Ralph Parsons is already dead.
The fire has burned almost to coals. It paints the room red and draws shadows thickly across the walls. Caleb Mason doesn’t know what he was just dreaming, but he knows he’s now wide awake. He sits up, looking wide-eyed around the still life surrounding him. Nothing has changed. Something has changed. There’s no sound. There is something . . .
He stands up, fire poker in hand. He sticks his feet in his running shoes and slowly crosses the living room to the foyer, slowly mounts the staircase, slowly walks up the steps, down the hall, into his father’s bedroom, up into the attic. The upstairs is dark as the deep sea at night, but he knows there will be a light on in the attic.
And there is.
He walks among the rafters, step after step, into the little room where one clock ticks and seventeen are silent.
15. My father believed if you stand in a room with sixteen ticking clocks for one hour every day, the spirits will come.
Caleb Mason stands staring at the ticking clock. It says three forty-two, but he has no idea if it’s accurate or not. Somehow, he thinks it is. He glances down, and sees a corner of the insulation is loose next to his right foot. He kneels and pulls it back. There are dusty lath boards beneath it, and sitting upon them is a very, very old key.
One by one, Caleb winds each of the clocks.
Maybe the answer to the Dream Center director’s question is: Agree.
As Caleb kneels on the dusty particleboard floor, the dissonance of mistimed “ticks” washes over him, then seems to intensify. His arm hurts worse than ever, suddenly throbs so hard he feels nauseated and throws up on the insulation to his left. He wipes his mouth. The ticking is worse than he had imagined. His mind can’t follow all the ticks at once, and the feeling is very uncomfortable, almost maddening. A torture. Suddenly he wants to smash all the clocks. He’s still clutching the fire poker, after all. He doesn’t care if these clocks are antiques or hand-carved—which they look like they are. He doesn’t care if they belonged to his father, and his father is now dead.
17. My father was mad.
No, that’s impossible, because Dad was an attorney. Dad was respected, successful, rich, and . . . had sixteen clocks in his attic.
And when you listen to the ticking of sixteen clocks at once, it makes you . . . makes us a little . . . really makes you feel—
18. I am mad.
He has to smash the clocks now, before they eat away at him anymore. The ticks tickle his brain, like sixteen ants running on his scalp, like sixteen mosquitoes buzzing in his ears, sixteen, sixteen— he closes his eyes and sees Anna Zikry lifted into darkness, that silent movie loop that plays over and over again, but he covers his ears, tries to keep the sound away, and has a horrible thought:
15. My father believed if you stand in a room with sixteen ticking clocks for one hour every day, the spirits will come.
And he closes his eyes. And they do.
Caleb’s eyes are wide, and he sits up. The fire is nothing but a few specks of red in a bed of ash, but there’s still no hint of the sun. Without warning, the house shudders and Caleb gasps, only to realize an instant later that it’s only the sound of thunder. Outside, the wind has picked up. He looks around, remembering everything: ascending the stairs, finding the key, winding the clocks—that horrible ticking. But he doesn’t remember coming back downstairs. And he doesn’t remember going back to sleep.
So was it a dream? No. Definitely not. As he looks around now, everything is the same but not the same. The windows are still closed, the furniture is still dusty, the—and then he sees it—the fire poker is back in the rack. And in his hand, instead, is his pen. He looks behind him, remembering that he had used his book as a pillow. It’s not there. It’s gone. It’s not gone. It’s on the coffee table, open. And he kicks out of his sleeping bag, crawls over and looks at the book, afraid to see, desperate to see if
Below it:
Deep in the woods, in the small town of Hudsonville, Florida, something horrible is happening: people are disappearing. The police, those assigned with investigating the disappearance of these people, are interested in nothingbutamamamamamamamamamamamamamamamamamamama mamamamamamamamamamamamamamamamamamamamama mam----------------------------amamamamamamamamamamama mamam
Caleb holds his breath. His mind churns desperately. What is this? He didn’t write this. Did he?
Mama?
Amam?
Ama. Anna? Maybe. Or . . . or AM?
Like Christine said. Five thirty-five AM? He scrambles to his watch. It’s only a few minutes after four. And upstairs, with the clocks, it had been only three-something AM, not five thirty-five. And in the tunnel, when the things had come for Bean, it was late, but not that late, not—
Lightning bleaches everything a frigid white and cracks with a dry fury that rattles the china in its cabinet and makes Caleb jump in spite of himself. And it must’ve caused a power surge, too, because the TV bursts on in the other room, and the foyer light snaps to life. In a panic, Caleb jumps over an armchair into the other room and shuts the TV off in the middle of some commercial for the Mega Juice Machine, then shuts off the foyer light, too. He doesn’t know why a simple electrical surge should bother him so much, but it does.
Then he comes back into the family room and hears it. He turns.
There’s a big, old wood-encased radio—his great-grandfather’s from the 1930s. He stares at it. It hisses. The realization is there already, but he’s afraid of it. Part of him, most of him, wants to find the power switch, to yank the plug from the wall, to kick the speaker in and end the scream of white noise. But when he steps up to the radio, instead of smashing it, his hand reaches for the dial and turns it slowly, slowly through crackles, past blaring oldies and bleating country ballads, past angry political rants and through a blizzard of hissing, toward five thirty-five on the AM dial.
The thunder rumbles low now, like far-off drums of war.
Caleb turns the dial very, very slowly. It’s at five thirty-five exactly now. And he’s so relieved to hear nothing but electric mumble of static that he almost cries.
With a sighed laugh, he looks for the cord to unplug it, and as he does he leans close to the speaker.
He freezes. Did he hear it, really? That whisper? Or was it just part of the . . . the sound of nothing? His muscles cramp with tension as he listens. The next sound to distinguish itself is high and pinched. It’s the voice of a little girl.
Caleb hears. He can’t deny he hears it.
“Who are you?”
The voice falls back into the hissing sea.
“I can’t hear you,” Caleb says.
There’s a long break.
“Anna . . . is that you?”
Something garbled comes back then:
< . . . dared me . . . into the asylum . . . BuRn it>
Tears are coming down Caleb’s face now, but he doesn’t know it.
He’s leaning heavily on his broken wrist, but he doesn’t feel it.
Thunder cracks again. The house creaks with the wind’s force.
“Anna, I’m so sorry,” Caleb says. “What do you want me to do? I’ll do anything.”
The voice keeps wavering in and out between coherence and distortion.
< needs yOuR . . . >
The little voice fades into something else, like when you’re driving on a road trip and a new station starts coming in over the old one.
This station is filled with horrible voices, chanting in harsh, inhuman tongues. Screams pierce through every few moments.
; The voice of a man rises out of the cacophony, deep and distorted.
A chorus of a thousand screams rises out of the radio, so loud Caleb thinks the speaker or his ears will burst. Screams are all around him, so sharp they could tear him to shreds. He can almost feel the stale breath, gushing in agony from invisible lungs. The storm has changed too, somehow. Even the wind through the trees issues a scream. Without warning, a couple of windows by the fireplace shatter, showering Caleb with glass and blowing leaves from outside. The wind is cold as hell.
There’s a rush of white noise. Caleb is huddled on the floor.
Then it’s Anna again:
Thunder growls again. Only the static speaks now, and it says nothing.
Caleb doesn’t move for a long time. Rain is blowing in from the jagged glass holes where the windows used to be, drenching his shirt, lashing his face, but still he doesn’t move.
When he finally shuts the radio off, he doesn’t feel the tears on his cheeks or the blood running down his head from the rain of broken glass. He grabs the poker by the fireplace and bolts out the door. He jumps down from the front porch and strides out to his car as the storm tears loose with huge drops of cold, stinging rain.
Caleb turns the key, slams the gas, and speeds into the mouth of the maelstrom.
Chapter Thirteen
FOUR AND TWENTY BLACK BIRDS, baked in a pie . . .
As Christine Zikry sits in the backseat of Margie’s old station wagon, staring at the wash of gray behind the window, the nursery-rhyme line sizzles across her mind over and over, sometimes as a chant, sometimes as a song, a strange melody ascending the chromatic scale. She knows about music; she knows about scales. She wanted to be a singer once, in another life.
But that isn’t really her anymore, is it? The girl who won blue ribbons the last two years in the solo and ensemble choir competition has passed away. The one who thought about fashion, kittens, college, the future—she fell off the bleachers at a high-school dance, never to be heard from again. This new girl remembers the former Christine with a mixture of emotions: pity, envy, contempt. Baked in a pie.
Someone new has emerged. This new Christine might be stronger, or she might already be too broken to survive. The new Christine has known greater horrors than losing a sister and watching a mother go mad.
This Christine lives in fear of something stealing her soul while she sleeps. This Christine knows the deafening silence of the House of White Rooms.
The truth is all she wants is to be safe, normal—maybe even happy. But this Christine knows better than to hope for that. She has seen far too much.
The wiper blades screech through her thoughts. Margie is talking again; or maybe she was talking the whole time.
“I want you to tell the deputy everything. I ain’t ashamed of anything I did. But it’s for Sheriff Johnson to decide, you hear? I have no fear of justice. A man dies, a man dies. There’s no denying it. And you’ll tell the sheriff what happened to Lee, too, won’t you? Won’t you?”
Christine thinks Margie must be crying, but she lacks the strength or the will to turn her head, look over, and make sure. For a moment, she thinks of sitting up, grabbing Margie by the shoulders and shaking her until she finally shuts up. Who cares if they crash into a tree? Who cares if they die? Right now, hell seems like a great vacation spot. Anywhere but here would be just fantastic. She can’t take the chatter, the prattling. The voices. Margie is still talking:
“What happened to Lee, Christine? Don’t think I won’t tell your mammy that you had something to do with whatever happened to her. You teenagers don’t respect nothin’, I know that, but everybody in this county is a little bit afraid of your mammy, and I bet you are too, aren’t you? Aren’t you?”
“Four and twenty blackbirds, baked in a pie,” says Christine. For some reason, it seems like the proper response to her, and she smiles to herself.
“I don’t know whether you’re mocking me or trying to enchant me with some black-magic voodoo your witch momma taught you, but it ain’t gonna work on me, or on the sheriff neither.”
Christine sits up so fast that Margie gasps and the wheel jerks. The station wagon fishtails, and Margie barely gets it back in control.
“Turn the radio,” she says. “Turn it, turn it, turn it.”
“Dammit, girl,” says Margie. “You almost killed us! Sit back. Dwight Yoakam is good enough.”
But Christine leans over the front seat.
Margie tries to push her back with an elbow, then gives up. Better to let this devil child fuss with the radio than have her sitting there cookin’ up ways to get away. She’s already manipulated Margie into killing poor Ralph. Margie knows she’ll have the shadow of murder hanging over her soul for the rest of her life. And for what good? To save the life of this sarcastic little witch girl? For that, Margie will have to explain to her Maker the stain of blood on her hands.
The girl is pressing buttons. She switches the radio to AM, now she’s turning the tuning dial, filling the car with blasting, flickering static. She stops on a nonstation, just some screeching and hissing. Margie bites her tongue. She’s always been taught to pity the mad, and that’s clearly what this girl is, but this—this is just too much. Margie’s nerves are fried as it is.
“Christine,” Margie says, “there’s only two AM stations that come in around these parts, and this ain’t—”
Either one is what she was going to say, but Christine reaches over and clamps a hand over her mouth. The touch makes Margie shiver, for Christine’s hands are cold as a corpse’s, but she makes no move to shy away or make a sound. She can feel the strength in the hand on her face, and knows she’s no match for it. She glances at the girl out of the corner of her eye. Long strands of dark hair are plastered to her face. Her eyes are lit up by a streetlight. They’re dark blue and look vibrant despite the rough shape their owner is clearly in. The Zikry girl’s head is cocked, as if she’s listening hard to something. Only there’s nothing to hear but static.
“Turn the car around,” says Christine suddenly. “Turn the car around! TURN THE CAR AROUND!”
Margie presses the brakes hard, bringing her car to a skittering, sliding stop on the side of the road so sharply that both passengers have to grab on to something to keep from catapulting into the windshield.
The car is stopped, and Margie’s heart is racing.
“Margie, please, turn it around. I can’t go to the sheriff.”
“Why?” asks Margie. “We have to.”
“Didn’t you listen?” says Christine. “He’s one of them.”
Margie stares at the girl. She’s terrified. “Listen to who?” she asks.
“Anna. That was Anna.”
“What was her? When?”
“Just then. That was her, in the radio.”
“You’re in need of medicine, child. For your head.” Margie’s voice is filled with almost as much pity as fear. “I ain’t heard talk like that since . . . ”
The girl is looking over her shoulder now.
“ . . . since the asylum shut its doors all those years ago and put all those crazy folks back on the street.”
“He’s coming,” Christine says, still staring through the back window into the dark of the storm, “and he isn’t alone. We have to go.”
“You’re scaring me, Christine. We’re friends, right? Remember, I served you a piece of cake on every birthday you ever had—and I remember every one too.”
“We have to go, Margie. We have to.”
“Okay, honey. We’ll go. I just want you to remember I’m your friend. I don’t want you to forget that. I just want to help you. I just—”
Margie stops. She sees something in the rearview mirror. She thought she imagined it at first, but as she squints through the raindrops, the flashes
of red become clearer. And she thanks God over and over. It’s the sheriff.
Christine sees it too.
“Go, Margie! You have to go! They’ll take me back!”
The police car comes to rest behind Margie’s car with a little burp of the siren. Christine is getting frantic.
“Go, go, go, go, go!”
“Sheriff! Thank God!” Margie yells out the window. “Help!” She looks in the water-dappled side mirror, and in its distorted face she sees the sheriff get out and begin walking toward her. She doesn’t notice the other three smaller figures that get out of the squad car too.
“Margie, please, please go!” Christine begs. Tears are running down the girl’s cheeks now, but Margie ignores her. All she wants is for this girl, this daughter of a witch, to be safely locked away. She just wants to go back to the diner and clock in for work, to go home and fix dinner and watch TV and go to sleep. She just wants it all to be over.
“Sheriff,” Margie calls out the window, “come quick.”
“They’re coming to take us into the dark,” says Christine. She sees them coming, but realizes that for Margie their figures must be drowned out by the glare of the squad car’s spotlight, which is trained on her rearview mirror. In a flurry of motion, Christine bounces from one side of the car to the other, locking all the doors.
“Keep them locked,” she says. “Roll the window up!”
“It’s just the sheriff,” Margie says, trying to sound comforting, but only sounding afraid.
The sheriff ’s figure is coming close now through the blinding glare of the spotlight, moving with slow, crunching steps over the gravel shoulder and up to Margie’s window.
“Don’t open it,” Christine whispers. “They’re with him.”
Just as she speaks, the sheriff is passing the back window, and he ducks his head down and looks in, blasting Christine’s eyes with his flashlight. She blinks and squints, but doesn’t dare take her eyes off him. She catches him leering at her as he stands up and approaches Margie’s door.
“Margie, don’t open it, Margie!”
The Sleepwalkers Page 17