A Nest of Nightmares

by Lisa Tuttle

  Silence fell again and Sara wondered if she had shocked Mary Alice. She was rousing herself to say something else about her love for her children, to find the words that would modify the wish she had just made, when the clamour of children filled the house, the sound of the kitchen door opening and slamming, the clatter of many feet on hardwood floors, and voices raised, calling.

  Sara and Mary Alice both leaped to their feet as the children rushed in.

  Melanie and Chrissie were crying; the boys were excited and talking all at once.

  ‘It was the same bird!’ Michael cried, tugging at Sara’s arm as she knelt to comfort Melanie. ‘It came and tried to kill us again – it tried to peck her eyes out, but we ran!’

  Melanie seemed unhurt; gradually, bathed in her mother’s attention, her sobs subsided.

  The children all agreed with Michael’s story: there had been a white bird which had suddenly swooped down on Melanie, pecking at her head.

  ‘Why does that bird want to hurt us?’ Michael asked.

  ‘Oh, Michael, I don’t think it does. Maybe you were near its nest; maybe it was attracted by Melanie’s hair.’ Helpless to explain and trying not to feel frightened herself, Sara hugged her daughter.

  ‘Me go home,’ Melanie muttered into Sara’s blouse.

  Sara looked up. ‘Michael, do you want to go home now, or do you want to keep on playing here?’

  ‘You kids can all go and play in Barry’s room,’ Mary Alice said.

  The other children ran off. Sara stood up, still holding Melanie and staggering slightly under her weight. ‘I’ll take this one home,’ she said. ‘You can send Michael by himself when he’s ready, unless . . . unless he wants me to come and get him.’

  Mary Alice nodded, her face concerned and puzzled. ‘What’s this about the bird?’

  Sara didn’t want to talk about it. As lightly as she could she said, ‘Oh, a bird got trapped in the house yesterday and scared the kids. I don’t know what happened outside just now, but naturally Michael and Melanie are a little spooked about birds.’ She set Melanie down. ‘Come on, sweetie, I’m not going to carry you all the way home.’

  Keeping her head down as if she feared another attack, Melanie left the house with her mother and walked the half-mile home staying close by her side.

  At home, Sara settled Melanie in her room with her dolls, and then, feeling depressed, went back to her own bedroom and stretched out on the bed. She closed her eyes and tried to comfort herself with thoughts of the children at school, a babysitter, a silent house, and time to work. It was wrong to blame the children, she thought. She could be painting now – it was her own fault if she didn’t.

  Thinking about what she would paint next, she visualized a pale, blonde woman. Her skin was unnaturally white, suggesting sickness or the pallor of death. Her lips were as red as blood, and her long hair was like silvery corn silk.

  The White Goddess, thought Sara.

  The woman drew a veil over her face. Then, slowly, began to draw it back. Sara felt a quickening of dread. Although she had just seen her face, she was afraid that another, different face would now be revealed. And then the veil was removed, and she saw the grey face with dead-white, staring eyes.

  Sara woke with a start. She felt as if she had dozed off for less than a minute, but she saw from the bedside clock that she had been asleep for nearly an hour. She sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed her eyes. Her mouth was dry. She heard voices, one of them Michael’s, coming from outside.

  She stood up and walked to the window and pulled back the heavy curtains, curious to see who Michael was talking to.

  Michael was standing on the edge of the lawn near the driveway with a strange woman. Although there was something faintly familiar about her, Sara could not identify her as any of the neighbours. She was a brassy blonde, heavily made-up – even at this distance her lips seemed garishly red against an unnaturally pale face. Something about the way they stood together and spoke so intently made Sara want to intrude.

  But by the time she got outside, Michael was alone.

  ‘Hi,’ he said, walking toward her.

  ‘Where’d she go?’ Sara asked, looking around.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That woman you were just talking to – who was she?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You know who,’ Sara began, then stopped abruptly, confused. She had just realised why the woman seemed familiar to her; she’d seen her first in a dream. Perhaps she had dreamed the whole incident?

  She shook her head, bent to kiss Michael, and went with him into the house.

  In the middle of the night Sara started up in bed, wide awake and frightened. The children? She couldn’t pinpoint her anxiety, but her automatic reaction was to check on their safety. In the hall, on the way to their rooms, she heard the sound of a muffled giggle coming from the family room. There she saw Michael and Melanie standing before the window, curtains opened wide, gazing into the garden.

  Sara walked slowly toward the window, vaguely dreading what she would see.

  There was a white pig on the lawn, almost shining in the moonlight. It stood very still, looking up at them.

  Sara put her hand on Melanie’s shoulders and the little girl leaped away, letting out a small scream.

  ‘Melanie!’ Sara said sharply.

  Both children stood still and quiet, looking at her. There was a wariness in their gaze that Sara did not like. They looked as if they were expecting punishment. What had they done? Sara wondered.

  ‘Both of you, go to bed. You shouldn’t be up and roaming around at this hour.’

  ‘Look, she’s dancing,’ Michael said softly.

  Sara turned and looked out of the window. The pig was romping on the lawn in what was surely an unnatural fashion, capering in circles that took it gradually away from the house and toward the lake. It wasn’t trotting or running or walking – it was, as Michael had said, dancing.

  On the shore of the lake it stopped. To Sara’s eyes the figure of the pig seemed to become dim and blurred – she blinked, wondering if a cloud had passed across the moon. The whiteness that had been a pig now seemed to flow and swirl like a dense fog, finally settling in the shape of a tall, pale woman in a silver-white gown.

  Sara shivered and rubbed her bare arms with her hands. She wanted to hide. She wanted to turn her gaze away but could not move.

  It’s not possible, she thought. I’m dreaming.

  The harsh, unmistakable sound of the bolt being drawn on the door brought her out of her daze, and she turned in time to see Michael opening the door, Melanie close behind him.

  ‘No!’ She rushed to pull the children away and to push the door shut again. She snapped the bolt to and stood in front of the door, blocking it from the children. She was trembling.

  The children began to weep. They stood with their arms half-outstretched as if begging for an embrace from someone just out of their reach.

  Sara walked past her weeping children to the window and looked out. There was nothing unusual to be seen in the moonlit garden – no white pig or ghostly woman. Nothing that should not have been there amid the shadows. Across the lake she saw a sudden pale blur, as if a white bird had risen into the air. But that might have been moonlight on the leaves.

  ‘Go back to bed,’ Sara said wearily. ‘She’s gone – it’s all over now.’

  Watching them shuffle away, sniffing and rubbing their faces, Sara remembered the story she had told Michael on the first night she had caught a glimpse of the woman. It seemed bitterly ironic now, that story of a ghostly mother searching for her children.

  ‘You can’t have them,’ Sara whispered to the empty night. ‘I’ll never let you hurt them.’

  Sara woke in the morning feeling as if she had been painting all night: tired, yet satisfied and hopeful. The picture was there, just behind her ey
es, and she could hardly wait to get started.

  The children were quiet and sullen, not talking to her and with only enough energy to stare at the television set. Sara diagnosed it as lack of sleep and thought that it was just as well – she had no time for their questions or games today. She made them breakfast but let the dishes and other housework go and hurried to set up her canvas and paints outside in the clear morning sunlight.

  Another cool night-time painting, all swirling grays, blue, and cold white. A metamorphosis: pale-coloured pig transforming into a pale-faced, blue-gowned woman who shifts into a bird, flying away.

  The new creation absorbed her utterly and she worked all day, with only a brief pause when the children demanded lunch. At a little before six she decided to stop for the day. She was tired, pleased with herself, and utterly ravenous.

  She found the children sitting before the television, and wondered if they had been there, just like that, all day. After putting her unfinished painting safely away and cleaning her brushes, she marched decisively to the television set and turned it off.

  Michael and Melanie began a deprived wailing.

  ‘Oh, come on!’ Sara scoffed. ‘All that fuss about the news? You’ve watched enough of that pap for one day. How would you like to go for a swim before dinner?’

  Michael shrugged. Melanie hugged her knees and muttered, ‘I want to watch.’

  ‘If you want to swim, say so and I’ll go out with you. If you don’t, I’m going to start cooking.’

  They didn’t respond, so Sara shrugged and went into the kitchen. She was feeling too good to be annoyed by their moodiness.

  The children didn’t turn the television back on, and Sara heard no further sound from the family room until, the chicken cooking and a potato salad under construction, she heard the screen door open and close.

  She smiled and, as she was going to check on the chicken, paused to look out of the window. What she saw froze her with terror.

  The children were running toward the lake, silently, their bare arms and legs flashing in the twilight. Michael was in the lead because Melanie ran clumsily and sometimes fell.

  Across the lake on the other shore stood the pale woman in white; on her shoulder, the white bird; and at her side, the pig. The woman raised her head slightly and looked past the children, directly at Sara. Her blood-red lips parted in a gleaming smile.

  Sara cried out incoherently and ran for the door. Ahead of her she saw Michael leap into the lake with all his clothes on. She caught up with Melanie on the shore and grabbed her.

  ‘Go back to the house,’ she said, shaking the girl slightly for emphasis. ‘Go on back and stay there. You are not to go into the water, understand?’

  Then, kicking off her sandals, Sara dived in and swam after her son.

  She had nearly reached him when she heard a splashing behind her, and her courage failed: Melanie. But she couldn’t let herself be distracted by her worries about Melanie’s abilities as a swimmer. She caught hold of her son in a lifesaver’s neck-grip. He struggled grimly and silently against her, but he didn’t have a chance. Sara knew she could get him across to the other shore if only she didn’t have to try to save Melanie as well.

  ‘Michael,’ Sara gasped. ‘Honey, listen to me. It’s not safe. You must go back. Michael, please! This is very dangerous – she’ll kill you. She’s the one who sent the bird!’

  Michael continued to thrash, kick, and choke. Sara wondered if he even heard her. She looked around and saw Melanie paddling slowly in their direction. And on the other shore the White Goddess stood, making no sound or motion.

  ‘Michael, please,’ Sara whispered close to his ear. ‘Don’t fight me. Relax, and we’ll all be safe.’ With great difficulty, Sara managed to pull him back toward the home shore.

  Melanie swam with single-minded concentration and was within Sara’s grasp before she could try to avoid her. She thrashed about in Sara’s armlock, but not as wild nor as strongly as her brother.

  Sara had them both, now, but how was she to swim? She was treading water, just holding her own against the children’s struggles and hoping they would soon tire when she felt a rush of air against her cheek, and Melanie shrieked.

  It was the bird again. Sara caught sight of it just as it was diving for Michael’s head. The sharp beak gashed his face below one eye. Michael screamed, and the bright blood streamed down his cheek.

  Trying to help him, Sara relaxed her stranglehold. At once he swam away, kicking and plunging below the water.

  ‘Michael, go back to the house – you’ll be safe there!’

  She swallowed a mouthful of lake water as she spoke, and choked on it. Letting go of Melanie, she managed to catch hold of Michael’s flailing legs and pull him back close to her. Melanie, trying to avoid the bird which was still flapping around, screamed and cried, barely managing to keep herself afloat. Sara had no trouble catching her again.

  Shouting at the bird, longing for a spare hand to strike at it, Sara pulled her children close to her, pressing their faces tightly against her breast. They struggled still to get away, but they were tiring and their struggles grew weaker. Sara knew she would win – she would save them from the bird and from the goddess; she would protect them with her own body.

  Finally, the bird flew away. In the sudden calm, Sara realised that her children were much too quiet, much too still. She relaxed her tight hold, and their bodies slipped farther into the water.

  She stared down at them, slow to understand. Their eyes were open, looking up through a film of water, but they did not see her. She looked up from their sweet, empty faces and across the silver water to where the white-faced figure still stood, her pale eyes staring out at death, her favourite offering.

  Sara saw it all as a painting. The pale figure on the shore glowed against the deep blue twilight, and the water gave off its own shimmering light. The woman in the water, also dressed in white, was a terrible, pitiable figure with her two drowned children beside her, their hair floating out around their heads like fuzzy halos; an innocent murderess.

  I was the one they were afraid of, thought Sara.

  She threw back her head and howled her anguish to the empty world.

  NEED

  After ballet, Corey liked to walk home through the cemetery. The grounds were large and well tended and offered the visitor a wealth of picturesque monuments and sentimental gravestone inscriptions, some of them dating back before the Civil War. There were columns, slabs, and spheres in abundance of the pinkish marble that was quarried locally, and among the mausoleums built to look like temples, chapels, and houses was one defiant pink pyramid.

  The walk through the cemetery, like the ballet class that preceded it, was one of the few things Corey enjoyed, something she did because she wanted to and not because she was expected to or thought she should.

  On this October afternoon, crunching through the dead leaves and breathing in the crisp, autumn-scented air, Corey felt pleasantly tired, and looked forward to reaching her apartment where she could have a cup of hot tea and some sandwiches before settling down to write her usual evening letter to her fiancé.

  But although she looked forward to those simple things, there was also pleasure in being able to delay them. With no one waiting for her and no schedule to follow, there was no reason to hurry back. It was a beautiful day, and she knew she had at least an hour before it would begin to get dark. So she turned aside from the main path and wandered the sloping, uneven ground among stone angels and headstones until she came to her favourite spot, discovered on a previous walk.

  This was a bench beneath a large old oak tree with a view of a cluster of elaborately carved tombstones all commemorating various members of the Symonds family, and a statue of a gentle-faced young woman holding a baby, with a second child clutching at her stone draperies, half turned as if looking longingly at the graves.
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br />   ‘It’s as if she were saying, “Why did you abandon me, and leave us here alone?” ’ said a voice behind her.

  Corey jumped up and turned to see a young man in a bright blue windbreaker. He had a pleasant, rather weak-looking face, and seemed about her own age.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you.’

  ‘I thought I was alone. I didn’t hear you walk up,’ she said, and realised she had pressed one hand against her heart; she let it drop, feeling embarrassed.

  ‘And in a cemetery . . . I don’t blame you for being frightened.’

  ‘I’m not,’ Corey said. ‘I was just startled, that’s all. I like cemeteries. I like this one, anyway. It’s peaceful. I often walk here.’

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I do, too. I spend a lot of time here. I’ve seen you, although I don’t suppose you ever noticed me. I’ve seen you, always by yourself, and I suppose I got to thinking that I knew you. That’s why I came up and spoke like I did. It was stupid of me, and rude – I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s all right, really, I understand,’ Corey said. ‘You don’t have to keep apologizing.’ He gave off such an aura of unhappiness and unease that she felt obliged to try to lessen it.

  ‘I can tell you like this spot,’ he said. ‘It’s one of my favourites. I love to sit on the bench and look at that woman with her children. She’s so beautiful and so sad, really a tragic subject. Her husband has left her – and it’s the ultimate desertion. He hasn’t gone to another lover, but to Death. So she knows she can never win him back. But she stares at his grave and dreams, and asks him why. You’d think that her beauty and her obvious need would make any man change his mind – but it’s too late, of course, for both of them.’