Doorbells at Dusk

by Josh Malerman

  They reached Alaster’s home and he started for the door, but Ms. Sibley seized his shoulder. “No. Your mother sent you away to protect you. Honor that wish. I’ll go in alone.”

  A piece of paper on the floor caught his attention. He bent to pick it up as Ms. Sibley went past him, heading toward his parents’ bedroom.

  Alaster felt certain he held the note Ben read to Mother last night, but as he turned it over he found only gibberish. Why would Father write this? And how could Ben have read it like it made sense?

  Ms. Sibley’s footsteps drew his attention. She wasn’t gliding now.

  “Alaster,” she said.

  “How is Mother?”

  “Sleeping deeply—and cool to the touch. We should let her rest.”

  “But I brought you here to help!”

  “Sleep is often the best doctor of all.”

  He cast a longing glance toward the bedroom door. As he did, Ms. Sibley pinched the paper between her thumb and forefinger.

  “What is this, Alaster?”

  “Nothing,” he said. “I don’t know. Something Benjamin had.”

  “May I see it?”

  He let go of the paper with more reluctance than he could explain to himself. It felt like surrendering a secret. Ms. Sibley’s eyebrows rose.

  “I don’t understand. It’s just letters and symbols,” Alaster said. “But Ben said Father wrote it and he read from it. It said there was a sickness in the market and that’s why Ben came back with Cameron Huntley.”

  “Cameron,” Ms. Sibley said, clasping her hands together. “How well I remember delivering him. My first, I think. I knew he’d be a sharp lad. His mother bled like she’d given birth to a razor.”

  Alaster just stared as Ms. Sibley walked past him to the door. “Come along,” she said like an afterthought. “I will take you to the Huntley farm where you can join your brothers. Then I’ll continue on to the Whitmore home. That baby is coming within the next ninety minutes. I feel it in my marrow, and I don’t want to miss the birth of a second child.”

  The promise of seeing Ben coaxed Alaster to go with her. Their walk took only twenty minutes at the old woman’s aggressive pace, with Alaster’s side aching as he worked to keep up. Only the sight of the farmhouse gave him a second wind. He dashed ahead of Ms. Sibley, calling Ben’s name, certain it was his brother coming around the corner. He stopped cold, realizing it was Cameron. Stocky, a year older than Ben and a little larger, Cameron had always seemed a friendly giant. Alaster remembered being much younger and begging rides on his back. Cameron never refused him.

  “Stay back,” he said now, and Alaster stopped.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “There’s sickness here. My ma is sick.”

  “Is that so?” Ms. Sibley said, stepping to join them.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Mine is too,” Alaster said. “She sent Ben and William here to stay with you. She told me to go, too.”

  “They’re not here.”

  “Where are they, Cameron?” Ms. Sibley said.

  “Ma thought it best they didn’t stay so they kept on going.”

  Alaster spun towards Ms. Sibley and bit his lower lip as a tremble overtook him. But the old woman kept her attention on Cameron.

  “May I see your mother?”

  He nodded. Ms. Sibley told Alaster to stay outside. He hugged himself and waited—but not for long. Ms. Sibley returned looking very pleased.

  “Cameron’s mother is sleeping as well, and likewise cool to the touch.”

  She started back toward the road.

  “But what about my brothers?”

  “Likely they too went on to the Whitmore house. It would be the next practical place. Might as well continue with me.”

  Alaster looked back in the direction of his home. How nice to be there when Mother woke up feeling better. But how long would that be? Imagining a wait of hours, alone and lonely proved foul water for seeds of hope. It’d be much better to find Ben and return together.

  They set out for the Whitmore residence, a mile south of the Huntley farm. Ms. Sibley did not hurry now. Perhaps she knew time was on her side.

  “Have you given much thought to your future, Alaster?”

  No one had ever asked him such a question, and his immediate thoughts embarrassed him with their frivolity. He’d imagined himself a pirate, a soldier, or an adventurer. So many beanstalks climbed, so many giants bested. But he knew these weren’t answers to an adult’s question.

  “I’ll be a farmer, like my father.”

  “Nothing else?”

  He frowned, knowing only one other profession. Old Reverend Peterson’s face flashed through his memory.

  “Maybe a preacher?”

  Ms. Sibley grunted. “Stay with farming.”

  Her tone confused him. Both his parents considered Reverend Peterson to be an important man, though Alaster had never felt much comfort in the man’s craggy features. Perhaps he was not so prominent after all. Wouldn’t Father have sent Ben straight to him? Wouldn’t Mother have sent her boys to seek his help first?

  They reached the Whitmore home. Ms. Sibley did not bother knocking before opening the front door.

  “As I suspected,” she said with clear delight.

  He looked around Ms. Sibley and saw Mrs. Whitmore on the living room floor, undressed in a way that made him blush and turn his head, though he lost to the temptation to give her several quick, fascinated glances. Mother had been concerned for her. He remembered her saying so last week. “I worried that William might delay until your father had gone to the market. But I have two strong boys to help. Mary has no one. At least she’s young and very healthy.”

  She didn’t look so now. Her body rippled with strain.

  “How did you know?” she said through moans and gritted teeth.

  “Just a sense of the season.”

  “I thought I was going to have to bear this alone. With Adam at market—”

  “Is he sick, too?” Alaster said.

  Mrs. Whitmore seemed to become aware of his presence for the first time and tried to work a blanket over herself. Ms. Sibley soothed her.

  “The child is assisting me. I take it his brothers are not here?”

  “Brothers? What? No—no one. Sick? What does he mean? What—”

  A sudden scream overtook her as her body convulsed. For all Ms. Sibley’s talk of assistance, Alaster found she needed none. Her hands slid along the young woman’s thighs as she settled into a position that blocked much of Alaster’s view. His stare alternated between the floor and Ms. Sibley’s back. His heart beat very fast, almost like he had two in his chest. As Mrs. Whitmore’s screams became piercing, as her voice bled into so many frantic pleas and prayers, Alaster found his hands clenching. Something was wrong. Something had to be. He’d not been allowed in the room when Mother gave birth to William, but he’d listened and there wasn’t nearly this much agony. Ms. Sibley liked telling Alaster he was too eager for the world, hence his early arrival. Could a person be the opposite? Could a baby be reluctant to breathe the air? Could it be afraid or perhaps think the time, the moment, not right?

  He stepped closer and to the right. The baby was halfway out, its head like a slick, shiny gourd in Ms. Sibley’s hands. The rest of the body belonged to a mysterious place Alaster could not understand. He watched Mrs. Whitmore writhe as the baby kept coming. A terrifying, fleshy string was attached to the infant’s stomach, and as the feet came through the cord brought with it a purple mass that reminded Alaster of calf’s liver sewn up by a drenched skein of yellow and red yarn. He pointed at the deformity, thinking it must be some dead twin.

  “It is the cord, and the rest is called afterbirth. It is nature’s way. Now go to the well and bring a pitcher of water.”

  He left but saw the cord in his imagination. He lifted his shirt and looked at his belly button. Had there once been a cord there? Had there been one on William? The questions distracted him so much, he spilled mo
st of the water on the way back and had to refill the pail.

  When he returned, Ms. Sibley was cleaning the baby and gathering the afterbirth for disposal. Mrs. Whitmore’s eyes were shut in obvious exhaustion.

  “Alaster, go to the kitchen and bring a knife.”

  “What for?”

  “To cut the child free of its cord, of course.”

  He left and came back with the only thing he could find, a heavy butcher’s knife. It seemed light enough in Ms. Sibley’s grasp, though. She smiled at the blade, then brought it down on the cord. Alaster winced, convinced the baby would scream. But it seemed to feel no pain of separation. Ms. Sibley wrapped fresh linen around it and put the child into its mother’s arms. Mrs. Whitmore offered the faintest of smiles.

  “Adam will be so pleased. He thought he might be too old to become a father.”

  Ms. Sibley only turned to the window and said, “The day has lapsed more than I realized.”

  “I’m very cold just now,” Mrs. Whitmore said.

  “Alaster, start a fire.”

  He did, bringing wood from a pile just outside the door. As the blaze caught, he turned to see Ms. Sibley gathering the afterbirth and the cord into the bucket.

  “I will dispose of these for you.”

  “Thank you for everything,” Mrs. Whitmore said. “But do you have to go already? I am very tired and worried. What will I do if something goes wrong tonight? Without Adam here . . . ”

  “I cannot stay, unfortunately. But Alaster can.”

  He flinched. “I can’t. I have to find my brothers. I have to—”

  “You need to stay where you can be both safe and of use. Your parents would want this. Should Mrs. Whitmore need anything, you’ll be able to help.”

  “I would feel much better about it,” Mrs. Whitmore said.

  He looked between the two women. His mother would have him stay here and be of use. But where were Ben and William?

  He turned toward the door—

  “Please,” Mrs. Whitmore said.

  —and pivoted back.

  “I’ll stay.”

  “Good lad,” Ms. Sibley said, patting his head. “I’ll go now. Come and find me should anything go wrong here, though I’m sure all will be well.”

  “Tell Benjamin where I’m at if you see him. And will you stop in and check on Mother on your way back?”

  “Yes to both, Alaster. Such a good, brave boy you are. It would have made me so proud to say I helped bring courage such as yours into the world.”

  He beamed at her and was still beaming as he watched her leave, full pail in hand. As soon as she disappeared, Mrs. Whitmore called for him.

  “The fire needs more fuel.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Then she needed more water.

  “Alaster, will you help me sit better in this chair? Can you bring a pillow for my back? Alaster, fetch my quilt from the bedroom. Can you see if the chickens look like they’ve eaten today? And the pigs?”

  The evening found him exhausted.

  He sat by the hearth, clutching his knees against his chest as he stared at the fire. How were his father and Cameron’s father and Mr. Whitmore? Was Mother still cool to the touch? Was she awake? What if she needed more water, more fuel for the fire and a pillow for her back and a quilt for her lap?

  “Mrs. Whitmore, I think I should go. Just to check on my mother. I can come straight back.”

  She didn’t answer. Alaster rose and found her asleep with the baby cradled at her breast. The baby’s eyes were closed, its mouth slightly open. Neither would realize he’d left.

  He tiptoed to the door.

  “Womb to earth, and earth to womb, I bind thee to new skin and new sires.”

  He turned and took a cautious step toward the mother and child. “Ms. Sibley?”

  The words continued in her voice. Alaster peered through the dark and listened.

  “Soon your true heart beats within another chest.”

  He crept closer and let his sight confirm what his ears told him.

  Ms. Sibley’s voice came from the baby’s tiny mouth.

  “And you’ll receive my milk through a foreign breast.”

  A sharp, familiar laugh came from the sleeping baby. Alaster turned and ran through the cold night. He passed the Huntley house, which was entirely dark and cold, and finally came flailing toward his house. He collapsed against the door, wheezing and gasping. His fingers failed on the latch several times before he fell through and crumpled on the floor.

  After a minute, his lungs began reclaiming air. Alaster got to his hands and knees. “Mother,” he whispered, crawling forth. By the time he reached her bedroom, he could get to his feet. He stepped through and saw her in the dark. It did not seem like she’d moved since the morning.

  “Mother.”

  He reached her bedside.

  “Mother?”

  Alaster gripped the edge of the mattress to steady himself. Then he leaned forward and touched her face.

  He kept his hand against her cheek determined to melt away the ice he found there. Ms. Sibley had called her cool to the touch. God, for a fever now! Her stiff fingers clutched nothing but time, and time had escaped her grip. Alaster grabbed her shoulders and shook her and wept. “Wake up, Mother. William’s here. I’ve got William. And Father’s here. Mother! Father says you have to wake up!”

  There was no mad flight from the house, only a dazed stagger as he retraced the morning path that took him to Ms. Sibley cottage. As he neared, the sound of voices singing gave him pause. They belonged to children and the sound echoed from the forest behind the house.

  No one stood at the front, though light showed in every window. He snuck up to the nearest one and immediately clapped both hands over his mouth to stifle a gasp.

  The window looked in upon a cramped kitchen. A black stove blazed in the corner and Alaster felt its heat on the glass. Several knives of different sizes and shapes lay upon the table. Mrs. Whitmore’s pail and the pumpkin he’d seen this morning were there too. The gourd’s waxy skin caught the firelight and made it seem like a ball of flame.

  Ms. Sibley entered. Alaster’s eyes widened at her appearance. She wore no clothes, and her naked body seemed split in two, one half younger than her years, the other half far older. The youthful breast, firm and round like a pumpkin, caused a stirring in him. But just as quickly the ancient breast soured the feeling like milk left out to curdle.

  She held the cord from Mrs. Whitmore’s baby stretched between her hands and spoke nonsensical words to it. As she began to writhe, Ms. Sibley placed one end to her own stomach as she touched the other end to the pumpkin.

  The fire in the stove flared and suddenly the cord came alive like a wriggling snake and held its attachments on its own. Now Ms. Sibley stepped forward and took up the longest of the knives. Brandishing it in both hands, she drove the blade into the pumpkin and sawed until she could pull the top off like a hat. Setting the piece aside, she dipped her fingers into the gourd, scooping the wet innards of seeds and guts into a mushy pile. She worked fast, still chanting, a sound like a flock of black birds cawing in a mown field. Once the gourd was hollow, she reached into the pail and took up the purple afterbirth, contorting it between her fingers like a baker with dough. After several squeezes, she crammed the fleshy mass into the pumpkin.

  As soon as she finished, the cord connecting them burned like a wick. Ms. Sibley showed no alarm. With a single sweep of her hands, the fire rose up and entered the pumpkin. Alaster saw a glow rise out of it, a light that ceased only when Ms. Sibley put the pumpkin’s cap back into place.

  She took up another knife.

  Alaster’s fascinated horror kept him in place. He did not hear the noise behind him until it was too late. Fingers seized his shoulders and tore him away from the window. He wilted under the grip and whimpered until he saw Ben staring down at him. But it was Cameron Huntley who’d seized him. Ben’s arms were occupied with a baby. Alaster blinked, certain it
must be William. But the child was much smaller.

  Mrs. Whitmore’s newborn.

  “Ben, why—”

  Ms. Sibley came out the door. “Trouble, my children?”

  “Yes, Mother,” Benjamin said.

  “She isn’t Mother! What’s the matter with you, Ben?”

  Ms. Sibley now stood before Alaster, who averted his eyes with a fierce turn of the head. She pinched his chin and forced him to lock gazes.

  “Benjamin is no longer your brother, Alaster. Like the other children, he has answered to the call of his true mother. Long have I waited to bring my sons and daughters into my arms, and then into the arms of their Father.”

  She had Cameron bring him into the kitchen. Alaster kicked against him to no avail, stopping only when Ms. Sibley picked up the knife again.

  “Place the baby on the table, Benjamin.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “No,” Alaster whispered, frozen inside at the sight of the helpless baby surrounded by so many blades. Ms. Sibley must have guessed his anxiety and laughed. “What concerns you? Do you see scars upon my children’s faces?”

  She put the pumpkin beside the infant, took up the knife and brought its tip against the shell. Another chant came from Ms. Sibley’s lips. The knife’s tip glowed with a brilliant silver light as she stroked it across the pumpkin like a painter. Several minutes passed, and when she finished the chanting also ceased. Alaster saw a perfect duplication of the newborn’s face carved into the gourd. Its features blazed with orange light.

  “Now he too is mine—like the others. Like everyone but you, so quick to come into the world. Tell me, Alaster: are you equally as eager to leave it?”

  He craned his neck toward Ben. “Mother’s dead, Ben. Do you hear me?”

  “Mother’s here.”

  “Our real mother!” He turned to Ms. Sibley. “You’re a witch! Did you kill her?”

  “All of them,” she said.

  “And Father?”

  Ms. Sibley looked piteously upon him. “Poor Alaster, of all the children born in the village since I came, you alone are not mine. Which means you alone are now an orphan.”