God Told Me To

by C. K. Chandler

  A trap awaited him on the third floor. It was too obvious. Another warning. A short distance down the hall was an apartment with an open door. Disturbances in the dust indicated someone might be inside the apartment. The disturbances weren’t footprints. Someone had created the path by throwing out a blanket or a robe and dragging it back along the floor. Nicholas took a coin from his pocket. Tossed it through the open door and heard it land somewhere below.

  When he reached the next landing he didn’t have to use his flash to picture the ascending stairs. Light enough for him to see by seeped from above. The light had an amber cast. He pocketed his flash and continued.

  The stairs moved.

  He thought his aching legs were beginning to give.

  Again the stairs moved. Just a shudder at first, as if the rotting wood of a few steps had sunk under his weight, but then the entire staircase began to shake and sway. He heard the cracking of timbers. He feared a collapse and tried to run to what he hoped would be the solid safety of the fourth floor. The stairs buckled. In the amber light the steps ahead looked like undulant brown mud. Twisting, shimmering, viscous. His shoes seemed to cling to the steps. He pumped his legs and climbed. He felt himself being forced nearer the bannister with each step. He fought to get back to the support of the wall. He pushed toward the wall. The stairs heaved. He was within inches of the bannister when something slid from under his feet. He slipped and kept from falling by grabbing the bannister. It snapped and fell away.

  He lunged for the wall.

  The stairs quaked with greater intensity. Nicholas knew he would be thrust into the shaft of the stairwell if he again lost the support of the wall. He pressed back tight against it and crabwise began to sidle upward.

  A harsh ripping noise tore the wall.

  Plaster and splintering laths spilled over him. Oily clumps of rotten insulation whipped his face. He dropped to his hands and knees, managing to crawl a few more steps before the wall cracked a second time. The noise was like a cannon fired near his ear. Grit and dust filled the air, and dense clouds of powdered plaster, which bit into and blurred his eyes.

  He crawled.

  A third crack ripped the wall. A large plaster chunk broke painfully on his shoulder and caused him to drop his gun. He reached blindly for the gun but it clattered down and away. He crawled on, tearing his hands as he pulled himself up. He was gripping the rim of the fourth floor when the wall burst.

  He was lifted and flung. Pitched toward the black shaft.

  He screamed.

  His arm hooked around something solid.

  The corner pole of the bannister, the support pole rooted to the fourth floor, held him.

  He dangled, unable to do anything except hold on for his life. His weight tore at his shoulder, his arm became numb.

  Gradually, the stairs stopped their sway. A last timber broke loose, fell past Nicholas, crashed to the bottom of the shaft.

  Nicholas hoisted himself onto the floor. He crawled back from the edge of the shaft, sat and caught his breath, and waited for strength to return. He wiped grit from his eyes, cleared his nose and mouth of dust. His hands were scraped raw and oozed blood.

  There was more light here. Yellowish brown, it bronzed the hall, tremblingly, as if it were reflected from a spinning coin. It gave Nicholas’s raw hands the look of rough copper. And he could see that the source of the light came from the top floor, the sixth.

  Nicholas stood. He would have liked to rest longer but knew his bruised body would soon begin to stiffen if he didn’t move.

  He cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, “You did your best to stop me! Now I’m coming for you!”

  Wind whistled through the bronze-hued air, rushing against him, pelting him with dirt and grit swooping from the stairs he had yet to climb. Nicholas remembered the wind that had entered the hotel room as Hirsch was dying. He started to laugh and to call out that he’d seen this trick, but the wind gusted with such force the flesh was pulled back against his face and his breath was sucked from him. He was knocked down. The wind pushed. He reached for the steps. A wind-flung nail pierced his hand. He brought the hand to his mouth and spat out the nail. His body rolled toward the shaft. He twisted, grasped the stairs, and pulled.

  Pulled himself up step by step by step. He kept his eyes closed and ignored the stinging pebbles that bit into his scalp. The wind filled his shirt and jacket and they became a sail tugging at him. Nails, girder spikes, long wooden splinters tossed over him like darts. One spike sliced through the back of his jacket. A nail grazed the side of his head and took a piece of his ear. He pulled himself upward, took his breath in short gasps that carried dirt and sand into his mouth, and pulled.

  He reached the fifth floor.

  The wind died behind him as he pulled onto the floor, and the air was bright and golden as a summer afternoon.

  Again he rested.

  He threw off the torn remains of his jacket. His raw hands still oozed, but no blood spurted from where the nail had punctured him. His ripped ear bled a warm stream down his cheek. He clotted a handful of dirt against his ear.

  “You’ve used all your tricks!” Nicholas shouted. “You can’t stop me.”

  He started to the sixth floor.

  The golden light became more bright with each step. He rounded the landing. Only one last flight to climb. The floor ahead was bathed in yellow. Glowing yellow. The yellow of a yolk, of a rich yellow oil, of a hot yellow flame. He climbed.

  He heard them.

  Heard before he knew or saw what they were.

  Squeals.

  High-pitched squeals. Whining. Shrill.

  A brown creature leaped out of the yellow. Followed by others. Rats. Hundreds of rats. Crazed frightened screeching rats. Nicholas buried his head in his arms. The loathsome creatures rained through the yellow, skittered around his legs, sharp jaws snapping, snapping. They lit on his shoulders. Legs tangled in his hair. They hit against his trousers and tried to climb him. He kicked out. He shook them off. More came. Fat rats. Rats bald from disease. Rats with open wounds. Screeching. One wedged itself, trapped itself, between his arms. Repulsive body squirmed, hateful red-black eyes stunk of rot, dagger teeth, snapped. Nicholas threw out his arms. Screamed. His panic propelled him to the top of the stairs.

  The rats were gone.

  He stood in the yellow yellow hall. Too bright blinding yellow. Flaming yellow. Yellow of a sun. Yellow eye-stabbing yellow.

  All at once the light went out.

  He stood in darkness.

  SEVENTEEN

  A soft laughter. Low and unhurried. Laced with mild irony. As if the laugher had won a long-played game and was more tired than amused.

  Nicholas stood listening. Realized with surprise that it was he who laughed. He quieted. Reached out and touched the darkness and sensed the presence of someone near him.

  Nicholas said, “Are you afraid to show yourself?”

  A voice responded: “Do you believe in me now?”

  It was a male voice, but with a clear, high pitch, like that of an adolescent whose voice has not yet changed.

  “I don’t have the blind faith I used to have. I believe what I see.”

  The voice gently rebuked, “Poor Peter. You’ve become a cynic.”

  A slender oval shape began to glow. It was faintly green in color, the color of tarnished copper. It spun, like a large swirling disk, spun with increasing speed, changing color, becoming gold, then white. It slowly took the form of a human being. A strange light which seemed to emanate from no source lit the darkness, and when the spinning stopped, Nicholas was face to face with him.

  He had the most delicate and beautiful of features, but was pale. His flesh was almost as white as his robe, and the fine beauty of his face was framed by hair that was yellow as a lemon. The hair flowed past his shoulders. His face was unmarked, as if he had gone through life experiencing neither pain nor joy. His forehead was high, his cheekbones were only slightly prominent and sloped a
smooth line to his chin. His eyebrows were a much softer yellow than his hair. His lips, which curved in a curious smile, were a light pink. His eyes, too, were pale in color, a faint but very pure blue. The eyes were deeply set and they fixed Nicholas with an almost hypnotic, yet oddly gentle, stare. He was not tall, nor did he appear physically strong. His hands were lost in the long length of the robe which totally covered his slender body.

  He said, “Now do you believe?”

  The beauty and fragile delicacy had stunned Nicholas. He had thought himself prepared for this meeting, but moments passed before he was able to speak.

  “If you are who you say you are, you don’t have to ask if I believe?”

  “I have shown myself to you.” There was a lazy tolerance in the high-pitched voice, as if he were a parent scolding the manners of a child. “Yet you continue to doubt me.”

  “I know about your mother.”

  “I’m aware of what you know.”

  “You are not human. But are you God?”

  His gentle stare seemed to draw Nicholas toward him. His curious smile widened. “Don’t be a child. Accept me.”

  Nicholas turned so as not to look into the magnetic blue eyes. He still found it difficult to speak, and he defensively added scorn to his words.

  “The second Messiah. Who keeps rats for pets, lives in a condemned building, and sees to it that those who serve him come to a sad end. Born not of the Blessed Virgin, but of a woman who was kidnapped and raped.”

  “Really, Peter. Cynicism does not become you. Accept me. Join with me and all will be well. I don’t want harm to befall you. But if you continue to refuse me, and to interfere, I will have to take measures.”

  The electricity that Nicholas had first experienced with the prostitute began to charge him. He kept his gaze away from the blue stare, and said, “Why are you afraid of me?”

  “Why won’t you look at me?”

  “What makes me different from those you’ve killed?”

  “I have killed no one.”

  “You’ve willed people to kill and be killed.”

  “It isn’t for you to forgive or judge.” The composure began to slip from his voice. “Accept me. Look at me and accept.”

  “When did you realize what you are? When did you learn that you’re more than human? That you could force others to do your bidding?”

  Anxiety entered his voice. “No questions!”

  Nicholas looked at him. “You’re afraid I’ll find out something.” Electricity coursed strongly through him. “Not about you. About myself.”

  He shrieked, “No more questions!”

  He began to back away.

  Nicholas started after him. His body felt powered by an energy he’d never known. A new and frightening strength charged his muscles, and he felt an unusual clarity of mind.

  “You can’t kill me or stop me or control me. I’m beginning to see why. I’m different from other people. I’m . . .”

  All light disappeared again.

  The entire building began to shake and rumble.

  Nicholas shouted, “Come back.”

  A high-pitched, inhuman laughter sounded over the rumbling. The ceiling began to collapse. Nicholas turned and ran down the long, black stairs. He fell and rolled, picked himself up, and continued to run. The building shook and fell apart around him. He made it to the lobby. He charged at the front entrance, throwing himself at the door, and the force of the impact tore loose the boards which held the door shut from the outside. He ran down the stoop and was at a safe distance when the building collapsed behind him.

  EIGHTEEN

  He had not been inside the orphanage since the day that Nicholases had taken him by the hand, told him that now he was their little boy, and took him home. The place had changed little in thirty-two years and he needed no direction from any of the boys or nuns in order to find his way around. He remembered it all too clearly.

  He remembered also the nun who was now Mother Superior, and hoped she would not place him as the youngster she called Petey. She had grown plump and walked with the aid of a cane, but she still possessed the flinty tenacity that had intimidated Nicholas as a child. He showed her his shield, introduced himself as Lieutenant Phillips. She was well accustomed to policemen coming to her with questions about her charges. She was, though, also used to defending her boys. She didn’t invite Nicholas to sit down. She stood before him, both hands firmly atop her cane, and challenged him with a cold, hard look.

  “Lieutenant, you know you need a court order for the records you request.”

  “Our investigation involves a series of major crimes. It would be a great help, Sister, if we could see the adoption records for the year I requested.”

  “But 1944. That was still during the war. So many boys were in and out of here during the war years.”

  “The boy in question was adopted by a family named Nicholas. His name is Peter. It’s urgent that we locate the natural parents.”

  “Oh, dear.” She raised one hand from her cane and pressed fingers to her mouth. “Not the Peter Nicholas who has been making those statements?”

  “I’m afraid so, Sister.”

  “I so hoped that wasn’t our Petey. He was such a good boy. Quiet, obedient. The Nicholases wanted a younger child, but when they saw him . . .”

  “May I see the records.”

  “I don’t know how he could have grown up to say such things about our Lord. He was always a favorite here. I read this morning that now he’s wanted for murdering a man in some hotel.”

  Nicholas nodded. “That’s right.”

  “Of course, we didn’t know him as Peter Nicholas. He was named after two of our priests. Fathers Peters and . . .”

  “Yes, Sister. But it’s his natural parents we need to contact.”

  “Such information is rarely released.” She gave him a long, doubtful look. For an instant, he thought recognition entered her expression. He pretended to sneeze and hid behind a handkerchief. “I suppose this is an exception.”

  She excused herself and hobbled out of her office. She was gone only a few minutes. A manila folder, the history of Nicholas’s first five years, was in her hand when she returned.

  “There isn’t a great deal of information here, Lieutenant. Absolutely no indication of the father’s identity. Poor Petey was born out of wedlock.”

  “We’ve an idea about the father. We’re interested in the mother’s name.”

  “She would be quite old if still alive. Quite possibly in an institution. There’s indication she was somewhat unbalanced. Mullen. Elizabeth Mullen.”

  Nothing about Sunline Home was the least bit sunny. It was an ancient hotel on the Lower East Side of Manhattan that had been converted into a place where the aged and indigent and unwanted came to die. Welfare, Medicare, Social Security meagerly provided their needs until death, and they were poorly tended by a staff that treated them as children. The sick old man who couldn’t control his bowels was punished by being left to lie in his dirt; the woman who complained about her food lost the privilege of watching television. All personal possessions became the property of Sunline Home at the time of admission. Any patient who tried to leave found him- or herself in the position of a convict attempting a prison break.

  The woman at the desk wore a stiffly starched nurse’s uniform. She was filing her nails and merely glanced at the shield Nicholas showed her.

  “Lieutenant Phillips concerning Miss Mullen. Correct?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Whatever you want, you won’t learn much. She’s not all there in the head.”

  “Can you tell me anything about her?”

  “Senile. Stays in her room. Doesn’t mingle.”

  “Any family.”

  “Has nobody but us. Do you want me to have an attendant bring her down?”

  “I’d rather see her in the privacy of her room.”

  “Very well. But I can’t leave the desk to escort you. Take the elevator
behind you. 3-M. We’re not responsible for the condition of her room.”

  Miss Mullen’s room was tiny. The moment Nicholas opened her door he was hit with a sweet lavender scent that drenched the air. The linens on her unmade bed were dirty. The floor needed sweeping. She was sitting in a wooden rocking chair staring out a window. A rough, brown blanket was wrapped around her, a small throw rug covered her lap. Her hair was thin and gray and stringy. She didn’t turn as Nicholas entered her room, but her crackling voice immediately said, “Quick. Close the door. Before a draft comes.”

  Nicholas closed the door.

  “I’m cold. I want more heat.”

  He came around the side of her chair and looked at her. He shuddered. Something about her features was broken, as if her face had once been torn apart and clumsily put back together. She was bone-skinny. Her sunken cheeks were chalked with heavy powder. Her mouth was partially open and a strand of spittle ran down her chin. Under her chin there was a round damp spot on the brown blanket. Standing near her, Nicholas realized the cheap lavender scent was meant to mask an odor of urine.

  “Miss Mullen, I’m a police officer. I hope you’ll be able to give me some information.”

  A strangled rattle rose from her throat. “You must be having the wrong party.”

  “This concerns something that happened a long time ago. Thirty-eight years.”

  She cackled, rattled. She wiped her spittled chin with a skeleton hand, seemed to forget him for a few moments, and in that time the spittle reappeared.

  “Who are you? Are you here about the heat.”

  She was sitting on the room’s only chair. Nicholas crouched at the side of the rocker to put himself at eye level with her. He spoke slowly, gently, in a manner he hoped wouldn’t disturb.

  “In October of 1938. Something terrible happened to you.”