Basilisk

by Graham Masterton

  ‘Of course I want to know why.’

  ‘No you don’t. You’re totally not interested. So why don’t you just go back to your disgusting conversation about rotting creatures? I’m going out.’

  ‘I said – shut up, sit down, and finish your supper. You’re not going anyplace. You’re grounded until you can learn some respect.’

  Denver shook his head. ‘Respect? You know why they threw me off the basketball team? For fighting. And do you know what I was fighting about? You.’

  Nathan sat back in his chair. ‘Did somebody say something?’

  ‘Yes, somebody said something. And whatever I think about you, nobody insults me or my family. As if you cared. As if you’d ever do the same for me.’

  ‘So what did they say?’

  ‘I’m not telling you. It was just as disgusting as all this infection stuff you’ve been talking about.’

  ‘Denver—’

  ‘Forget it, Pops. Just forget it. I’m going out.’

  ‘What did they say?’ Nathan demanded.

  ‘I scored three slam dunks, one after the other. Alver Dunsmore said you must have injected Mom’s eggs with kangaroo sperm.’

  Grace felt her cheeks flushing, and she had to press her hand over her mouth.

  Nathan said, ‘Don’t you think it could have been a joke?’

  ‘Alver didn’t say it for a joke. It sure didn’t sound like a joke.’

  ‘Don’t you think you might have overreacted? Come on, Denver, it’s a knockabout world out there. Sometimes you have to roll with the punches.’

  ‘OK – if you think I was wrong to stand up for you and Mom, then all I can say is that you have no family values whatsoever. And I’m going out.’

  ‘All right,’ Nathan conceded. ‘You go out. Maybe it will help you to cool off.’

  Nathan’s anger had subsided now. He remembered that he had been just as aggressive and frustrated as Denver, when he was seventeen. The whole world had appeared to be stupid and illogical and back to front, like looking-glass land, and he had never been able to understand why his parents had so blithely accepted it.

  Denver pushed his hair out of his eyes. ‘Sorry, Mom. This isn’t anything to do with you.’

  ‘You want me to keep your supper for you?’

  Denver picked up his tipped-over chair. He hesitated for a long moment, and Nathan could tell that he was sorely tempted to sit down and continue eating. In the end, however, he turned around and left the dining room, and they heard him opening the cloakroom door to get his windbreaker.

  ‘I’ll tell you what!’ Nathan called out. ‘I’ll talk to your coach tomorrow – see if we can get you back on the team! I don’t know how they could have dropped a player with kangaroo genes! I mean – what are they, crazy?’

  The front door slammed. Grace got up from her chair and came around the table and put her arms around his neck and kissed him. ‘You know something? In spite of himself, I think he’s beginning to come round. Thank you for not shouting.’

  Nathan kissed her back. ‘I couldn’t shout. I was trying too hard not to laugh.’

  At that moment, the phone warbled. Grace went to answer it.

  ‘Doctor Underhill? Is that Doctor Underhill?’

  ‘That’s right. Who is this?’

  ‘It’s Doris Bellman, Doctor Underhill. I hope you don’t mind me calling you so late.’

  ‘Of course not, Doris. It’s only seven thirty. How can I help you?’

  ‘I’ve heard it again, Doctor Underhill. The screaming. And somebody dragging a sack past my door.’

  ‘Have you told your carers?’

  ‘I don’t want to do that, Doctor Underhill. I don’t trust them. The only person I could think of calling was you.’

  Nathan raised his eyebrows, to ask Grace who was calling her. Grace raised her hand and mouthed, ‘Won’t be a minute.’ Then she said, ‘Listen, Doris, why don’t I call by to see you tomorrow morning? You can tell me all about it then.’

  ‘I’m frightened, Doctor Underhill. I’m terribly frightened.’

  ‘I’m sure there’s nothing for you to worry about. Take a couple of kava kavas . . . they should calm you down. I’ll come to see you first thing tomorrow.’

  ‘Can’t you come to see me now? I know it’s a great deal to ask of you.’

  Grace closed her eyes for a moment. She had been operating from eight a.m. to four thirty p.m., with only a twenty-minute break, and then she had come home to cook supper. She had also drunk a glass and a half of wine.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Doris. I can’t make it tonight.’

  ‘But I can hear them outside my door! They’re coming for me next, I’m sure of it!’

  ‘Doris, I promise you. Everything’s going to be fine. All you have to do is get a good night’s sleep.’

  Mrs Bellman didn’t answer. Grace said, ‘Doris? Are you still there? I’m sure you have nothing to worry about.’

  ‘What if they try to break into my room?’

  ‘Who, Doris?’

  ‘The sack-draggers. What if they try to break into my room?’

  ‘Doris, I’m sure that they won’t. But if they do, you just give me another call, OK?’

  ‘I’m terribly frightened, Doctor Underhill.’

  ‘I know you are. But try to relax. Is there anything you want me to bring you? A cake, maybe, or some cookies? Some magazines for you to read?’

  Mrs Bellman hung up without saying anything more. Grace put down the phone and said, ‘Mrs Bellman, from the Murdstone.’

  ‘You gave her your home number?’

  ‘I wish I hadn’t now. I just felt sorry for her, I guess. She’s convinced that she’s going to be dragged away in a sack, and she wants me to come and rescue her.’

  She sat down. Her chicken stew was congealing now, and she didn’t feel hungry any more. Although Mrs Bellman was obviously suffering from the early stages of senile dementia, she still felt guilty that she wasn’t driving straight over to see her. But the Murdstone Rest Home was nearly ten miles away, in Millbourne, and she didn’t really know what she could do to help Mrs Bellman even if she went there.

  Denver returned home, very quietly, a few minutes after midnight. Nathan heard the front door close, and the alarm switched on. Tonight, it didn’t sound as if Denver had been drinking, because he managed to creep up the stairs and tippy-toe along the landing. Nathan heard him switch on his TV, at very low volume, and climb into bed.

  ‘Is that Denver?’ asked Grace, blurrily.

  ‘Hey – I thought you were asleep.’

  ‘I’m a mother. Mothers never sleep. Not completely, anyhow.’

  They lay there in silence for a while. Then Nathan said, ‘Maybe he’s right. Maybe I don’t pay him enough attention. I’ve been so obsessed with this goddamned project.’

  Grace said, ‘Stop beating yourself up about it. He’s growing up, that’s all. He needs somebody to rebel against, and that somebody just happens to be you.’

  ‘I know – but I should leave my work where it belongs, in the laboratory, and not bring it home with me. I’ll try to have a talk to him tomorrow. You know, man-to-man stuff.’

  ‘My God. You’ll be taking him fishing next.’

  ‘Not a hope. But I might take him to see the Seventy-sixers.’

  ‘That sounds great. So long as you don’t expect me to come along.’

  Grace fell back to sleep. Around two twenty-five a.m., Nathan heard Denver switch off his TV. He would definitely talk to him tomorrow, and he wouldn’t mention mythical creatures once. A new beginning, father and son, the way it used to be when Denver was little, and they used to play football together, and go cycling to the store.

  Nathan closed his eyes. Almost immediately, he opened them again. The bedroom was very dark – much darker than it had been before. He could hear breathing but it wasn’t Grace. It was thicker and much harsher, more like an animal. He lay there for a few seconds, listening to it, and then he sat up.

 
In the corner of the room, barely visible in the gloom, he saw a large black shape. It appeared to have bristling horns on top of its head, or a crown made out of dry branches, and it reached almost to the ceiling. He thought he might have seen its eyes glittering, too, but he couldn’t be sure.

  The sack-dragger, he thought. Instead of going to help Mrs Bellman, Grace had stayed at home, and now the sack-dragger had dragged itself all the way here, looking for her, sniffing her out.

  He eased back the bedcover. He kept his own breathing shallow, to suppress his fear. He couldn’t imagine how the sack-dragger had managed to get into the house, and climb up the stairs to their bedroom, but here it was. It lurched to one side, so that the floorboards creaked, and then it took a single shuffling step toward him.

  He groped down underneath the bed for his baseball bat. He found the handle and pulled it out. The sack-dragger took another step toward him, and then another. Its breathing was louder and harsher, and he was sure that he could see its curved black claws.

  ‘Grace,’ he said, urgently. He climbed out of bed and stood facing the sack-dragger, gripping the baseball bat tight. ‘Grace, wake up!’

  The sack-dragger was almost on top of him now, brushing up against him. It felt as if it were wrapped around in layer upon layer of frayed black burlap, like a medieval leper trying to conceal his noseless face. Now that it was so close, he could smell it, too, and it smelled of dust and sacking and rotting chicken.

  ‘Grace, wake up! For Christ’s sake, Grace, you have to wake up!’

  The sack-dragger uttered a throaty, gargling noise, and lunged at him. He swung the baseball bat as hard as he could, and he felt it collide with heavy layers of fabric. He swung it again, and again, and shouted out, ‘Get out of here, you bastard! Get the hell out!’

  With a soft rumbling sound the sack-dragger collapsed in front of him. He beat it with hard, criss-cross chops, never letting up. The sack-dragger seemed to diminish with every chop, as if he were smashing up its ribcage and its pelvis, and reducing it to nothing more than broken bones and dusty black hessian.

  He stopped, and held his breath, and listened. He couldn’t hear it breathing any longer. He prodded it with his baseball bat, two or three times, but it didn’t stir. He had either killed it, or beaten it into unconsciousness.

  He dropped back on to the bed, gasping. It was then that Grace switched on her bedside lamp and sat up straight, with her hair tousled and her cheeks flushed pink.

  ‘Nate? What’s going on?’

  He blinked at her. ‘The sack-dragger. Look.’

  She peered over the side of the bed. Their dark brown comforter was lying on the floor in a crumpled heap.

  ‘The sack-dragger? What are you talking about? And what are you doing with that bat?’

  ‘It, ah – I don’t really know. I kind of thought that—’

  ‘Whatever you thought, darling, how about putting that comforter back on the bed? It’s freezing!’

  Nathan lowered the baseball bat and pushed it back under the bed. Then he picked up the comforter. There were no broken bones inside it, and it was covered in damask cotton, not burlap. If it smelled of anything, it was Grace’s perfume, and his own fresh perspiration.

  ‘I guess I had a nightmare. But it wasn’t at all like a regular nightmare. I was sure that I was awake. I could feel it. I could smell it.’

  Grace dragged the comforter over to her own side of the bed. ‘It’s that gryphon. I think you’re more upset about it than you realize yourself.’

  ‘Well, maybe.’

  Nathan punched his pillow back into shape and buried himself in the bedcovers. Grace switched off her bedside lamp and he closed his eyes and tried to get to sleep. After only a few minutes, though, he opened them. He was sure he could hear breathing again, and it wasn’t Grace. It was harsh, and thick, and very close.

  He was sure that there was something in the bedroom with them. A sack-dragger, or the shadow of a sack-dragger.

  If I don’t move, if I don’t acknowledge it, then maybe it will stay in the corner, and gradually fade away when the sun comes up. All the same, I’m going to keep my eyes open, and I’m going to keep straining my ears for the slightest hint of a shuffle. If this sack-dragger is more than a nightmare, if it really has claws and horns or a crown of twigs, I don’t want to be fast asleep if it decides to show me.

  SIX

  Death Stare

  When Grace came out of the shower the next morning Nathan was still deeply asleep, breathing through his mouth. She opened the drapes, so that the bedroom was a little lighter, but all he did was bury himself deeper under the comforter.

  Usually she would have woken him, but today she decided to let him sleep. He had tried to be philosophical about his gryphon project, but she knew how bitterly disappointed he was, and how much it had taken out of him, both mentally and physically. A couple of hours’ extra rest would do him good.

  After she had dressed, she closed her closet door as quietly as she could, but it still made a sharp clicking noise.

  ‘Quick,’ Nathan mumbled. Then, ‘Don’t want to – no!’

  ‘Nathan?’ she said, but he didn’t open his eyes. She bent over and kissed his stubbly cheek, and then she went downstairs.

  ‘Hurry,’ Nathan repeated. ‘For God’s sake, hurry!’

  In the kitchen, Denver was already sitting at the counter with a bowl of Cap’n Crunch, swimming in almost a half-pint of milk. He was wearing a black T-shirt with I’m Only Wearing Black Until They Invent Something Darker printed on the front. He hadn’t yet brushed his hair so his face was almost completely hidden, except for his nose.

  ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Do you want a ride into school today?’

  ‘’S . . . OK. Taser’s picking me up.’

  ‘Taser?’

  ‘You don’t know him. They call him that because he’s always shocking the teachers.’

  ‘Oh.’

  She took a carton of pomegranate juice out of the fridge and poured herself a large glassful. ‘Are you going to be late for supper tonight?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. We might have a band practice. I’ll call you, OK?’

  ‘How’s the band coming along?’

  ‘It’s OK, but we need a new drummer. I don’t know what’s happened to Chesney. He’s total crap.’

  ‘Chesney’s parents are getting a divorce. You can’t blame Chesney if he’s got his mind on other things, apart from drumming. Like you shouldn’t get so upset if your father doesn’t give you as much attention as you think you deserve.’

  Denver tossed his spoon into his half-finished cereal. ‘I don’t think I deserve any attention, as a matter of fact. At least, that’s what Pops has always made me feel like. I sometimes wish I was a dragon or something. Maybe then he’d look at me, at least. Maybe he’d even ask me how my day was.’

  ‘Your father loves you. You don’t even realize how much.’

  Denver stood up and tipped the remains of his bowl into the InSinkErator. But he dropped his spoon into it, as well as his cereal, and said, ‘Shit.’

  ‘Here,’ said Grace, opening up one of the kitchen drawers and taking out a pair of tongs. ‘Fish it out with this.’

  But Denver reached his right hand into the InSinkErator as far as his wrist.

  ‘Denver – take your hand out! You should never do that!’

  ‘What, in case I accidentally switch it on, and grind my hand off? Do you think Pops would pay me some attention if I did that? Like, I’d probably scream, wouldn’t I? And think of the blood! He’d have to repaint the entire kitchen. Bummer.’

  ‘Denver, take your hand out of there right now. You shouldn’t even joke about it.’

  Denver gave her a wide-eyed, exaggerated stare, like a mad person, and reached toward the ‘on’ switch. Grace snapped, ‘Don’t!’

  She remembered a friend of hers at high school, Jill Somersby, who had given her that same pretend-crazy stare, the morning before she had taken an overdose of
paracetamol. Grace had found out two weeks later that Jill had been sexually abused by her stepfather ever since she was five. And in later years, during her medical training, she had come to realize that teenagers often pretend to be joking because they don’t know how else to show the world how deadly serious they are.

  Denver took his hand out of the InSinkErator and triumphantly held up his cereal spoon. ‘Did I scare you?’ he grinned.

  ‘No. You just annoyed me.’

  ‘Oh, well. At least I got some reaction out of you, yeah?’

  It was raining hard as Grace drove down to the Murdstone Rest Home, and her windshield wipers flapped hysterically from side to side. A school bus had collided with a glazier’s van on the City Avenue on-ramp, and there was a tailback of more than a mile. As she passed the scene of the accident, Grace had to drive at less than five miles an hour over twenty yards of crunching glass, while the children in the school bus stared at her mournfully.

  The rain and the broken glass and the pale children’s faces gave her a strange feeling of disquiet, as if she had fallen asleep and woken up in one of those disturbing Japanese movies like The Ring.

  She reached Millbourne just after nine thirty a.m. and turned into Glencoe Road. As she parked outside the rest home, she heard a collision of thunder, somewhere off to the north-west. She tugged her mini-umbrella out from underneath the passenger seat, and struggled to put it up. Three of its spokes were broken, so that it looked like a wounded crow.

  She hurried across the parking lot. The Murdstone Rest Home was a sprawling collection of depressing buildings, some dating from the 1920s, and others from the mid-1960s, when prefabricated concrete was in fashion. The main building was a mock-medieval castle, with a formstone fascia and a grandiose pillared porch. On the crest of the porch sat a concrete gargoyle, its head and its shoulders darkened with rain. The gargoyle was holding its chin in both hands and staring down at whoever entered the rest home with undisguised amusement, as if it knew that they would only ever leave here in a casket.

  Grace entered the swing doors at the front of the building and was immediately met by Sister Bennett and two Korean carers. Sister Bennett was a large woman, thirty-fiveish, with a florid face and fraying red hair. She had a glassy blue squint, as if she had recently had her eyes replaced at a dolls’ hospital. One of the Korean carers was very beautiful, in a flat-faced, impenetrable way, while the other was squat and ugly but always smiling and nodding. All three of them wore purple-striped blouses and black skirts and rubbery black shoes.