The Complete Short Fiction of Charles L. Grant Volume 3: Dialing the Wind (Neccon Classic Horror)

by Charles L. Grant

  He was wrong.

  He knew it the moment it reached the intersection’s center and was pinned for a moment by the convergence of four lights, as if they were spotlights, as if it wanted to be seen.

  A cart was his second thought, except the sides were somewhat lower, would be not quite waist high to him, and the front was rounded, the sides a shade below it, and there seemed to be no back wall at all that he could see. The two wheels were tall, their arm-thick spokes thick, the rim uneven as though the wood had somehow warped or had been beaten out of shape by the travels it had seen. There were no designs, no decoration; it was painted flat black.

  And though the parallel traces were obviously designed for a horse, there was nothing pulling it. Nothing at all.

  “A chariot,” he said loudly. “My god, you’re a chariot!”

  It moved — grind and thump — out of the light, into the dark, but he didn’t follow it. He knew it would be back. He knew he’d see it again.

  Why? he asked himself.

  He released the streetlamp and went on his way. There was no time for thinking; there was no time for answers; once he was home and once he was warm and once he had some food in his belly, he would grab the first bottle he found in the kitchen cabinet beside the stove, and he would sit on the hearth and have a good long drink. Then he would entertain questions from the crowd. Then he would tell all he knew about the answers.

  He reached Poplar and swung into it, his left foot dragging slightly.

  No lights.

  The cold.

  The question: why?

  Because, he thought in direct contradiction to his vow, that damned thing is the death of me. Some people see auras, or visions of Mary, or the Grim Reaper, or rainbows; I, on the other hand, see the chariot that’s going to carry me home to the Great Beyond.

  He giggled.

  Swing low.

  He laughed.

  Sweet chariot.

  He found his home and blew it a kiss, bowed to the assembled houses across the street, and threw himself into a run that tripped him up the porch. His shoulder struck the edge of the door. His cheek struck the door itself and he was positive it had shattered because it was so goddamned frozen.

  His head hurt.

  He hummed — a single note; he rocked as he dug for his keys, found them and dropped them and picked them up again and couldn’t hold them because his gloves were too packed with snow.

  He hummed — a single note; he rocked as he stripped a glove off and hissed at the cold that sliced at his fingers pinching the key toward the lock, skittering away, sliding home.

  And not turning.

  Not turning.

  Until he forced it, and it snapped.

  No big deal, he thought, lifting his head with the breath that he took; no sweat, I can handle it, I can ride this damned thing, no problem.

  He giggled as he rang the doorbell.

  He chuckled as he regloved his hand and punched the tiny window that let him see the postman in the morning and Livy at night and his friends when they bothered and anyone else who wanted to see how a man alone lived.

  The glass held.

  He hit it again.

  The glass held.

  The cold.

  He hummed a single note, and rocked, and placed his hands flat against the door and leaned back and screamed as his head snapped forward against the pane.

  The glass held. There was no blood.

  All right, all right, “All right, all right,” all right, hey, no sweat.

  His cheek pulled the comer of his mouth open, the cold slipped in like acid across his teeth. He laid his forehead against the wood and sucked his lips between his teeth and shut his eyes and held his breath and one leg jumped until he slammed down the heel.

  “My home,” he said, and it was almost a question. “Hey.” He looked over his shoulder at the white light, at the snow. “Hey, I mean, it’s my home, okay?” A single note, humming. His shoulders lifted, he lifted his head and turned around. “My house. I want to go in. My house. Okay? I mean, it’s okay, it’s my house. I want. My house.”

  He opened his eyes.

  The chariot passed him by.

  Grind and thump, and not trail in the snow.

  He put his palms to his cheeks and didn’t feel the ice; he bit his lower lip and didn’t taste the blood.

  “Can I please?”

  The cold.

  “My . . . home.”

  The snow had already covered his tracks.

  A breath. Another. Quicker. Quicker. Cheeks flushed and throat swallowing and one hand rhythmically thumping his side. Faster. Faster. The leg jumping again, and this time he let it go, this time he watched it until the other one joined it and pulled him from the porch and ran him around the house, throwing rocks, throwing branches, throwing twigs, throwing snow, throwing himself against the walls and the doors and the windows and the chimney, lashes white and lips dark, hat iced and chin icing, tears freezing as they fell, saliva freezing as it bubbled.

  The snow.

  “House,” he gasped.

  “My house,” he begged.

  Standing in the middle of the street, glaring at the chariot a hundred yards away.

  “I will not die,” he said.

  He screamed, “You son of a bitch, I’m not going to die!”

  The chariot moved on.

  Grind.

  And thump.

  He started to follow. He had absolutely no intention of climbing in there, of succumbing to the temptation that death would bring him warmth. But he couldn’t help wondering just where it was going, where it had been, what it had done with Livy because he knew, he damned knew that whatever the hell it was, it had taken Livy from him.

  Livy was going to be his wife.

  The snow fell a bit harder.

  In silence.

  In the dark.

  Livy was his darling, his treasure, his life, his goal, his future, his any damn thing you wanted to call her, she was it, and she was gone and he would be double-damned and shot to hell if he was going to lose just because . . .

  . . . why?

  Just because he was crazy.

  Not crazy. Hell, not crazy. He hadn’t axed anyone, he hadn’t bludgeoned anyone, he hadn’t declared war on anyone, he hadn’t fleeced or conned or defrauded anyone. How the hell could he be crazy?

  At the corner he stopped, shading his eyes against the snow as he searched for the chariot, listening for its crooked wheel, not really worried when he couldn’t see it because once again it would come once again, and this time he’d be ready for it, this time he’d run and that thing didn’t have a chance because this time he knew that he wasn’t crazy at all.

  And he wasn’t going to die.

  Unless, you stupid ass, he told himself then, you freeze to death standing in the middle of the stupid street.

  He nodded.

  “All right.”

  He clapped his hands to restart the circulation.

  “Right. All right.”

  He started to walk. Not too fast, he cautioned himself; not too fast, you’ll get tired.

  And as he walked, shoulders hunched against the snow and cold, knees slowly flexing, feet losing their numbness and carrying him through the pins and needles, he decided that he needed to think of other things. Other things besides the fact that Oxrun Station had somehow shut all its doors to him, that Wes Martin had disappeared in what might as well have been a puff of smoke, that Livy was —

  Livy.

  He smiled.

  Think of Livy, no sweat, no problem.

  Think of the day you walked into The Melody to buy a record, any record, you just wanted some new music, and she was at the back where the compact discs were displayed. You found what you wanted remember? remember? — and found a few things you didn’t but you didn’t want to leave because she was still there, her back to you, right ankle crossed lightly over the left, and you couldn’t leave the store without at least seeing her face. A
nd when you did — oh god, when you were signing the receipt for the credit card, she did turn, and she did look at you, and the clerk suggested that writing on the form was better than writing on the counter.

  You laughed.

  Livy laughed.

  the cold

  And Jesus — remember? remember? — she asked you to lunch, and at lunch asked where you worked, and met you after work and took you to dinner, and after dinner took you to bed. Her bed. Then your bed. Then a bed in the park by the pond. Then a bed in the woods out by the depot. Then a bed on a hill just behind the college. Your bed. Her bed. Jesus Christ, she wouldn’t stop, and you didn’t want her to stop because between this bed and that bed you drove to Hartford for some shopping and went to New York for a show and walked every inch and goddamned foot of the village and saw every inch and goddamned foot for the very first time, and when you were alone you were so happy you wanted to cry. And you did, you sap. You cried for clichéd joy, and it felt so goddamned good, you cried for joy again.

  Think of Livy.

  she’s gone.

  He stood in front of the hospital on King Street and hoped that whatever had happened hadn’t hurt anyone in there.

  Think of all the times — Livy; remember? — you asked her to marry you. From the second date, it was, and at least once a week since. And each time she denied you without exactly saying no. And each time she didn’t exactly say no and you were heartened because she didn’t, some goddamned two-by-four came out of the sky and belted you — from the way your boss lost his marbles and killed his family, subsequently losing you your last job, to the way the creditors smelled the blood of your unfed bank account and came calling, shark smiles and shark teeth whether in person or in letters, and all the promises in the world didn’t stop them from coming on.

  But there was always Livy. Supportive. Strong. Always Livy to hold the carrot as you plodded on, you ass, and plodded on.

  the snow

  He held on to the iron gates that closed off the park, and peered inside, to the dark, and saw only the falling white.

  He heard the chariot behind him, and he ignored it with a smile.

  He sang, “I’m not going to die. I’m not going with you.”

  Grindandthump.

  And silence.

  And the cold finally slowed him as he stood in front of the Cove, thinking of the dinner, and her sweater, and her eyes, and her fingers; thinking of the food, and the wine, and the candle, and the laughter; willing himself sternly not to cry or the tear will freeze and then he’d be blind with only the chariot to guide him.

  And heard it stop in the street behind him.

  And turned.

  It didn’t move.

  And he thought for a moment he heard the snort of a horse, the stamp of a horse’s hoof.

  But there was nothing.

  The cold the snow.

  “Livy,” he whispered. “Oh, Livy, I’m so cold.”

  Sometimes, she said, you remind me of my kids.

  He looked up Chancellor Avenue, toward the college and the depot and the valley beyond, and only shook his head once when he saw the streetlamps winking out; he looked up Centre Street and saw the streetlamps winking out; he looked at the chariot and saw it quiver once and still.

  Damn, he thought; I’ll be damned.

  Can you use a dream to hide in if the dreams you hide in never stop?

  I really was going to find a job, you know, Livy, he told her without a word as he reached out and touched the door and looked down and saw the place where last he saw her, where last he held her. I really was.

  I had to. All those bills, all those presents, and Jesus, you have no idea how much that stupid party cost. God, what a jerk. I should be shot, I guess, Jesus Christ.

  And Jesus, you should have seen the look on my face when you said yes tonight. Or last night. Whenever. I couldn’t see it, but I could feel it.

  As best he could he brushed and shoved the snow from his collar, took off his cap and slapped the ice away. Then he snapped the collar up, and settled the cap back on his head, and just in case he was wrong, he tried the door again.

  It was locked.

  The cold.

  Oh Livy, dear god, you weren’t supposed to say yes.

  The chariot rolled forward just a foot before it stopped.

  He slipped his hands into his pockets and looked around at the village he could still see through all the white.

  Honest to god, I would have paid them, he told it; I would have married her in time if only she had waited to tell me yes, waited until I was ready.

  The chariot.

  The snow.

  He stepped into the street and began to hum a single note, and rock slowly side to side as he fell in behind the wheels that began to turn, grind.

  “I’m not going to die,” he said.

  and thump.

  “I’m not, you know.”

  The cold.

  “I’m really not.”

  And the chariot dark and low took Nel forever home.

  Epilogue

  The ice in the tumblers melted without cooling, another leaf coasted from the tree by the drive. The breeze gusted now and then, husking across the lawn like animals scurrying for a burrow, setting branches to stirring and the pages dropped to the floor fluttering like dying hands.

  Callum asked for the photographs again, his voice not quite clear.

  I handed them over, then stood up and stretched while he held them up to the dim light.

  “Yeah,” he said, not to me, to himself.

  I walked over to the porch steps.

  “Where are you going?”

  I looked at him and smiled. “Where do you think?”

  He shook his head. “I know what I think. And if you think I’m walking all the way over there, you’re out of your mind.”

  I checked the sky, moistened a finger and held it up. “It’s a nice night.”

  “Sure.”

  “The walk’d do you good.”

  “Like hell.”

  But he slipped the photographs and sheets of paper into their pocket in the album, put the album on the table, and pushed himself loudly to his feet. He was pale. There was a faint glow across his brow. And I didn’t say a word when he joined me, when we walked down to the sidewalk, turned right, and walked again; I didn’t say a word at the way the streetlamps failed to give us the light that we wanted, the way the streets themselves were empty and the only sound our shoes treading unnaturally hard; I said nothing when we crossed Chancellor Avenue and he looked toward his theater and said, “That place hasn’t been closed down since the storm two years ago. I want you to know that. I haven’t closed that place once before or since that time.”

  I knew that.

  We headed toward the woods.

  I also knew that just outside Oxrun, a few miles to the south, there had been a derailing, in the late spring of 1956. The engine, for reasons no one had been able to discover, had jumped the tracks doing ninety and had plowed a yards-wide furrow almost a hundred yards into the forest that boxed the village in. Four cars out of fifteen had followed it. Twenty-seven people had been injured, fourteen had been killed, the engineer crippled, one leg amputated above the knee.

  Rimer Nabb, Tallman Evers, and Willy Peace were among the dead. Rimer had been thrown from the car through a closed window; Tallman had been crushed by a collapsing wall; and Willy had bled to death waiting for rescue.

  Frieda Harks lasted until they got her to the hospital. Two hours later, smiling, her hands playing a ghost dulcimer, her lips singing a soundless song, she died.

  No one knew why.

  There wasn’t a scratch on her.

  “You know,” Callum said, scowling at those houses that still had lights burning, “I remember Kanfield.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Yeah. He tried to sell me on some silver mine or something out on Montana. I told him I had all the investments I needed. He was really ticked. For a minute t
here I thought he was going to try to punch me out.”

  I looked up at him, trying not to trip over shadows. “You don’t have any investments, Cal.”

  “I know. I didn’t trust him.”

  We passed Quentin, and moved on.

  Then I told him how, late last year, Nel Glawford had come to my house, hoping, after a lot of round-the-edges talking, that I’d be able to connect him with some work down in the city. Wall Street. Madison Avenue. He really didn’t care. But the only business I knew was the business I was in, and when I shrugged him an apology and offered him a drink, he had declined. Smiling. Saying, “Never mind, I can handle it, no sweat,” and leaving with a stride that had told me at the time that this man wouldn’t stop until he found his place, and made it big.

  “You always were a lousy judge of character,” Callum told me.

  “I suppose.”

  A white cat scooted across the sidewalk in front of us, paused at the curb to check us out, then lifted its puffed tail and walked on. Not looking back once, though the tail kept twitching.

  “Cats,” Callum said in disgust.

  “I like them.”

  “Right. And you like country music, too. Jesus.”

  A siren some blocks away made us jump, and feel sheepish, and for a moment I was tempted to run back and find out what was going on.

  I didn’t.

  Callum didn’t, though he glanced over his shoulder several times in several minutes.

  I didn’t know Caroline Edlin. Not really. Not enough to call her even an acquaintance. I suppose I saw her in Adelle’s shop now and again, but I honestly don’t remember her. Not really. Just as I don’t recall Lisa Outman, whose house is now owned by a scholarly young couple from the Station, born and bred and ready to die here. The husband had had Todd Zaber for sophomore history, and told me it had been the worst day of his academic life when he found out that his professor had disappeared. The word was, he had run off with someone after his lady had been taken away by the white coats.

  I didn’t know about “the word.” I did know Gavin Quick, but hadn’t seen him or April for months. Not since the For Sale sign was pounded into their lawn, and weeks later someone purchased the land, bulldozed the fire ruins, put in a new foundation, and had a house brought all the way from West Hartford.