Night Relics

by James P. Blaylock

  Outside the window nothing had changed. Lightning flickered in the dim distances. The wind murmured beyond the wall. Unable to play his hand, he watched sadly as Amanda and David tossed cards onto the growing pile.

  “You should let it go,” Amanda said.

  He couldn’t answer her. It was already gone.

  “Hearts,” Amanda said, changing the suit by laying down the eight of spades.

  He was suddenly aware of a rattling sound, like glass figurines clattering in a china hutch. Something shook the kitchen floor. Amanda and David still played steadily. He was reminded of—what? Somewhere he had to be. Something left undone. The unreality of his surroundings swept through him, and he looked around with growing unease.

  The room shook again, the ice cubes clinking together in the pitcher, and suddenly the muttering voices in the other room rose in volume, massing together into a beehive-like humming. The wind rose outside and, with a sudden sound like the hissing of an ocean wave melting into a sandy beach, the condensation on the outside of the pitcher swept in a curtain down the glass and into a pool on the tabletop.

  Peter clutched the edges of his chair and held on as the ground heaved and groaned, the windows rattling in their frames. The night through the window was illuminated by a sudden flash of lightning, very close now….

  And right then an object fell out of the sky, straight through the roof, clattering onto the center of the table with enough force to dent the wood. Atop the varnished maple, spinning to a slow stop, lay the cut-glass stopper from an old perfume bottle.

  16

  SHE STOOD UP AND WALKED TOWARD THE CHIMNEY again. The dead man’s face stared out at her now through the enlarged opening. She looked away from it, reaching in to pick up the purse now, knowing exactly what she had to do. Peter had given the dead man what he wanted; she had to take it away again….

  The fabric of the purse was rotten with age, the threads disintegrating, the stitches pulling apart. A shower of tiny glass beads fell away, salting the broken mortar and brick and stone. She dropped the purse next to the corpse. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, even then hearing the wind rise outside, the old house moaning and shifting. She picked up the glass dog, then turned toward the gate and hurled it into the woods. She reached in after the mirror and hairbrush, breaking the glass against the stones, throwing the brush into a distant dark corner.

  Random fears flickered through her mind like a succession of rapid nightmares: Bobby crying, lost and alone in the darkness; the sudden sensation of falling; the sound of water rushing across stones; herself locked in an empty house, the door slamming open in a windy rush of leaves and shadow and a man walking slowly toward her bed, where she lay clutching her blankets, back pressed against the wall—the dead man, his face hovering inches in front of her own. She screamed, breaking the spell, the face dissolving again into the air.

  Wind hammered at the house. She heard the groan of old nails prying loose, and a section of lattice tore away from the side of the cellar, whirling into the darkness. Her foot kicked the length of iron pipe, and she stooped to pick it up from where it lay half-buried, thinking suddenly of the strangely dressed boy, his own sad box of trinkets beneath the abandoned house. She whispered another apology, and with both hands slammed the pipe against the bottom shelf, sweeping the books and toys into the rubble. She swung the pipe again, smashing it into the side of the chimney, then leaped out of the way as a crack radiated up through the mortar, widening into a fissure. A ton of stone and brick collapsed in a mass, burying the corpse, the jewelry and toys and photographs, the flask and lantern, obliterating the sorrowful remnants of three weary lives.

  Moonlight and night wind flooded in through the suddenly created hole in the wall. The ground shook, throwing her sideways. She grabbed onto a post with both hands, closing her eyes and mouth against the rising dust. There was a slow cracking sound, like stressed wood giving way, and one of the long beams supporting the floor lurched downward, broken in the center. The floorboards above it tore themselves apart, and Beth threw herself forward, crawling toward the gate as dust whirled up around her—dust smelling of jasmine and old books, of whiskey and eucalyptus smoke. She burst out into the night, scrambling over the rock retaining wall and into the trees.

  The sound of a vast rending and cracking filled the night. The parlor tilted crazily, the floor collapsing in sections, the latticework walls of the cellar snapping outward, the entire room collapsing like a card house, its roof caving in and smashing down over the ruined furniture and books, a cloud of dust rising into the night sky like a vast ghost.

  17

  THE NOISES IN THE OTHER ROOM WENT WILD, AS IF A thousand conversations were murmuring at once. Outside, the wind shrieked, and waves of lightning fell down the sky like rain on a window. And for one long moment, while thunder rumbled in the distances, Amanda and David grew insubstantial, like ghosts, so that Peter saw through them as if they were holes in a cleverly painted curtain. On the other side lay glimpses of a room that he recognized—a fireplace, two easy chairs, books, candles burning. He stood up, knowing abruptly where he was now, where he must be.

  Amanda was dealing out another hand of Crazy Eights. He pushed the cards away, standing up and reaching for her wrist. There was no time; they had to leave, to get out. The desperate notion struck him that they might be lodged there forever, dwelling on the past, listening to the click and swish of the playing cards glancing across the tabletop. Still there was nothing but shadow at either end of the kitchen, and the night outside was impenetrably dark.

  Something shattered, sounding like glass thrown against a wall. Cracks radiated out from the center of the window, which reflected the room now like a broken mirror. Smoke curled from the cracks, filling the room with the scent of eucalyptus and jasmine and the smell of rock dust and dry wind.

  The floor tilted wildly, the table and chairs sliding sideways, playing cards pitching off onto the floor in a rush as the Kool-Aid pitcher shivered into fragments, vanishing into the air. The top of the perfume bottle blinked away like a soap bubble along with the glass tumblers and the plate of cookies. There was the sound of wood cracking, and the broken ends of wooden beams tore through the ceiling, pushed up through the floor, tilted out through the walls.

  Peter grabbed David and Amanda both, dragging them behind him through the kitchen and into the foggy darkness just as the entire room collapsed inward behind them, smashing down over the table and chairs. He looked back, saw the scattered cards whirl away on the wind like autumn leaves, the chairs and table following, careening away into the night.

  They ran through the darkness of what might have been a vast and empty house. Shadows of furniture loomed on either side, falling away behind. Random sounds rose and fell in volume: distant weeping, recorded Victrola music, the sighing of the wind, the crackling of a fire, murmured conversation, a cat crying, the sound of footfalls echoing down a long, empty corridor….

  Then he was aware of the wind blowing, and the shadows of trees on either side, the feel of gravel under his feet and the smell of open places, of sage and dead leaves and rock. They ascended a steepening hillside. The ground itself seemed to tilt, trying to spill them off, and the wind was full of the sound of cracking and rending, as if some vast construction—perhaps the entire world—were tearing itself to pieces.

  Ahead of them loomed the mouth of a cave, impenetrably dark, seeming to rush toward them now as they were swept along by the furious wind. There was the sound of cascading water, of windblown vegetation, and abruptly he felt himself falling, the darkness suddenly illuminated by a full moon that cast their three black shadows against the cliff wall unreeling behind them. His own scream echoed in his ears as he plunged headlong toward a rock-strewn pool of water.

  18

  WHEN THE FOUNDATION SHOOK FOR THE SECOND TIME, IT threw Mr. Ackroyd against the doorframe. He caught himself, holding on as the joints in the old house creaked and strained. The parlor floor seemed suddenly t
o plunge downward at the far corner, with the sound of wood snapping, and the door slammed open against the wall. He could see the candle flames and the fire in the hearth tilt sideways as if borne down by a heavy pressure. Cracks appeared along the corners of the ceiling, and a sheet of plaster cracked loose and fell to the floor, throwing up a cloud of dust.

  Esther half stood up, a cry of fear escaping from her throat. She called the boy’s name, “Jamie!” out loud, looking around as if suddenly fearful that he was gone, and Dr. Landry’s head swiveled toward the door, looking straight at Ackroyd with an expression of stark terror. He rose from the chair, his hand reaching out, palsied and groping as if he were suddenly blind.

  The doors in the bookcases flew open, and books spilled out onto the floor. The decanter and glasses fell, the glasses rolling off onto the carpet. The pictures on the wall tilted crazily, and rubble cascaded downward into the fireplace, nearly smothering the fire.

  Dr. Landry stood up, futilely grabbing at books, snatching up the fallen glasses, pushing at picture frames. Wind buffeted the house, rattling the windows, drawing a rush of sparks up the chimney. Again the house shook, even more violently. Ackroyd staggered backward into the dark living room, gripping the back of a chair to steady himself. There was the sound of something crashing down outside, as if the chimney itself had collapsed, and suddenly the wind blew through the house in a wild gust. Through the open parlor door he saw the bookcases topple forward and the pictures leap from the walls. He heard his sister’s voice calling for her son, and he crawled forward toward the door, trying to reach her, suddenly sorry that he’d hesitated, that he hadn’t at least tried to make himself clear to her….

  Now it was too late. The walls buckled, and the rug dipped, long cracks opening in the wooden floorboards beneath it. Already the three of them had lost their substance. They seemed to be defined by displaced wind, and by the smoke wreathing out of the rubble-choked hearth—three dark shadows swept away into the night as the old parlor collapsed on its piers, tearing away from the rest of the house so that Ackroyd found himself looking through an open door into the windy night.

  He heard the sound of her voice again in the distance, calling plaintively, and he turned and hurried through the still standing living room and kitchen, out the rear door and into the darkness of the woods. He could just make out three shadows, dark swatches of night moving upward along the moonlit trail.

  He had to follow, to know what would happen to her. The idea of her forever wandering the hills on windy nights was more than he could bear….

  He saw Beth then, standing in the shadows at the edge of the trees. She was safe. He realized with a pang of guilt that he’d forgotten her, so completely had he been caught up in his own drama. He waved at her and turned away now, hurrying up the trail. For a moment he lost sight of them, but then saw their shadows pass in front of the moon-silvered shrubs. He thought he heard voices murmuring, smelled traces of her perfume despite the wind that sheered across the open country. He realized suddenly that he was nearly running, and he slowed down, feeling a twinge of pain in his chest. He pushed on, unwilling to lose sight of them. This was no time for his heart to betray him. Not until he knew their destination….

  A black line of trees rose in the night ahead—the alder copse that grew along the top of Falls Canyon. It seemed to him that he saw a shadow pass across the moonlit boughs, merging with the darkness of the hollow that led in among the trees. He didn’t slacken his pace, but plunged forward into that darkness, slogging through the ankle-deep creek water. He caught at tree limbs, trying to support himself, to keep from falling. A few yards ahead of him lay the edge of the cliff. He could hear the rush of water falling into the pool in the depths of the canyon.

  Carefully he drew closer to the edge, forcing himself to slow down, scrabbling to find a firm footing among the rocks. He peered over into the darkness, seeing the sheer rock walls of the canyon falling away on either side, the dark trees, the narrow trail winding downward on the left hand. The precipice was so steep that he had to edge out even farther, into the wind, until he could look down the vertical cliff-face.

  And there, far below, three dark, vaguely human shapes lay sprawled in the shallow pool surrounded by lapping, starlit water. As he watched, the figures very slowly faded, as if they were nothing but moon shadows diminished now by passing clouds, and the reflected stars seemed to rise through them out of the depths of the pond.

  19

  SOMEONE SPOKE TO HIM, BUT THE WORDS DISAPPEARED before he could grasp their meaning. He saw a man standing two feet away, vaguely familiar, his sleeves rolled up, wearing an old hat. A small dog sniffed around his feet, then lay down in the dirt.

  “What?”

  “Didn’t happen to make that grocery run, did you? I’m about out of suds.”

  Grocery run, suds … The words sounded alien to him….

  He realized suddenly that he stood on the drive in front of his house. The parlor was wrecked—the roof collapsed, the walls tilted in against each other. Broken glass and rock and roof shingles littered the drive. The retaining wall was half-buried. The wind whispered through the debris, rustling the pages of a book that lay open on the ground.

  The dog rolled over onto its back and kicked its feet in the air, sandpapering itself against the ground. “Freeway.” Peter said the dog’s name out loud. In a rush of knowledge it came to him, as if the word were an incantation—where he’d been, what must have happened.

  “… goddamn dry rot, probably,” Bateman was saying. “That and the termites. But I never seen a house go down like that. Maybe if you’d a put a couple braces under the floor, you might’ve saved her. Now, though …” He shook his head. “I’d get me a trash bin.”

  Peter saw Amanda and David then. They stood very still among the trees, in the spot where he and Beth had seen the woman materialize—when? Only yesterday afternoon? They stirred now, like statues just coming to life, and stepped out into the moonlight, Amanda holding David’s hand. She looked at Peter, shaking her head, her eyes puzzled.

  “Well, don’t that bake the doggone cake!” Bateman said, just now seeing them. “Looks like your loved ones come home safe after all. That’s good. I like to see things work out like that.” He stepped forward and shook Amanda’s hand. “I hear you and the boy been out of town….”

  She stepped past him, and Peter grabbed both Amanda and David and hugged them, holding them for a long, long time. Two figures appeared in the moonlight, high up on the trail to the ridge. They were descending into the canyon—Beth, with old Mr. Ackroyd leaning heavily on her arm.

  Holding on to Amanda and David as if he might lose them again, Peter set out up the trail, the dog Freeway running on ahead, disappearing into the darkness of the overshadowing oaks.

  20

  THE WIND BLEW ACROSS THE SANTA ANA MOUNTAINS, angling through the canyons and gorges, scouring the arid ridges where the chaparral plants, unnaturally silver in the bright moonlight, jittered with a sound like dry husks rubbing together. The air swirled with dead leaves and particles of twigs. Slowly, incessantly, the wind reduced the sage and greasewood and sumac to dry skeletons, tearing away the brown leaves, snapping off small branches and whirling them away into the sky until nothing remained but gnarled trunks and stones.

  A dark mass like a bundle of old rags rolled between the barren sticks, animated by the wind and emitting the papery rasping of air forced out of desiccated lungs. It rose slowly, like a gas-filled bag, roughly the shape of a man, his neck broken and his head lolling to the side, his arms hanging dead like the arms of a marionette. Its feet dragged across the top of the chaparral, its face lit by the moon now, eyes dark hollows, lips and ears and cheeks devoured by animals. Its foot caught a bent stick and it jerked to a stop, rocking back and forth momentarily, a dark silhouette against the moonlit sky, and then the wind tore it loose again, half spinning it around, propelling it along the dirt trail, where it scraped through dust and gravel.


  It hurried along on the wind now, leaning slightly forward, its open mouth mumbling out a dead language of dry leaves and dirt. The dark canyon spread out beneath it, and in the dim distance shone the lights of scattered houses. At last the trail ended, and a path declined steeply toward the last of these houses. The thing jerked to a stop and hung there as if on a hook, inches above the ground, surveying through empty eye sockets the windy, moon-haunted landscape below before descending the hillside in a rush of wind and shadow.

  Klein jerked awake, throwing his arm out to ward off the thing that rushed at him—Pomeroy, Pomeroy’s corpse, bloated and animated by the wind. He sat in bed breathing hard, his eyes pressed open, staring in horror at the pole lamp in the corner, its shadow cast by moonlight against the wall behind it. Slowly his breathing calmed and he saw what it was—a dream. Nothing but a shadow on the wall. Lorna lay beside him on the bed, and the sudden knowledge of that was comforting. He lay back down and closed his eyes, grateful that she hadn’t waked up.

  Years ago he had dreamed night after night about sitting in a dark house that slowly tilted sideways until the chair he sat in began to slide away across the floor. There had been a tearing noise and a sound like muffled screaming, and more than once he had awakened at the moment of falling to discover that it was himself screaming, his face buried in his pillow.

  He lay now listening to the silence, the night around him familiar again, empty of ghosts. After a time he turned onto his side and watched Lorna sleep. She was willing to try to make a go of it, and without any halfway measures. When they had gotten home from Mr. Ackroyd’s house, she had cooked pork chops and scalloped potatoes.