Phantom

by Thomas Tessier

  Ned passed another door, then a third, and after that he didn't keep Count, but there were several more. He would like to explore them all, but not today, not without a light. For now, he had to stay on the straight line he was following.

  How far had he walked? Surely he had come under the center of the building by now. That was another small mistake: if he had counted his paces he would at least have a rough idea of where he was. Ned tried to draw a picture of the whole building in his mind, a transparent diagram of the structure, and then he plotted his course from point of entry. He should be about-but it was no good, just guesswork. He could be anywhere along that straight line. If it was straight. Ned went on, knowing it would be yet another mistake if he were to change his plan now. He walked at almost his normal speed, anxious to come across something, anything other than those useless side doors.

  Ned hadn't known what to expect inside the building, although the usual images had come to mind: creaking floors, heavy cobwebs that wrapped around you, the sound of trailing footsteps, clanking chains, the squeal of hungry rats, maybe even a mummified corpse whose eyes would fly open the moment you saw it. But he experienced nothing like this, only the cold air which thoroughly chilled him. And the silence, so vast and conclusive that the small sounds of his own movement seemed more than sacrilegious. It was a silence so profound that simply to be there seemed an affront. It was a perfect place for ghosts, Ned knew, but he had the feeling that even ghosts would feel unwelcome here.

  Ned stopped. Too far, I've come too far. It was impossible to think otherwise now. His senses couldn't deceive him that much—could they? Perhaps he had marched on into the left wing without realizing it. There comes a time in the execution of every plan when the drawbacks can no longer be ignored. Sooner or later, if the wall led nowhere, it would be necessary to open a door, try something different. But Ned didn't want to move. The wall was a comfort, his lifeline back to the outside if he gave up in here. Although even that thought was rapidly losing its appeal. By the time he got outside it might well be too dark to find a way back over the wall. He had reached the point where all plans seem unworkable. Ned knew that if he sat down and cried he would eventually feel better, but he wasn't ready to give in to that, at least not yet.

  So he couldn't go back. That meant he would have to make do with the emptiness and the sense of going nowhere inside. Walls and walls and walls ... Ned wanted more than anything to lie down, fall asleep and wake up tomorrow morning in his own bed. Or to see flashlight beams knifing through the pitch black, to hear shouting voices and to run crying into the arms of his father. But things like that didn't happen, not in real life. If he was going to be rescued, he would have to rescue himself.

  He could follow this wall, or ... He could find out if he really was in some sort of central corridor. Walk straight out away from the wall, count the steps taken, and he should come up against another wall. If it seemed like he was going too far to be in a corridor, he could always turn around and count his way back to this wall. Ned considered the idea at length before deciding it was a reasonable experiment.

  Two ... Eight ... Twelve ... He would stop at twenty ... Twenty ... Well, say twenty-five and that's it. ... Twenty-five. Nothing. It was hard to imagine a corridor this wide or wider. But if it wasn't a corridor, what kind of room was it? Ned stood still in the dark, trying to figure out what to do. Returning to the wall as planned seemed pretty tame, and once he got back his only choices would be to resume the blind walk or retreat to the outside. However, Ned knew that it made even less sense to wander around aimlessly in a space that might be so big he could end up going in circles for hours. Stick to the plan, he argued. Count back twenty-five steps.

  But even before Ned turned, he froze. He saw no light or heard even the faintest sound, but something stopped him. He couldn't explain it to himself because it made no sense, but a new, powerful wave of terror surged through him, and his body refused to turn around. Without understanding how, Ned knew beyond any doubt that if he went back now, even only a few paces, he would be in great danger. Sweat trickled down his face—crazy, in a cold place like this. Ned scarcely breathed, but his mind worked quickly to come to terms with this new situation. The rule here would have to be much the same as it was in other circumstances. If he turned around now, something would be there, right behind him, waiting. Ned's body was moving as he completed the thought. The only safety lay in continuing to move ahead. He should have known: Once you leave the covers, or in this case the wall, there is no way back. Keep moving and it will stay behind you. Please let that be so, Ned prayed.

  He had no idea where he was going. He tried to steer himself along an imaginary diagonal that continued to the left and toward the center of the building, but he couldn't be sure he was actually achieving that. And even if he was holding such a course, there was no guarantee it would lead anywhere.

  This time when Ned came to a door he opened it without hesitation, mildly startled, but pleased that he hadn't run into yet another wall. He was rewarded by the barest hint of gray light in the distance. It might only be an illusion, but it was enough. There was no question of turning around; the force of fear was still as real as a hand on his back. Ned pulled the door shut behind him, although he knew it was a meaningless gesture. What frightened him couldn't be stopped by doors or walls.

  He continued forward in the same awkward but steady sliding motion that had to be wearing down the soles of his sneakers. But in spite of his careful progress, Ned tripped and sprawled on the stone floor. His hands groped wildly in the darkness, and every nerve in his body screamed that he was vulnerable. Ned jumped to his feet, frantic to maintain his sense of direction. Some piece of equipment or heavy machinery had caused his fall, but he sighted the gray patch ahead and started for it. Almost at once he stumbled again, flopping into what felt like a tub or a vat of some sort. Ned cried out in anger. He got back onto the floor and tried to move a little to the side, but a wall pressed him back. Now he really was in a corridor, he realized, one that was narrow and evidently full of old junk. The feeling of a dreadful presence right behind him grew more' acute, but it also spurred Ned on. He bumped into unidentifiable bulky objects at almost every step, and he climbed over them or crawled around them as fast as he could. The scrapes and bruises he suffered were annoying, but there was no time to dwell on them. If I get out of here I'll come back with a light and a big hammer, Ned promised himself, and I'll smash all of this stuff to pieces. But then he knew he would do no such thing. The truth is, if I get out of here I'll never, ever come back to this place.

  An iron rod protruding from some unseen apparatus caught Ned in the stomach, doubling him over in pain. He rolled off it and hit the floor again. This time he stayed there, gasping, and then sobbing to himself. He didn't want to move anymore, come what may. If there really were phantoms, let them come and take him, once and for all. Get it over with. But nothing happened. Ned lay in darkness and silence, the only sound that of his own breathing. He felt vaguely embarrassed as if he were too small and insignificant for them to bother with. Ned forced himself up and went on toward the gray light. In his mind he could almost picture the presence at his back, a shadowy figure that sneered down on him, saying, Go, little boy, you are safe now but you can be taken anytime, anywhere ....

  The light, what little there was of it, came from a stairway. The door at the top stood open. Now that Ned had finally reached this point he felt no joy or relief, just an odd sense of deflation. He walked up the stairs and came out in a large round room. Ned guessed it had once been the spa's lobby and reception area. Now it was empty, the floor strewn with chunks of plaster, broken glass, beer cans, Twinkies wrappers and other rubbish. Paint hung in long, tattered strips from the walls. A massive staircase circled up four flights around the open well to the uppermost floor, which was topped by the framework of a huge skylight. Most of the glass was broken, by storms and vandals and sheer neglect, Ned thought, but he could see how impressive the plac
e must have been at one time. It still was, in a way. He also noticed that his sense of time was apparently way off the mark. Wandering through the cellar had seemed to take hours and he thought it would have to be after nine o'clock by now, but the sky was still too bright. Could it be only six-thirty or seven? Maybe this was a place where time slowed down .... An abandoned paper wasp's nest lay on the floor at Ned's feet, and he kicked it away idly. He had won. He had explored the spa from its far outer wall to this front room. He had made it, in spite of all the obstacles and difficulties. So why did he feel confused and even defeated now?

  The front door was boarded up, but several of the lower planks had been kicked loose and Ned saw that he would have no trouble crawling out. Like a puppy. Before he got to the door, however, he came to an abrupt stop. Words were scrawled in the thick dust and grime on the floor. The letters seemed to writhe like hideous snakes, but they held their shape.

  YOU WILL BE

  MINE AGAIN

  All the blood in Ned's body rushed to his heart, which thundered and felt like it was about to explode. Trembling but deliberate, Ned rubbed out the words, one by one, with the toe of his sneaker. Then he was running as if his life depended on it, running down the long sloping drive away from the spa, through bushes and across the disused railroad bed, running from he knew not what, slowing a little only when he found himself at last on familiar streets with regular houses.

  For an hour and a half the fear and anxiety had been building up in her. Linda's body felt like a bunch of steel rods. Her imagination had staged an anthology of short plays, each one a mother's nightmare. Then, in the single good moment of the entire day, it all dissolved as she caught sight of Ned coming across the backyard. He had never been late like this, never. Linda fought back the tears. She was so glad to see him alive and home! Of course, as soon as he opened the door and came into the kitchen, the joy she was experiencing transformed itself into crystalline anger.

  Ned's sneakers were caked with mud. His clothes were muddy and his back was coated with the stuff. It was in his hair and on his face, and his hands were black. Linda noticed a long scratch on his right forearm; no doubt other injuries awaited discovery beneath the grime.

  "Hi, Mom."

  For a nine-year-old Ned was remarkably nonchalant. He walked casually across the room to the cabinet by the sink and took out the container of Borax.

  "Where were you?" Linda screamed before Ned could start to wash his hands. "Look at you! You're covered with mud, you've got a cut on your arm and you're over an hour late! Where were you? What were you doing?"

  Ned was paralyzed, all confidence blown away by his mother's outburst. He started to say something, but his throat had dried up so fast the words came out strangled beyond recognition. He gulped and tried again.

  "I was just hiking in the woods," he said feebly.

  "Hiking in the woods?" Linda raged. She wanted to shriek out every terrible thought and fear she had suffered while waiting, praying for Ned to come home. She wanted him to know how helpless and frightened a person could be. But then the tears were in her eyes and on her cheeks, and there was nothing she could do about them.

  Ned hesitated briefly, then went to her. Linda felt his thin arms around her and she hugged him tightly, still crying. Then she was aware of Michael, who had appeared at the edge of her blurred vision. She blinked several times rapidly, wiped the tears away and sniffed.

  "How could you, Ned?"

  "Well ... I don't have a watch," he said reasonably.

  "Yes, but you know when it's time to come home," Linda went on. "You know how ... "

  Ned nodded silently, prepared now to let his mother have her say. He wouldn't argue. Why bother? He knew he had no defense. A glance at his father told him there would be another lecture from him after his mother finished. A double bill. Followed, no doubt, by some form of punishment.

  But Ned didn't mind. In fact, he was glad to be there, glad to take whatever was coming to him. He was a lucky fellow. Only a little while ago, and not very far away, he had escaped something far worse. Five words still burned in his mind, so he wouldn't forget.

  * * *

  8. Polidori Street

  Michael deliberately chose what seemed to be the seediest bar along the waterfront. Polidori Street was probably the oldest street in Lynnhaven, and it looked it. This is where you'll find the old tars and soak up local color, Michael thought, poking fun at his own intentions. The potential foolishness of the evening's quest did not escape him, but neither did it deter him. I'm not a gawking tourist, he reasoned, I live here too now. Besides, he knew he wouldn't find anything interesting in the Washington Irving Inn or the Patrick Henry Rooms or the Edison Restaurant Bar or any of the other Musk and fake leather lounges along the highway outside of town. They were clones, from Anywhere, U.S.A.

  The bar Michael went into was so unassuming it didn't even have a name. Only a Budweiser neon light in the window marked the place. The first thing Michael noticed when he stepped inside was that the floor tilted away from the door, giving him the distinct sensation of literally going downhill as he went to take a seat at the bar. Appropriate, he thought, I like it. But the bar was almost deserted. Two customers sat together at a shaky table in one comer. They stared silently at their drinks, as lively as a pair of potted plants. Maybe they're joint owners of an uninsured boat that has just sunk, Michael mused. The only other customer was a young man with curly hair. He wore a sweatshirt with cut-off sleeves and he was sitting on a stool at the end of the bar. The bartender listened impassively as the young man explained something in great detail, underlining every word with elaborate hand gesture:;. Michael couldn't catch What was being said, so he occupied himself with filling a pipe (he had taken care to bring the most battered briar in his collection). The mirror behind the bar was festooned with postcards, paper money from foreign countries and pasteboard plaques with catchy mottos like A HARD MAN IS GOOD TO FIND! and ONLY SAILORS GET BLOWN OFFSHORE!

  The bartender saw Michael and came over to serve him.

  He was a heavyset man who might have been thirty-five or fifty or any age in between. He had the lumpy, nicked features of someone who has taken at least as many punches as he has thrown. His crew-cut hair was a neutral lichen on a skull that presented new horizons in phrenology.

  "Bottle of Bud," Michael requested.

  He got four dollars and fifteen cents change from his five. The bartender went back to the curly-haired youth who now addressed him as Ted. Ted, the bartender, took in another minute or so of Curl's ongoing saga before shrugging and walking away. He stuck a toothpick in his mouth and took a closer look at Michael.

  "You from here in town?" Ted asked, making it sound like an accusation.

  "Yeah, moved in not too long ago."

  "That right?" Ted had heard stranger things. He chewed his. toothpick.

  "Quiet night," Michael observed.

  Ted grunted ambiguously. At that moment three more young men came into the bar and joined Curly. They called for 7 & 7, a mix of Seagram's rye and 7-Up that Michael loathed. Ted started pouring and Michael's eye fell on a card that said OUT TO A DRINK OF LUNCH! He noticed that all of the messages ended with an exclamation point.

  One of the men at the bar proceeded to tell a story in a loud voice. It was about a sailor who, after months at sea, prowled the bars and finally found a prostitute he liked. They went back to her place, he paid her five dollars and they got down to it. But the sailor had had too many drinks and he wasn't making progress~~. Still, he labored on, and at one point asked the bored girl how he was doing. "About three knots, sailor," she said. The sailor wondered if she was making fun of him, so he asked her what she meant by that. Her answer: "It's not hard, it's not in, and you're not getting your five dollars back." The four young men rocked on their feet with laughter. Michael smiled. Ted, who had heard that joke many times before, studied the serial numbers on a handful of dollar bills.

  A woman entered the bar and, after a
quick glance around, sat on a stool next to Michael. Right on time, he thought. Just as he had cued the arrival of the noisy trio by remarking how quiet it was, so their little story had cued the entrance of this shady lady. The only cue in the bar that wasn't working was the exclamation point: so far it had failed to produce a single laugh. Ted must have known the woman because he brought her a rye and ginger without having to be told. Then he stared at a large jar full of pickled eggs, perhaps trying to guess their number.

  "Hi," the woman said with a smile.

  "Hi," Michael said.

  "The place is busy tonight."

  "Quite a crowd," Michael agreed with a touch of sarcasm. It was easier and safer to take a look at her in the mirror behind the bar. She had the bright, artificial face of a child's doll. It probably took her longer these days to assemble all the components, but she hadn't reached the stage where no matter what she did she would always look frayed. That might be the next comer, but she hadn't quite got to it yet.

  "My name is Vy," she said. "Short for Viyella, as in Viyella shirts—how's that for a name? Everybody calls me Vy. What about you?"