She went to bed early because there was nothing else to do, but she lay awake a long time. And when she did finally fall asleep, it seemed only a few minutes before something woke her.
She lay in the dark and listened. She could hear someone moving about downstairs, and thought now that the sound which had wakened her had been the slamming of the front door. Probably one of her neighbors coming home drunk from a party. Whoever it was was making a very noisy job of climbing the stairs; in addition to the slow, heavy footfalls, Corey could hear a soft, erratic thump-and-slide sound, as if the climber had to support himself against the wall as he climbed.
There was something oddly disturbing about the sound. She was wide awake now, and she lay stiffly waiting for the noisy intruder to reach his journey's end.
Silence—the top of the stairs reached at last. Then more dragging footsteps. Then a thumping at her door.
She sat up in bed, clutching the covers. The pounding continued.
"No!" she cried. Then, feeling nervous and embarrassed (it was probably only a drunk who had made a mistake), she got out of bed and walked through the dark into the living room and called, "You've got the wrong apartment; you're across the hall. Try the other door!"
She waited for the sounds of departure, but when the pounding stopped there was nothing, and the silence ate at her nerves.
Then the pounding began again, still at her door. It was not forceful at all, but neither was it controlled enough to be called knocking. It was heavy but unfocused, a loose, meaty slapping against the wood.
She shuddered. Remembering the downstairs door, and how it was often left unlocked, she realized that anyone might have gotten in.
"Who is that?" Corey called.
The pounding stopped. Silence again. Corey stared at the door, wondering who waited on the other side. Suddenly she had a vivid image of Harold Walker crouching outside her door on the night he died. Had he pounded and begged to be let in, imagining her hiding inside?
The pounding began again, making her jump. She bit her lip and tried to keep from crying. It wouldn't do to lose control. It was probably just some old drunk, or some kid trying to frighten her. But now that she had thought of Harold, she couldn't seem to get the thought of him out of her mind. It was absurd and impossible, but it seemed to her that Harold was on the other side of the door, making that terrible slapping sound with his weak, dead hands.
"Go away," she cried, her voice high and shrill with fear. "Go away, or I'll call the police!"
Silence again. A waiting silence. Whoever was there did not leave.
Harold, she thought. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I wasn't here when you came looking for me. She walked closer to the door. Cautiously, trying not to make a sound, Corey leaned against it, pressing her ear to the wood. She heard nothing, not even breathing, from the other side.
But as soon as she stepped back, the pounding began again.
She stared at the door, remembering something Harold had said: "All you have to do is ask me, and I'll come."
"But you're dead," she said. It was barely a whisper, but again it stopped the pounding, as if whoever was in the hall was eager to hear anything she had to say.
"Go away," she said more loudly. "Go away, do you hear me? Go back to where you came from! Do you hear me? I don't need you! Go away!"
There was no more pounding after that. There was no sound of any kind. Corey slumped to the floor, facing the door, no more able to walk away from it than she was to open it. She was shivering and felt slightly sick.
If it was Harold, she thought, someone would find the body out there, sooner or later. And if it wasn't, if it had been only her imagination, her need, someone would find her and let her know; someone would call or someone would come. Sooner or later.
And so she sat, all through the night, waiting and listening for the sounds of the dead.
* * *
There has been a positive glut of dragons in the fantasy field over the past few years, so much so that I cringe whenever I see one lurking on a book cover. Then Beverly Evans told me she had a dragon story, and I told her, politely, that I'd be glad to have a look and offer an opinion, perhaps even suggest a market. Another rules-breaker. This is not precisely a Shadows story, but it has struck me in such a way that I literally could not pass it by, if only because it heralds only the second appearance of a major new writer—one who makes her living writing commercials for radio.
This is the first Shadows rule I've broken that's given me not a single twinge of guilt.
* * *
WAITING FOR THE KNIGHT by Beverly Evans
On the far side of the collapsed drawbridge two young dragons stood quietly, the morning sun making rainbow patterns across their long, scaled backs. From deep inside the castle ruin a loud, sonorous rumbling shook the ground, and they flattened their ears and winced.
"I don't think we should go in," Heathcliff said softly. "You know what happened to the newt that stumbled in by mistake."
"I know," Monmouth replied. "Seared his little wings to the shoulder. He's lucky to be alive."
"Well, I'm not going to risk it, not after that. Let's go," Heathcliff said, and swatted his friend playfully on the rump with his tail as he turned around.
The rumbling sound increased, followed by the smacking of sleepy lips.
"Wonder what makes old Styzycks snore so loudly anyway," Heathcliff said, gesturing toward the castle with his head.
"Deviated septum," Monmouth replied, rolling his large pink eyes solemnly at his gullible friend as they set off down the hill, snapping at the crickets that leaped madly from their path.
Monmouth and Heathcliff grazed near the river, their long jaws moving slowly as they watched the dragonflies hovering over the water in the hot, still air. Heathcliff flexed his wings in a visible yawn, and Monmouth's lids were so nearly closed that he appeared to be eating in his sleep. He raised his head and turned to Heathcliff, but when he opened his mouth to speak, a flash of fire erupted from his throat, startling them both. Heathcliff ducked his head and stumbled backward several paces, his rear legs and tail landing in the water.
"Grendel's Blood!" he cried out. "Would you watch it! You almost scorched me!"
"Sorry," Monmouth said, abashed. "I didn't know it was coming. You all right?" He sniffed toward his friend, moving his snout up and down with concern, soft blue nostrils flaring.
"I'm fine," Heathcliff said, moving back up onto the bank, stamping his great rear claws. "You'd better be more careful, though. It's a good thing I'm light on my feet." In a friendlier tone he added, "I didn't know you were having trouble with that too."
"It comes and goes. I'm not as bad as some of the newts, thank goodness. It's a pity about them, to die so young and never know what happened."
"Another one got the hiccups yesterday," Heathcliff said.
"I heard the blast," Monmouth said. "It was awful. There's no other sound like it."
"Another one for Saint George," Heathcliff said, and they bowed their long necks sadly, quiet once again.
After a long pause, Monmouth spoke.
"They say it used to be so grand. The castles full of people, the excitement, the adventure—that was the time of heroes. It must have been great to be a hero . . ."
"We're still the heroes, Monmouth, even if there aren't any more noble knights or castles or beautiful poplollies. We won—at least, our grandfathers did," Heathcliff said proudly.
"But look at old Styzycks. He sits on his pile of treasure, grows old, and burns newts by mistake, thinking they're thieves."
Heathcliff raised a questioning eyebrow as he began to nibble a sapling.
"Even in his dreams Styzycks has a little glory to relive. But what do we have? Most of us can't even control our flames. I'm afraid someday I'm going to burp and blow up like the newts." Monmouth sat down, so dejected that his scales began to lose luster.
"Would you like a little sapling?" Heathcliff offered. "It's very good."
Monmouth shook his massive head slowly from side to side.
"How about a game of King of the Moat? We haven't done that one in a long time. You can be king."
Heathcliff looked at his friend anxiously, disturbed by his vacant expression and the way his wings suddenly seemed so fragile, like two autumn leaves resting against his sides.
Heathcliff felt a buildup of methane, but didn't want to upset Monmouth. He turned to the river and lowered his head as if to take a drink, but discreetly expelled a small burst of flame under the water. Several fish surfaced, belly-up, and floated awkwardly downstream.
Monmouth went up to the old tower and looked at the arched entranceway, tilting his head first one way and then another to gauge the dimensions. A rabbit, nesting inside the ruin, scurried away in panic.
Monmouth backed himself cautiously into the tower, stepping gingerly.
"I fit, Heathcliff," he called. "This one is perfect."
"Now come running out," Heathcliff said.
Monmouth roared, "Gardyloo!" and charged through the door. His shoulders and flanks, no longer compressed for squeezing in, were too wide for rushing out. He broke through the doorframe, and the tower began to collapse behind him. The entranceway fell first, and with a great rumbling shower of rocks and mortar the tower fell in on itself.
Monmouth and Heathcliff watched it silently. Monmouth tried to look particularly innocent, and batted his long eyelashes with amazement.
"Well," he said, "I guess that wasn't such a perfect tower after all."
"Monmouth?"
"What?"
". . . gardyloo?"
"Oh, that? It's something like 'ready-or-not-here-I-come.' " Monmouth grinned slyly.
Heathcliff sighed and followed his friend through the wet grass to the next castle ruin.
"Shhh," Monmouth hissed. "There she is."
The thick stand of trees and briars concealed only a fraction of their bulk. Their tails made a steady swishing noise across the ground behind them, and branches snapped underfoot like muffled firecrackers.
Heathcliff moved to the bushes opposite Monmouth, placing the woman between them. The woman was as still as stone—only her eyes darted with fear and caution toward the noises in the woods around her. Monmouth was so excited he almost roared, but kept low in the elderberries. Heathcliff stepped forward. The woman screamed and backed up carefully, not taking her eyes from Heathcliff's. Monmouth rose slowly and, when she was only a few paces away, let out an earsplitting roar.
The woman spun around, saw Monmouth, and fell to the ground.
"You killed her!" Heathcliff cried.
"No, I think she just . . . what's that thing Styzycks used to say poplollies did a lot?"
"Screamed? No . . . fainted?" Heathcliff said.
"That's it, she fainted. Let's get her to the castle."
They stood over her, not sure how to go about it.
"You'll have to carry her," Monmouth said.
"Why me? This is your idea," Heathcliff replied.
". . . I'm afraid."
Heathcliff sighed, and then carefully picked the woman up in his mouth, with assisting nudges from Monmouth. Heathcliff's nostrils flared and went violet with distaste. He felt a rising urge to spit out the foul-tasting and -smelling object, but suppressed it and, with eyes watering and snout twitching, walked behind Monmouth, who made contented, puffing noises as he left a trail obvious enough for a newt to follow.
Monmouth crouched in the castle courtyard, nervously swatting at flies with his tongue and watching the progress of the sun as it slowly crossed the open space above him. The mewling noises the woman in the corner was making were irritating him; he was hungry, and had sent Heathcliff off to gather a few mouthfuls of marsh grass for him to keep up his methane.
Monmouth had practiced his rushing technique and planned how he would evade the knight's sword thrusts with cunning and skill. Actually, it all seemed too simple. If he sat long enough the knight would be within range of his flame, and Monmouth could easily overpower him with one well-timed blast. But where, then, was the thrill that made Styzycks so nostalgic? Monmouth sighed, settled down, and lowered his long neck to rest on the ground. His snout reached the entranceway, and he snorted with impatience.
Lost in thought, he was surprised to hear a rustling noise a few paces outside the door. He sniffed the air, caught a faint whiff redolent of skunk, and withdrew his head. Then he saw a figure by the doorway. It was a man, he knew, but it wasn't noble. It was scantily clad and barefoot, with fiery eyes showing through a mane of hair. Its shaggy beard was streaked with gray. The man half-crouched, warily, also sniffing the air. It was armed with a sharpened stave, and nothing more. The man and Monmouth regarded each other silently for several seconds. The woman cried out once, and then was silent.
Monmouth was taken aback. No armor and sword? No trusty horse in chamfrain? No colored scarf? And where was the traditional challenge? Didn't these men know anything, Monmouth thought as he stamped his feet. The man jumped back, brandishing the stave. Monmouth roared. The woman whimpered and the man trembled with fear, but came forward slowly. With a menacing shake of his head, Monmouth bared his sharp teeth and darted his tongue in and out. To his surprise, the man grinned also, a determined grin below narrowed, cold eyes.
Trembling with excitement, Monmouth prepared to test his flame—but, to his horror, he caught an air bubble in his throat instead, and swallowed it by mistake. His stomach made a hollow, popping sound, and the air crept back up. He swallowed harder, eyes bulging and red, frantically trying to suppress the bubble. Clouds of hot steam warmed his nostrils to an uncomfortable purple. Oh no, he thought, not hiccups—anything but hiccups.
The man took the advantage and moved forward again, jabbing his stave at Monmouth. Still holding his breath, Monmouth took a step backward and felt a wall behind his tail. With a triumphant grin the man advanced, sharp hunting cries punctuating his smile. As Monmouth raised his head farther back the man straightened, eyes gleaming at the expanse of soft green underbelly that now lay exposed. The woman dashed across the courtyard and crouched behind the man.
Monmouth was shaking violently with the effort of not hiccupping, and knew he couldn't hold out much longer. There was little choice now—stand still and let the man impale him, or let out one final blast that would take them all. It isn't supposed to be this way, he thought frantically—this is all wrong.
Then the man lunged forward, holding his stave with both hands not unlike an unseated knight with a lance, and with a painful explosion of pent-up air Monmouth cried, "Heathcliff . . ."
A fireball engulfed the man and woman, and the force of the blast threw Monmouth back against the wall, crushing his tail behind him. Flames licked the bundle of cinders on the courtyard floor, and their soft crackle was the only sound in the sudden stillness. Monmouth lay still, panting. His mouth felt raw, and he carefully tried to swallow.
He could hear pounding steps coming up the hill and thought wryly that here was the horse, albeit a little late.
Heathcliff came through the entranceway and stopped short.
"Are you all right?" Pieces of marsh grass still hung from his jaws.
"I did it, Heathcliff—and it was so exciting! It was better than I even dreamed." Monmouth righted himself and gently tried out his crumpled tail. "He came at me, and I waited until he was close enough . . . and then I let him have it!"
Heathcliff looked at his friend with admiration. Monmouth, now over his scare, was beginning to chuckle, and pranced in tight little circles in the small courtyard.
"I did it! Let's go tell Styzycks," Monmouth said, and bustled toward the door, his ears flopping merrily.
"Wait a minute," Heathcliff said, looking around. "What about the poplolly?"
"Don't worry about that—let's go."
Monmouth turned to go, but then stopped. He licked his lips and frowned, feeling a strange sensation in his stomach and a lump in his throat. He poked the ashes tenderly with
his snout and felt his chest tighten.
"What's the matter?" Heathcliff asked.
Monmouth didn't reply, but his frown increased and his neck tensed so that his jaw sunk down toward his chest. His eyes stared, but did not see Heathcliff come to face him with concern.
"You okay?"
Monmouth's eyes held more sadness than Heathcliff had ever seen. Monmouth looked at him and their sorrow deepened; tears glistened down the sides of his snout. Still he wouldn't speak, but gestured with his head toward the door.
"Monmouth?"
Again, almost angrily, Monmouth gestured, and Heathcliff finally turned and ambled out into the sunny afternoon.
Monmouth felt the pressure build up inside him, and leaned his forehead against the cool stone wall for comfort.
Heathcliff waited at the bottom of the hill, and then heard an abrupt, agonized roar that gradually faded away until the only sounds were the perpetually angry twittering of the sparrows and the soft crackle of dying flames.
* * *
Al Sarrantonio's stories have appeared in Heavy Metal, Chrysalis, and Isaac Asimov's Science Fiction Magazine. He works in publishing for a tyrant of an editor and every so often gets back by letting loose a bit of terror. This is his first appearance in Shadows; it won't be his last.
* * *
UNDER MY BED by Al Sarrantonio
When Daddy says I'm bad, he puts me to bed and turns out the lights. He does that a lot, and I don't like it, but at least I've got somebody to talk to when I'm in here. Daddy thinks I'm alone, but there's a man under my bed.
He only comes up out of the trapdoor after the lights go out and Daddy shuts the door and goes away. The man says he doesn't like lights; he says he doesn't like Daddy much either, and I have to smile when he says that.
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