This was the place for ghosts, he thought, looking up at the dark brick buildings. Some of the structures were quite old, left over from the days of sailing ships and King Cotton. Many of the upper-story windows were boarded up, giving a blind and forbidding feel to the riverfront as the darkness settled in. This was where they told stories of pirates and slaves who still walked the hollow passages connecting the old Cotton Exchange with other buildings. The tunnels were still there—boarded up, but still there.
He walked along the deserted cobblestone street until he found a small hole in the brick wall and put his face to it. Although it was too dark to see what lay beyond, he could feel a cold wind blowing against his face. The moving air meant there were still openings into the tunnels somewhere. As a child, he had never been able to find any entrances, but then, he hadn't really looked. He'd been too afraid of what lived inside. Now that fear seemed insignificant compared to this.
Oliver knew the phone number. Such a simple thing and yet it terrified him. This Oliver was everywhere. He wasn't a creature of the dark, haunting some ancient building. He was here in the daylight, looking at phones and TV sets, always watching.
"You belong in there," Greg said loudly into the hole. There was no echo as the wind swept his words away. He sighed and started back to the car. He'd a hundred times rather face the familiar ghosts of his childhood than this new creature.
Getting the Diangelos down to Savannah was easier than he'd anticipated. He didn't tell Mrs. Diangelo the reason, but he made it clear it was vital. He had forgotten how close they had been to his father. They must have thought Greg was in trouble and Mrs. Diangelo said they'd drive all the way from Atlanta that same day.
Beth spent the day in the shed with her brother. She was uncommunicative when Greg brought her lunch. When he tried to insist she at least pause to eat, she refused and grew angry with him. Finally he left and moved to the front room to wait for the Diangelos. His feeling of uneasiness had changed into outright hate. Maybe it wasn't the machine; maybe it was just Oliver and Ben, but the whole idea seemed wrong. And in the back of his head an idea still nagged, tempting him. But his fear stopped him. Some people were better off dead and buried.
He recognized the Diangelos' car and went outside to greet them. He still hadn't thought of what he would say. As the car pulled into the driveway, Greg saw only one person inside. Mrs. Diangelo was alone. He approached her, shocked at how much she had aged since he had last seen her. It wasn't just her grey hair and wrinkled face; her eyes looked old.
"Greg," she said softly and took his hands. "I haven't seen you in so long."
He smiled uncomfortably. "I don't get out much," he explained.
"You should come and see me. I'd be glad to have you."
"Where's Mr. Diangelo?"
There was an awkward pause. "We're separated," Mrs. Diangelo said. "We'll probably get divorced. It'll be better that way I think, Greg. Now," briskly, she dropped his hands and looked up at him, "what's the problem? Whatever it is, I'll be glad to help."
Greg stared at the ground, not wanting to meet her eyes. Now he had to tell her. Then Beth appeared, running from the shed.
"Mrs. Diangelo?" she asked. Puzzled, the older woman nodded. "Come here," Beth said. "We've got something to show you." She took the woman's hand and led her to the shack.
"Beth," Greg called after her. This wasn't the way to do it. They mustn't spring it too soon. But Beth was determined and she ignored him. He ran to catch up with her.
Beth took the other woman and sat her in the chair and handed her the headset.
"Beth, don't you think we should explain it first?" he said tensely. Beth ignored him.
"Put this headset on," she instructed Mrs. Diangelo. "It's like a telephone of sorts or a longwave radio. You'll see when you put it on. There's someone at the other end who wants to talk to you."
Greg reached out and grabbed Beth's arm. "No," he said. "You can't give it to her just like that."
"He wants her," Beth whispered fiercely. "You can't stop it."
Greg turned back and looked at Mrs. Diangelo.
"It's all right, Greg," she said softly and put it on. Her eyes went vacant immediately, yet her body grew tense. Greg put his hand on her shoulder, though he knew she couldn't feel it. He wanted to stay, but Beth pushed him out the door.
"Leave her alone. He wants to talk to her alone," she said.
"But shouldn't we stay just in case something happens?"
"No, he doesn't want us to."
"Listen," Greg said angrily, "he doesn't dictate my life. He's a goddamned ghost." He shook her hand off his arm and walked back into the shed.
Mrs. Diangelo was just as he had left her. He watched her closely, but her breathing seemed to be steady. He sat on the worktable and stared out the window at the house, hoping that Beth would come back and apologize. She did not and finally he returned to the house.
She was in the bedroom, lying on the bed. He stood in the doorway and debated whether or not to start the argument again.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"I know." Beth sighed and held out her hand.
He walked over to the bed and sat down beside her. "I wish I'd never built the damn thing," he said.
"Me too." She sighed again. "But they'll never let it go."
As he lay down beside her, she raised her head to look at him. "Greg, you can tell me it's none of my business if you want, but you haven't mentioned your father. Don't you wonder about him?"
Greg answered slowly. "Yes, I've thought about it. The damn machine pulls me like a magnet, but I'm afraid. He meant so much to me and I suppose I don't want to see him changed."
"It does hurt me to see what's happened to Ben," Beth said. "But I couldn't resist talking to him. I guess the pull is pretty strong from our end too."
"Also," he added, even more softly, "I'm not at all sure that my father wants to talk to me. If he asks for me, then maybe I'll consider it, but otherwise—" He let the sentence trail off, but Beth understood.
"Greg," she moved over to kiss him gently. "He does want to talk to you, I'm sure of that. Maybe he just doesn't know about this."
He smiled gratefully. "Yeah," he said. "Maybe." "Why don't you just relax. Try to sleep for a while."
He lay on the bed next to her and stared at the ceiling, the sleepless night before finally catching up with him. He was glad that he hadn't had to tell Mrs. Diangelo. He had had no idea what he would have said. He only hoped Oliver would be kind.
He slept for several hours. When he woke, Beth was in the kitchen cooking something. Mrs. Diangelo was with her.
He walked in and Beth turned to look at him. She didn't look very happy and he went immediately to Mrs. Diangelo. She sat motionless in one of the chairs, her head bent down so that he could not see her face. He knelt beside the chair and looked up at her. She had been crying.
"He's not happy with the way things have gone," Mrs. Diangelo whispered. "I suppose I have done things wrong, but I did the best I could. He doesn't seem to understand that. He wasn't here—how could I tell what he wanted?"
She began to sob quietly. Greg looked up at Beth, then awkwardly put his arm around Mrs. Diangelo. Beth came around the table and began to comfort the weeping woman. Greg moved back gratefully.
"Of course he wasn't there," Beth said. "He has no idea what you went through."
"Nor does he care," Greg whispered under his breath. Oliver had no right to do this. She looked in worse shape now than she had when Oliver had died.
"What are you going to do?" Beth asked Mrs. Diangelo.
"I'm going home," she said. "I'm going to do what he asked."
"What does he want?" Greg asked quietly, trying to control his anger.
"He wants me to quit my job and go back to Richard. And Sandra, his fiancee, do you remember her?" Greg nodded. "He wants her to leave David."
"But David's her husband now," Greg interrupted.
"She was supposed to marry
Oliver."
"But he's dead," Greg shouted. Mrs. Diangelo shrugged helplessly.
"What can I do?" she said. "I promised him. Greg, I have no choice."
"I know." Greg knelt beside her and touched her hand softly. He felt his anger draining out of him in the face of her anguish. It wasn't her fault. She was as helpless before Oliver's demands as he had been.
"I have to go now." Mrs. Diangelo got up and began to gather her belongings. Her movements were slow and ponderous. She's grieving, Greg thought. Just as she had when Oliver had died. Now she's in mourning all over again for a dead son who's come back to haunt her.
He held the door as she went out. Then he came back into the kitchen.
"I'm going to destroy it," he said.
Beth just looked at him. "It's too late," he heard her say softly, just before he went out the door.
The headset was on the chair and the machine was still on. Oliver was expecting him.
"She deserved it," he said. "She made a mess of things and I'm going to see that she corrects them."
"What right do you have?" Greg realized that he had shouted out loud as well as in his mind.
"She's my mother."
"Not anymore. You're dead. You've got no more rights."
"Thanks to you, that's all different now," Oliver said. Greg seethed at the smugness in his voice.
"You were listening in the kitchen too, weren't you?"
"And in the bedroom last night," Oliver's voice mocked him.
"How dare you!" Greg said.
"I wasn't the only one, old buddy. There's someone else who wants to talk to you." Trembling, Greg flung the headset to the floor. He stood up and glanced around the shed until he spotted an open toolbox in the back. Upending the box, he rummaged through the scattered tools and selected the sturdiest hammer in the box. Then he returned to face the machine.
"There's someone else who wants to talk to you," Oliver's mocking voice still echoed in his memory. Greg knew who that someone was. All along he had been begging for that message. More than anything else, he needed to know that his father had not rejected him this one last time. He wouldn't talk to him. Just put on the headset long enough to know if it was him.
He placed the headset on his head and he knew right away. It was his father. The same man who had quietly stepped outside one night twelve years before and shot himself.
"I thought you weren't going to talk to me. I thought you hated me," Greg said. He had to know.
There was a sigh and suddenly Greg remembered the tired man who had left. He was always too tired to talk.
"I left because of you, son. Do you understand?"
"No," Greg said simply.
"You wouldn't have gotten anywhere if I'd stayed. I thought that if I was gone, then your mother could find someone else and you'd be better off. So you see, I did it for you. You got the insurance money."
"I didn't want it. I didn't mean for you to go." Greg was whispering, but his father didn't seem to notice. He continued to talk in a monotone.
"You should have done more with what I gave you. I didn't plan for you to use the money to set up a halfhearted repair shop in the middle of nowhere with a girl you're not even married to. I had such high hopes for you."
"Please stop," Greg pleaded. His father ignored him.
"Now you've invented something impressive, but you're planning to destroy it. Well, go ahead. I don't care. But you remember. I died for you. Everything you have I gave you—and it cost me, son. It cost me dearly. You think about that. I want you to remember that— always."
Greg yanked the headset off with trembling hands and laid it on the table. Pain and anger coursed through him and it was several moments before he could bring himself back to reality. Moving very deliberately in an effort to control his raging emotions, he picked up the hammer. Then he allowed his anger to come through, blocking out all thoughts except those of the whining man on the other end of the headset.
"I didn't ask you!" he screamed, smashing at the machine. "It's not my fault. I never asked you to do it."
When Beth opened the door and found him, the machine was in pieces and he was pounding on the pulverized remains of the headset.
"Greg," she said.
He dropped the hammer and leaned against the wall, expecting her to approach him. Instead she huddled next to the door. Finally he gathered enough strength to speak.
"They're gone," he said.
She did not move toward him, but spoke quietly instead. "They're with us, Greg. They'll be with us always now."
"No," he said. "No." He went to her and led her back to the house. She didn't resist, but neither did she respond to him as he put her to bed and then sat down next to her.
He thought of reaching for her, trying to comfort her, but he knew she would not allow it. So he sat quietly and stared away from her at the opposite wall.
"They can't reach us," he said. "I destroyed the machine. They'll leave us alone."
"No," she said simply. "They won't." She was silent for a time and then she spoke again. "I have to go back home," she said. "I promised Ben that I'd try to get our parents back together." Greg thought about trying to talk her out of it, but she stopped him. "I have to."
"I'll sell the house," Greg said. "Get an apartment. We'll get married."
"Okay," she said, and Greg knew then she would leave him. He could think of nothing else to say and so they lay together in the dark, waiting.
Suddenly the phone rang. Greg started and then lay still, but Beth reached for the phone. After a moment she turned toward him and held out the receiver.
"It's for you," she said softly. "Your father wants to talk to you."
Phyllis Eisenstein is not as prolific as many would wish her to be, but the stories of her hero Alaric have gained her much-deserved attention when they have appeared both in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction and in Arkham House and Dell collections. Dark Fantasy is not her usual framework, yet her range is such that she embraces it easily.
DARK WINGS by Phyllis Eisenstein
THE HOUSE seemed large and empty now that her parents were dead. And yet it was also so soothingly quiet that Lydia would sometimes just stand in the high-ceilinged dining room and relish the silence. No shrill voice came floating from the upper story, no gravelly, grating one from the oak-paneled study, no orders, demands, advice, admonishments. The electricity was gone from the air, leaving nothing but solitude.
She had dreamed of such peace, dreamed as the years and her youth ebbed away, eroded by a struggle she was too weak to win. Dutiful and self-sacrificing, people had called her—nurse, maid, cook, buffer between her parents and the outside world. But behind her back, she knew, they had clucked their tongues over the poor dried-up spinster. What did they know of the guilts and fears that her parents had instilled in her, of the elaborate net of obligation they had spun about her, till she was bound to them with ties that only death could sever? And death had come at last, like a knight on his pale charger, and borne away two coffins that set her free. Still, people clucked their tongues because Lydia lived much as before, alone in her parents' house, alone in her heart. If anything, she was quieter than ever.
Yet some things had changed for her. She painted a great deal more these days, uninterrupted. She had moved her studio from the basement to the big bedroom upstairs, where the light splashed in from windows on three sides. On fine days she would open those windows and let the sea air wash away the smell of paint. In the evenings she walked by the shore, sharing it with tourists and young lovers, and there were no responsibilities to call her home at any particular time. Some nights she would be there long after the noises of traffic had faded to nothing, till only the bell of a distant buoy remained for company. She hardly thought about anything at those times, only enjoyed the dark and the starlight on the waves, and the blessed, blessed silence.
On one such night she saw the bird for the first time. The moon had risen as she watched, its light splas
hed like a pale and shimmering highway crossing the restless ocean toward Europe. Like a shadow upon that path, the bird caught her eye, its dark wings limned by silvery radiance. For a moment it glided over the waves, pinions motionless in the still night air, and then it swooped upward and vanished in the darkness.
She stood awhile by the shore, straining her eyes for another glimpse of the creature, hoping it would wheel and make a second pass over the glittering water. It was a hawk of some sort, perhaps even an eagle—size and distance were deceptive out over the ocean, where there were no references to judge by. She wanted it to be an eagle, for they were rare in these parts and protected. She had only seen a live eagle here once before, when she was a smalt child. But though she waited till the moon was high and shrunken, she saw the bird no more, though perhaps she heard the beat of its wings far above her head. Or perhaps she only heard the cool surf beating at the rocks below her feet. At night by the sea, time, distance, and direction all seemed to muddle together, playing tricks on the eyes, the ears, and the mind.
At home she could not sleep for thinking about the bird, and before dawn she was in the studio by yellow, artificial light, with a fresh canvas and dark acrylic pigments spread over her palette. Swiftly, she recreated the impression of the scene, the silver moonpath, the dark bird an instantaneous silhouette, and all surrounded by an impenetrable black that seemed to suck light away from the hard, sharp stars. Blue-black she used, instead of true black—Prussian blue, that velvety shade so dark that only a careful eye could tell it from black, but warmer somehow, softer, deeper. The sky and the bird, Prussian blue. But when dawn added its radiance to her lamps, she saw that she had not captured the mood of that moment. The canvas was dull and dim. Her dilated pupils had perceived a patch of luminous, ethereal night in a vaster darkness, but the paints had given her only the latter.
Light, she thought, as she cleaned the palette and brushes. Light. But all she could remember was the plumage of the bird, blacker than black under the silver moon.
Shadows 5 Page 7