl—and that was a crowd. Cass—Gayle—liked her better than Libby, and Libby got jealous. She was going to blow the whistle on the entire operation unless the other girl was sent away. But that was too dangerous, and Gayle was growing tired of Libby. They had a special Black Sabbath orgy that night, and when it was over they gave Libby an injection of insulin. Your friend, Dr. Royce Blaine, didn’t give any trouble over signing the death certificate; after all, he was in the photos. Later, when Gayle grew tired of Tina, she married Dr. Blaine—probably saved her life; his too, maybe.”
“But why did Mrs. Corrington call you in on this?” Russ wondered if he could jump the older man.
“Because she really did think she was being haunted. Nothing more than a nuisance, but it preyed on her nerves. So she made up this plausible story, and she reckoned I’d perform some magical miracle, just like the heroes in my stories. But she didn’t reckon on how good a researcher I was. I got suspicious—you know: ‘Doctor, I have this friend …’ and it didn’t take long to dig out the facts. It happened while you were off in New York.”
“So then?”
“Well, I wrote down my findings, made a carbon for you, then set out for another talk with Gayle Corrington. Of course, then I didn’t know about the blackmail angle—I just wanted to confront Gayle with the fact that I knew her part in the story was more than just an innocent bystander.
“She followed me after I left her house, ran me off the road into the lake. By then I knew about the blackmail—she was too upset with me to lie convincingly that night—so I thought I’d just lie doggo for a few days and see what happened. I destroyed my notes, but that little bastard Brooke Hamilton beat me to my office and stole your carbon of the chapter rough. I caught up with him last night, made him tell me where he’d hidden everything, then destroyed it all—and that little shit. In the meantime, Gayle knew of my carbons, so she was checking out my house, and afterward yours. You walked in on her at my house, and she thought she’d killed you. That’s two mistakes. You should have seen her expression when she walked in here afterward. Thought she’d seen a real ghost this time.”
“Just Uncle Dudley in a monster suit.”
“Just like one of my old thrillers. No ghosts. Just greed. And a guilty conscience that made ghosts out of chance phenomena.”
“Now what?”
“I take over the racket, that’s all. After a little persuasion, Gayle told me what I already knew—that the films and tapes were all hidden in a little safe here beneath the raised hearth. I’ve got enough on some of our city’s finest and wealthiest to retire in style. I’ll just make an appearance later on today, say I was knocked for a loop by my accident, took a day or two wandering around the lakeside to remember who I was.”
“What about me?”
“Now that does bother me, Russ. I hadn’t counted on your dropping in like this. I think you’ll be the drugged-out killer in the story—the one who conveniently takes his life when he realizes what he’s done.”
“Saunders won’t buy that.”
“Sure he will. You’ve been walking around town with a screw loose ever since your wife died—before that maybe. You were the one who blew her diagnosis when she complained of chronic headaches.”
“I was your friend, Curtiss.”
“Writers don’t have friends. Only deadlines. And cheating publishers. And meddling editors. And carping reviewers. And checks that never come when they’re supposed to come, and are always short when they do come. I’ve scraped along for a living at this damn trade for over forty years, and I’m still living hand-to-mouth, and I’m just an old hack to my fellow writers. This is my chance to make someone else pay—pay big.”
Stryker steadied the pistol. “Sorry, Russ. I’ll miss you. Hope you can understand.”
The Victrola behind them made a rattle and whir. There was an audible clunk as the heavy tonearm descended.
Stryker looked towards it for an instant. Russ started to go for him. Stryker nailed him through the upper left shoulder with his first shot. Russ collapsed.
I dream of that night with you…
“Going to be a tough job of suicide now,” Mandarin whispered.
“I’ll figure something,” Stryker assured him.
Blue were the skies
And blue were your eyes
Stryker leveled his pistol again. “Very interesting.”
Come back, blue lady, come back
“There are too many dead!” Russ managed. “She’s grown too strong.”
“I never really believed in ghosts,” said Stryker, lining up on Russ’s heart.
Don’t be blue anymore.
There was a sudden scraping at the fireplace behind them.
From its brackets, the Parker shotgun swung away from the stone wall. It seemed to hesitate an instant, then slowly fell to the hearth, stock downward.
Stryker turned to stare at it, open-mouthed in wonder. He was still gaping into its double barrels, looking down into the blackness within, when both shells fired at once.
<
*
The Naughty Step
MICHAEL MARSHALL SMITH
MICHAEL MARSHALL SMITH is a novelist and screenwriter. He has published seventy short stories and three novels: Only Forward, Spares, and One of Us, winning the Philip K. Dick Award, International Horror Guild Award, August Derleth Award and the Prix Bob Morane in France. He has won the British Fantasy Award for Best Short Fiction four times, more than any other author.
Writing as “Michael Marshall,” he has published five international best-selling thrillers, including The Straw Men, The Intruders, Bad Things and, most recently, Killer Move. The Intruders is under series development with BBC Television.
Smith is currently involved in several screenwriting projects, including a television pilot set in New York and an animated horror movie for children. He currently lives in North London with his wife, son, and two cats.
“I’ve always found something a little spooky and disconcerting about the three words in the title of this story,” confesses Smith. “I’d originally intended it to be about five thousand words long, but then suddenly realized that it might be better coming in low and fast . .
WHEN I AM BAD my daddy makes me sit on the naughty step. It is a funny name for a step becau
se it is not naughty, just the step where I have to sit. It is a step near the bottom of the stairs that go from the bottom of our house up to the next floor. Because of the way our house is made, the bottom of our house is actually a bit below the street outside. But the next floor up is a little bit above the street, and so when you leave the house through the front door you have to go down a few stone steps to get to the path. I don’t know why they would make a house like that, but they did, and that is where we live.
When I am on the naughty step I can see into the family room. It used to be the kitchen but someone who lived here turned the other room into the kitchen and now the kitchen is the family room. There are windows in there and I can see them through the doorway. One of the windows is brighter than the others now, and more interesting things happen through it. So when I am on the naughty step I watch that one if I can.
I am on the naughty step a lot.
At first my daddy used to only put me on it once in a while. But he says that I got naughtier and naughtier, and so I ended up sitting on here more. I think it is true that I got more naughty, but I think also he got cross more too.
The last time I was bad my daddy got so cross, much more cross than I have ever seen before. I had been very, very naughty, it is true. I had deliberately broken something that belonged to my mummy and then I hit her on the arm, but it was not hard. I was just grumpy because they would not listen to me.
But Daddy was very mad at me anyway and he looked like he was going to hit me, which he is not allowed to do, which is why we have the naughty step. He shouted and his face was red and Mummy was telling him not to shout, which was strange because she had been shouting too and just as cross as he was, but then she stopped looking cross and started to look afraid. My daddy was so angry he did not look like himself.
I don’t think he hit me, but I do not remember. I am on the naughty step, so I think he must not have done.
I have to stay here until Daddy comes and tells me I can leave. Sometimes he looks sad when he comes to tell me that, and says he is sorry, but I do not believe he will do that this time. He was very, very cross.
Haunts Page 49