The telephone rang.
"You have reached the offices of Stanley Gudhausen, M.D. There is no one in the office who can help you just now . . . ."
"Oh my God!" said Karen Bradley, standing up suddenly and bumping the table hard enough to shake both cups of coffee.
Jeff Chandler looked up at her. "What's this? Your imitation of an earthquake?"
"No. I mean it's after one o'clock! I'm supposed to pick up Dr. Gudhausen!"
"Hey, slow down, Karen." Jeff smiled at her. "He's not going to leave without you."
"I know, I know, but I'd better call him. I mean . . ." She left the sentence hanging as she fished around in her purse, looking for change.
Jeff said, "Here you go." He displayed an empty hand, then closed it into a fist. When he opened his fingers, Karen saw that a shiny quarter had appeared in the middle of his palm.
She did an exaggerated double take. "Physicist, UFO debunker, and now I discover you're a magician, too!"
"Ah yes, I'm known for my multiple yet uniformly unappealing personalities."
"That's your diagnosis, eh? Let me worry about the treatment later, when you come up to Burlington." She smiled and winked at him, feeling delightfully brazen.
"It's a date. But don't run off without your consulting fee." He held out the quarter, then dropped it into her outstretched hand.
"Thanks, Houdini. I apologize for the vanishing act I'm about to do."
Jeff looked humorously crestfallen as she left the table and walked toward the pay phone near the entrance of the coffee shop.
He is cute, she thought, and his surprise appearance at the hotel had gone a long way toward convincing Karen that he truly liked her. But, darn it, he'd made her completely forget about Dr. Gudhausen!
Again rummaging in her purse, she pulled out her Day-Timer in which she had carefully entered Gudhausen's phone number. Her fingers shook just slightly as she punched in the seven numbers.
The thing that was Herbert Gold closed its eyes for a moment, then stepped over the body of Stanley Gudhausen to pick up the telephone. The answering machine cut off. In a neutral, nondescript tone the thing said, "Yes?"
"Hi, Dr. Gudhausen? It's Karen Bradley."
Gold looked down at the fallen psychiatrist. He knew the man's voice very well—he'd heard it often enough—but the face? Well, that might take some practice. He studied the doctor's features, distorted now in death. The skin resembled blue ice. Blood caked the lower lip, dribbled from the ears. The cheeks, just moments ago round and florid, were sunken, waxy-looking. Gold twisted his face, trying to imitate that of the corpse.
"Yes, Karen, what is it?"
"Well, I know I'm supposed to be there now, but I'm running a little late and I'm sorry. I just have to say good-bye to a friend and I'll be on my way. I hope you don't mind waiting."
"A friend you say?"
"Why, uh . . . yes . . ."
Shit! He'd said the wrong thing, made her suspicious. "Well," he thought fast, "normally I'd suggest that you bring him along. But, Karen, I'm afraid it is I who must apologize. Something . . . ah . . . something unexpected has happened, and I have no choice but to . . . ah . . . stay here."
She paused briefly. "You mean you won't be coming to Vermont with me?"
"I'm afraid not, my dear. I simply can't do it now. It's impossible. I wanted to call you, but—"
"I know, I'd already checked out."
"Yes. Right. You'd already checked out. But don't worry, Karen. You'll be seeing me again soon. Yes, I'll be corning to Vermont very, very soon."
Before she could speak again, the grinning thing that was neither Herbert Gold nor Stanley Gudhausen had hung up the telephone, breaking the connection.
The Crouching Man
Montreal, Quebec
Father Sullivan hurried to keep pace with Father LeClair as they raced across the courtyard toward the front steps of the seventeenth-century mansion that was Hospital Pardieu. Sullivan's heart pounded, not from exertion but from the other priest's contagious air of alarm.
The bright afternoon sun had disappeared behind a swelling bank of gray clouds. A drizzle of rain had begun. It collected on Sullivan's eyeglasses, making it difficult to see. His light jacket was useless against the blast of arctic air that met them as they dashed up the hospital's stone steps.
LeClair pushed open the heavy door and entered.
The moment Sullivan stepped across the threshold, he felt an undeniable change in the atmosphere. Even in the vast marble-floored entryway, the air seemed close, stuffy, somehow brooding and tangibly alien. Sullivan controlled an irrational impulse to turn around and leave.
A pervasive odor of urine and excrement mingled in his nostrils, offending him, making it difficult to identify the true source of his unease. A frail old man dressed in a soiled white hospital gown, and clutching a wooden crucifix, stumbled along amid the shadows of the far wall. When he saw the two priests he gave a short shrill cry and sank to the floor, his johnny billowing around him like a parachute.
Sister Elise, the little French-speaking nun Sullivan had met when he arrived, scurried from an activities room to meet them. "Oh, Fathers, I am so thankful you have returned. They are upset, all of them are upset. I do not know why; I do not know what is wrong."
"Show me," LeClair said.
"See there." She waved her arm toward the back wall and led them across the room to the crouching figure.
By now the elderly priest with the crucifix had pressed his right side against the dark wainscoting. He'd pulled his knees up nearly to his chin as he cowered there, hands on his forehead, face buried in his arms.
They slowed down, approached him cautiously. The slight man turned his face to the wall. His breath came in rapid wheezing pants.
"Father Hubert," LeClair whispered in French, "what is the matter? Tell me why you are so frightened?"
The old man screeched like a terrified squirrel and closed his eyes tightly. A horrible stench rose around him.
"They will not go into the bathrooms, Father. They say they are too dark. But look!" She pointed. "They are messing in the halls, in their rooms." Sister Elise spoke frantically. "And upstairs, Father Lemire will not come out of his room. The pass key will not work; somehow he has broken the lock. Oh, Father, there are only the four of us here. We do not know what is wrong. We do not know what to do. We cannot help them."
The little nun, her face a confusion of empathy and terror, began to cry quietly. Father LeClair put his arms around her. "There, there, my sister. You have done what you can. But please, just now I need your help."
"Yes, of course, Father. Forgive me." She sniffed and braced her shoulders. "Come, let me show you upstairs. Sister Agnes is up there; she is alone with Father Rabidoux."
The two priests had to race to keep up with the little nun. At the top of the stairs Sullivan heard sobbing coming from the room behind a partially opened door.
"Father Rabidoux is an Alzheimer's patient," LeClair whispered as he led Sullivan into the room. The interior reeked of urine. A yellow puddle spread from beneath the old priest who sat on the floor below the window. His small brown eyes glittered senselessly with tears. One hand clutched a Bible to his chest.
Sister Agnes knelt beside him, holding his hand. Lines suggesting deep sorrow dignified the sister's face. Her eyes, never leaving the old man's, were warm and compassionate. She spoke to him gently, as if to a child. "Here is Father LeClair"—she nodded to the two priests, smiling thankfully—"can you tell him what is wrong, Father Rabidoux?"
The old man spoke rapidly, almost too rapidly to understand. He piled words upon words as his apparent terror heightened. "Soul of Christ, sanctify me. Body of Christ, save me. Blood of Christ, exalt me. WaterfromthesideofChrist, wash me . . . washmewashme . . ."
When his aged, tear-glazed eyes met those of Father LeClair, the old man somehow managed to push himself to a standing position. Legs unsteady, he lost his balance, lurched backward against the window. Glas
s shattered. The old priest tottered, ready to fall.
He screamed.
"Grab him!" LeClair shouted.
Sister Agnes maintained her grip on his hand and tugged him forward. Fangs of broken glass tore at his delicate skin.
But she had him. He was safe. "Thank you, Lord Jesus," she whispered and made the sign of the cross.
When Father Sullivan moved to stand beside Sister Elise, the old man's sudden cry stopped him in his tracks.
"Sister Elise," LeClair snapped at the little nun beside him, "quickly now, bring me some sedative."
Three more old men, two dressed in cassocks, the other naked, found their way into the room, perhaps attracted by the shouting. All three stood by the door, shaking with an uncontrollable palsy. One spat on the floor. A lengthening cable of drool flowed from the naked priest's toothless mouth. It shimmied, groping downward, until it attached itself to his pale flaccid stomach.
Sullivan had to look away. Father LeClair stood up to face the newcomers. "Fathers, please go back to your rooms. I beg of you."
Docile, they turned and stumbled back into the corridor, leaving behind the oppressive reek of sweat and bodily waste.
"Good God," Father Sullivan said to no one. He felt his pulse quicken as he slipped into the hail. His racing thoughts were of Father Mosely, lying helpless and alone, unprotected in his coma.
An unfamiliar man in a cassock was stretched facedown in the dark hallway. He crawled along the floor like a broken grasshopper, using his elbows and forearms to drag his useless legs. In his hand the old man clutched a photograph of some smiling children.
Sullivan froze momentarily in an overwhelming sadness. Where is that peace that comes with old age? He shook his head, trying to throw off the bitter thought. Then, in motion again, he sprinted along the corridor.
He threw open the door to Father Mosely's room.
Inside, all was exactly as he remembered. The ancient, hollow-faced priest was in the same position, his shrunken body pulled into its perpetual "S" shape. Father Mosely stared senselessly from the single clouded eye. The thumb of his skeletal hand had found its way to his mouth and had crawled in. He sucked it silently, his lips flexing ever so slightly. Thank God he's safe, Sullivan thought.
Sullivan sighed heavily and took a seat on the rock-hard ladder-backed chair next to the old priest's bed. Screams and terrified cries resounded in the hail outside. Father Sullivan's vision blurred as moisture filled his eyes. He prayed, concentrating deeply, trying to direct his mind away from a dreadful and selfish certainty: one day I too will become as these dear creatures are now.
Unaccountably, he felt as if the same sinister force that had destroyed these men of God was slowly working its fearful magic on him, trying to break him, make him its prisoner. In his memory he was a boy again, hanging like a fat apple on a limb. His taunting classmates screamed and whistled. But Father Mosely could not come to his rescue.
Sometime later, Father Sullivan heard a strange tapping outside the old priest's hospital room. The tapping changed to a scratch, then to a tapping again.
Sullivan concentrated on the sound, almost recognizing it, but still unable to identify it for sure.
Curious, he was about to get up and look in the hail when the door to Father Mosely's room opened slowly. Sullivan kept quiet as the tip of a thin white stick whipped back and forth against the floor tiles, scratching between the open door and its frame. Sullivan held his breath, watching in silence.
A dark form entered the room. Father Lemire. Sullivan recognized him by his white cane.
Father Sullivan watched in silence as the blind priest made his way across the room. The old man was mumbling, his singsong cadence sounded like quiet prayer. All the while he searched for objects and barriers with his scratching cane. A rosary dangled from his left hand.
Puzzled, Sullivan remained quiet and observed.
As the blind priest's cane connected with the metal frame of the bed, he stopped. His left hand patted the linen sheet, apparently searching for Father Mosely's body.
He discovered Mosely's inflexible arm, wrapped the rosary around the knotted hand, mumbling as he worked.
Although nearly fluent in French, Sullivan was not up to translating these mumbles and half-pronounced syllables. Still, he was able to recognize a word now and then, "No time . . . Coming. Lazarus. Dead. Not dead."
Careful not to startle the blind priest, Sullivan prepared to speak softly. Before he found the right words, he saw Father Lemire raise his cane and bring it down swiftly against Father Mosely's temple.
"Stop!" Immediately, Sullivan was on his feet. He grabbed the blind priest from behind, one arm around his chest, the other raised, holding the cane, preventing Lemire from delivering a second blow.
"Let me go," the old priest cried. "Do not stop me. You do not know the trouble you cause."
Sullivan tried to be gentle as he forced the cane-wielding hand downward. The old man fought like a captive animal. "They come. They are near! Can you not feel? Look what they do. Look!"
The cane clattered to the floor. From behind, still restraining Father Lemire with a bear hug, Sullivan backed away from the bed.
"No! You do not understand. It gets stronger. Can you not feel it? Can you not see? It is here! It comes for the old ones! It wants our deaths. Our souls. Oh, mon Dieu! It is here now!"
"There, there, Father Lemire. Calm yourself, please. It's all right. Everything is all right. I will not harm you." Sullivan felt the old man's chest heaving rapidly up and down like an overworked bellows; he felt the heart pounding within the bony chest. Still Father Lemire fought.
"Not you, not you." The old priest was in tears, nearly hysterical. His frail body twitched and thrashed. "It is the others. The bad ones. They are getting stronger. Can you not feel? Can you not see? They are as Lazarus. They grow strong. We must end it. Here. Now."
The blind priest's back arched in a mighty heave. Then the strength seemed to leave him. He softened, collapsed limply in Sullivan's arms.
Gently, Father Sullivan lowered the old man to the floor. He checked the scrawny neck for a pulse. Finding none, he lowered his ear to the old man's chest.
No heartbeat.
Sullivan shouted, "I need help in here! Quickly!" He tore Father Lemire's white shirt away. Then he began to pound the old man's chest.
By the time Sister Beatrice came into the room, Father Sullivan was finishing his prayer for the dead.
Crawling Things
St. Albans, Vermont
Lucy Washburn wasn't in the spotlight. Instead, she was tucked away in the darkness, way far up inside their head. She couldn't move. She couldn't speak. All she could do was watch through the two eyes, twin portholes that all of them shared.
The Mean One was in the spotlight. He'd been there for—Jeez, it seemed like days! Didn't he ever sleep? Didn't he get tired?
How come he wouldn't let anyone else take a turn?
Lucy wanted to come out for a while, feel the sunshine, pick the flowers. Too bad she had given up control—though she couldn't remember doing it. Now the Mean One wouldn't even talk about giving it back.
Still, she could see everything. Even the things she didn't want to see. And if the Mean One got hurt, Lucy would feel the pain; he wouldn't.
Lucy was the only one among them who could feel pain, everyone's pain.
And what was he doing with their body? Where was he going? Where was he taking her?
She saw their hand reach out and pick up a newspaper from the rack in front of the drugstore. And then they were running away. Running fast. So they wouldn't have to pay for the newspaper.
Then they were in the park, hiding behind a big green trash barrel. She could see the bandstand, and the historical society, and the big churches with their tall steeples.
The Mean One didn't let her look around for long.
They dashed from barrel to bandstand.
Their hands pulled away that secret loose board that worke
d like a door, admitting them to the crawl space under the bandstand. On hands and knees they crept underneath. Lucy didn't like it there. It smelled musty, and the earth always felt damp against her hands and her bare knees.
Lucy was sure there were worms and spiders crawling all around her. Maybe even snakes. She hated those icky crawly things. But the Mean One didn't hate insects and snakes. Maybe, Lucy thought, insects and snakes were the only things the Mean One liked.
Sun shown brightly through the wooden lattice around the bottom of the bandstand, making crisscross patterns over the newspaper as the Mean One spread it out on the damp musty earth.
"Look, Lucy," the Mean One whispered.
Lucy looked hard, and she too could see the print:
ST. ALBANS MAR KILLS FAMILY, SELF
ST. ALBANS—In an unexplained shooting incident last night, Edmund Washburn, 36, a cable company employee, apparently shot and killed his wife Winona, 36, and their 6-year-old son, Randy. Then he turned the weapon on himself, officials theorize.
Police Chief Michael Couture was the first on the scene responding to a neighbor's telephone call after hearing gunshots. Couture said there is no known motive for the slayings. "In fact," the visibly shaken policeman stated, "I just can't believe Ed did something like this. Why, him and me went to school together. I've known him all my life."
One family member, 12-year-old Lucine Washburn, was not accounted for at the crime scene. Couture suspects she was not present at the time of the shootings. "At least I hope not," the distraught official told this reporter. "Maybe she escaped and ran away. Or worse yet, maybe she came home and discovered the bloodbath. Either way, if she ran off, it might not be so easy to find her."
Neighbors were questioned long into the night. Area police and firemen have been contacted to search for the girl.
(Cont. Pg. 4: Slayings)
Lucy couldn't read any more. If she had had the eyes, she would have wept. If she'd had the mouth, she would have screamed. But the Mean One had the body now, and he was laughing.
The Reality Conspiracy Page 10